The scone turns to dust in my mouth. My heart starts racing and I’m having a hard time catching my breath. Which is stupid. And makes no sense. Us being over is what I want.
I’m not Zoe. I don’t fall for guys I can’t have.
I’ve always known I can’t have Sam. Not forever.
So I have to let him go. Now. While I still have the strength to do it.
I set the remainder of my scone on my plate and link my fingers together in my lap. “You…you wanted to tell me something?”
He nods. Wipes his palms down the front of his shorts. “I owe you an apology.”
There’s a lump in my throat, something small and hard, like a pebble. Something suspiciously like disappointment.
I take a sip of coffee to wash it away.
I’m an idiot. That’s the only explanation for feeling this way. For thinking Sam was here to convince me to take him back. For being terrified I wouldn’t be able to resist him if he did.
I’ll come after you.
I missed you.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.
Words. Nothing but meaningless words said in the heat of the moment. He’s not here to renew our friendship. He’s not here to win me back. He’s here to clear his conscience.
Of course Sam wants the one thing I said I’d never give him.
Forgiveness.
But maybe I should. Maybe, instead of it making me weak, it’ll give me the power to move on.
Maybe it’ll free me from our past, from our mistakes, as much as it does him.
I open and shut my mouth—twice—before I finally get the words out. “It’s okay.”
He frowns, which, can I just say, is not the reaction I expected. A little gratitude wouldn’t be uncalled for. I’m being magnanimous here. God.
“What’s okay?” he asks.
Now I’m frowning, too, and completely confused. He wants me to spell it out when he didn’t even get to the I’m sorry part of his whole spiel? Seriously?
Wait…that’s right. He didn’t say what, specifically, he wanted to apologize for. And here I am, tossing forgiveness at him all willy-nilly. “Whatever you did. It’s okay.”
That should cover him ruining our friendship, leaving, not calling or texting me, and for being so mean to me when I went to his house Christmas night.
All-encompassing absolution.
“Hadley,” he says, his gaze intense, “last night…I lied to you.”
My fingers tingle and I realize I’m squeezing them together too hard. I let go, straighten them. “What…” I lick my lips, and when I speak, my voice is hoarse. “What about?”
I’ll come after you.
I missed you.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.
“I told you I wanted you to go with me to Beemer’s because I was nervous about being around everyone, but that wasn’t true.”
“You weren’t nervous?”
“No. I…” He scoots forward, sitting on the edge of his seat. Rests his arms on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I told you that so you’d go with me because…because I didn’t want you to go with Max.”
His confession comes out quick and fierce and my head snaps back. “What?”
“He said he’d pick you up--”
“He wasn’t serious.”
“Yes, he was. He told me later, when we were home, he was going to stop by your house on the way to Beemer’s, see if he could talk you into going with him.”
“He was messing with you. And even if he wasn’t, even if he had come here, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him.”
“I couldn’t take that chance,” Sam says quietly. He lifts his head, his eyes locking on mine. “Not with you.”
My breath escapes me in a soft whoosh. It’s as if his words are knives, slicing my skin, drawing blood. His confession slowly killing me, his guilt shredding me into tiny pieces.
I should feel vindicated right now. Should be thrilled to discover he’s not always honest. Not always virtuous.
Not always better than me.
“It’s not that big a deal. It’s barely even a lie. The only thing you should feel bad about is letting Max get to you—which I’m sure is what he wanted and the only reason he even said he’d stop here. But,” I hurry on when he opens his mouth, because there’s no way I can take it if he apologizes again or, God forbid, offers up any more admissions of guilt, “if it’ll make you feel better, I officially forgive you of the one and only time you told a fib.” I give his knee a quick pat meant to convey forgiveness and acceptance of what this conversation means. The end of us. “Now, go on your way and sin no more.”
The pat was a mistake. Because Sam—of the cat-like reflexes—grabs my hand before I can pull away. Stares down at it, where his dark fingers are joined with my pale ones. “That’s not the only time I lied,” he murmurs.
The nape of my neck prickles. My fingers twitch in his. When I try to tug free, he holds on and my apprehension grows, turns into the premonition that I don’t want to hear what he says next.
That it’ll change everything between us. Again. And my brilliant plan about letting him go will no longer be possible.
“Sam…”
“I lied all the time,” he says, still looking at our hands, his thumb rubbing back and forth across my skin. “Before. I lied when I said I just wanted to be your friend.”
Oh, God. I wrench my hand free and stand up so quickly, my chair wobbles, almost tips over, but Sam reaches around me to steady it.
Always steadying things.
Except I don’t feel steady. I’m trembling, my skin prickling with heat. And Sam is too close, holding the chair, trapping me between his arm and the table.
“I lied,” he continues, relentless and driven, it seems, to break down every one of the barriers I’ve built up over the past eleven months, “every time I pretended I didn’t care when you went out with another guy. Every time I ignored the jealousy eating at me at the thought of you being with someone else when what I really wanted was for you to be with me.”
I feel them, those barriers that I built, brick by brick, crumbling under the weight of his words, the look in his eyes.
But I need those walls. Need their protection.
I can’t let him hurt me again.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask hoarsely.
He frowns as if he has no clue what I’m talking about but that, too, is a lie.
Sam Constable doesn’t make a move without thinking it through, weighing the pros and cons.
“Doing what?”
“This.” I wave my hand in a huge arc, one large enough to encompass everything—us, every word he’s spoken, every action and choice he’s made since he came home—and he steps back to save himself getting slapped on the chin. “Confessing all this now. What’s the point? In a few weeks, you’ll be back in LA and I’ll be here.”
“I’m not going back.”
Everything inside of me goes still—all except my stupid heart which races with panic. And hope. “At the end of the summer--”
“I’ll be here. I’m not home for just the summer. I’m back for good.” He once again closes the distance between us. “I’m back for you, Hadley.”