30. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Beck

A s it turns out, the answer to my own question is no. I didn’t want him to stop sending me notes. But then I was mean to him at the bakery, and he did. He just stopped. It shattered me—worse than I thought possible. I let my hurt manifest as anger; I lashed out at him, and he stopped trying. He stopped fighting for me. He told me he wouldn’t give up, and then he did. I haven’t slept worth a shit in a week. Holden’s disapproving glares follow me everywhere I go, and I can’t even blame him. I’m mad at myself too.

The mixture of emotions I felt when I walked into that exam room and saw Roman still has my head spinning—the anger, the sadness, the fucking relief.

I can’t believe I agreed to this. Actually, I can. I thought he had given up, but he didn’t. I thought about telling him no, but all the sleepless nights and tears and fucking misery flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t. Now, though? I’m struggling. Maybe if I fuck him, I can get him out of my system, and finally move on. Maybe that will give me the closure I need.

My feet carry me to him before I can stop myself, and his eyes widen in shock just before I slam my mouth onto his. Someone lets out a pained whine, and it takes me a second to realize it was me. I made that sound. His taste is strange and familiar all at once—like coming home, but also like kissing a stranger. I grip the hem of his shirt, breaking our kiss just long enough to rip it over his head and toss it to the floor.

I drag him back to me, roughly kissing him again, biting and nipping at his lips. A lifetime ago, I would have been whispering praise—telling him how good he feels, how amazing he tastes, how beautiful he is. But that version of me is dead. I shove him toward the couch, and he falls backward with an oof .

I freeze, staring down at him.

“What the fuck is that?” I choke out, my eyes glued to his chest.

He glances down, confused, but about what I’m not sure since it’s his own fucking body. When he seems to realize what I’m talking about, his face flames bright red. My stomach tumbles at the sight, and anger rises so fast at my body’s reaction to his blush that I have to physically choke it back so it doesn’t suffocate me.

I stare at him, trying hard to remain cold and detached, but I’m crumbling. Because tattooed on his chest—over his heart—is the eye I drew. The one I spent hours perfecting the details on, blending the shades of our eyes together the best that I could.

“I… I um,” he stammers. “I got it after I left. I’ve had it for almost as long as I’ve been gone. It reminded me of you. I just… I needed something to ground me, and I found this on my phone and…”

I’m dumbstruck, staring at him like I don’t even know who he is. And I don’t. I don’t know who he is. Not anymore.

I can’t even breathe when I think about all the nights I sobbed into my pillow, wishing I hadn’t destroyed my sketchbooks, wishing I hadn’t deleted the photos of him. Wishing I still had this picture, so I could remember the exact shade of brown of his eyes.

Longing hits me so hard that I double over, my hands braced on my knees. He jumps up, rushing toward me, but before he can even reach me, I’m standing back up. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I scream, my voice cracking and my throat aching. His eyes widen, a hint of fear in the gorgeous brown—fear I haven’t seen directed at me in a long time. Fear I was once naive enough to believe I could prevent him from feeling ever again. I was stupid, though. Blinded by my love for him.

He eyes me warily, fear still prominent in his eyes. Oh god, I’ve never yelled at him before . Never. My stomach lurches. I’m gonna be fucking sick.

I bolt to the bathroom, covering my mouth with my hand, gagging on the despair that’s filling my chest. As soon as I reach the toilet, I drop to my knees. I heave until I can’t breathe, until I’m gasping for air and nothing more is coming up. When I’ve finally purged everything from my body, I flush the toilet and sit back against the wall, my hair clinging to my sweaty forehead, my body trembling.

I glance up and Roman is standing in the doorway, his shirt back on, staring at me like he wants to be in here. Like he wants to be taking care of me. Too fucking late. I’m beyond repair. Because he fucking broke me. He broke me, and no amount of sweet notes, or flowers, or my favorite beef jerky can change that.

“Beck,” he whispers, so much sadness in his voice that I gag again, lurching forward to hover over the toilet bowl. I don’t want to be this way. Hurting him is fucking destroying me from the inside out. But I can’t forgive him. I don’t know how.

“Why?” I choke out. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I loved you,” he says softly.

I jerk my head around to stare at him. His eyebrows are pinched in concern, which pulls attention to the scar above his eye. It makes me feel sick all over again.

I turn my gaze away from him. Breathing through my nose, I try like hell to stop the tears burning my eyes from falling. “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he asks after a long silence.

“You loved me? Yeah? You left me, Roman. You left. You left. You left.” This time I’m unable to stop the rush of tears. I thought him leaving hurt, but nothing hurts like this. Having him here? In my house? In this space he’s never been in before? Fucking awful. I already know I’ll never be able to look at my bathroom doorway and not see him standing there.

In seconds, he’s pulling me into his arms, and despite the protests of my brain screaming danger , I collapse against him and sob into his chest. He holds me tightly, his body shaking against mine—or maybe I’m shaking so hard that I’m shaking him too.

I can barely hear anything over the sound of my grief, but as I calm down, I can hear Roman chanting, “I’m sorry,” over and over as he rocks me in his arms. I want to shove him away from me, and I want to beg him to never let me go.

“I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. I went in the house and there was blood and I—” My words cut off as bile rises in my throat. I pull away from him. “You fucking left me,” I manage to say when I can speak again. “You were all I wanted. I wanted to love you, protect you, and be with you. You meant everything to me.” The last part comes out in a choked whisper.

“But not anymore?” he asks quietly, his voice shaking, thick with tears.

“No, not anymore.” The lie tastes like poison on my tongue, and it makes my stomach twist in agony. “I fucking hate you.”

He recoils like I’ve hit him, pain and regret flooding his eyes. I immediately want to take it back. I want to take it all back. I want to hold him, kiss him, take away his pain, and whisper words of love into his skin. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, building back what we lost, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t . “Leave, Roman.”

He stares at me for what feels like forever, and my resolve starts to crumble. I open my mouth to speak—but what am I even going to say? I love you, please don’t go. Or maybe I fucking hate you, leave now. I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter because he nods, stands up, and quickly leaves the bathroom. As I hear my front door slam, the sound snaps me back to the reality of my situation. The reality of my life . I’m fucking miserable without him. A shell of myself. There’s no joy or pride or love. There’s just my self-hate and the empty, gaping hole he left in my chest. I can’t let him leave. I can’t do this again. He’s here and I need him. I can’t keep living this way.

I scramble to my feet and run after him, barreling through the front door. He’s already backing out of the driveway, but when he sees me, he stops. He quickly swipes at his eyes as I run to his car, frantically pulling on the door handle, like yanking hard enough will make it magically unlock. He puts the car in park and unlocks the doors just as I try the handle again. The force of it opening knocks me backward, and I almost fall.

“Beck?” he questions.

Tears well up in my eyes and spill over, pouring down my cheeks in rivulets. “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me again.” Before I can even process what’s happening, he’s out of the car, his arms wrapped around me. I bury my face in his neck as painful sobs rip their way out of my chest. God, this hurts so fucking much.

“Please come inside. Please. Don’t leave me again. I’m sorry. I won’t be mean to you anymore. Just… come back inside. Please don’t leave me.” I cling to him tighter as he loosens his hold, trying desperately to stop him from pulling away.

My feet leave the ground, and I gasp, my stomach swooping as Roman lifts me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me back into the house. He takes me straight into the bathroom, sits me down on the counter, and without a word, grabs my toothbrush. He adds a bead of toothpaste to it and hands it over to me. I take it from him, my hand shaking madly as I brush the taste of grief and vomit from my mouth, while he fills a cup with water. When I’ve finished, he swaps the toothbrush for the cup. I take a sip, swish it around, and spit.

We stare at each other in silence as I drink in his features like it may be the last time I’ll ever be able to. He sighs. “What do you want me to do?”

He’s standing stiffly, clearly unsure. Not that I can blame him. I kissed him, freaked out, got sick, told him I hated him, then chased him down like a crazy person, begging him not to leave me again—like I didn’t just tell him to leave. “I don’t know.”

“I can leave,” he offers. “I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”

I laugh. A broken, bitter sound. “Yeah, I think there’s going to be pain either way.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “I’ll go,” he says, resigned. “I’ll leave my number in the kitchen. If you want to talk, we can. Otherwise, I’ll leave you alone. I promise. No more notes, no more flowers. I’ll… I’ll just go.”

God, I know I must be giving him whiplash, but the thought of him leaving again makes me nauseous. I turn to him. “You didn’t answer last time.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“When you left.” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. “Before, when you left. I tried to text you and call you, and you never answered.”

Pain flashes across his face, but he schools his expression quickly. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. And I was scared and ashamed. I had myself convinced you would be mad at me. And then, it had been so long since I’d contacted you that it gave me a whole new reason to feel ashamed. It made it even harder to reach out because I felt like I had treated you so badly you wouldn’t even want me anymore. Then, I couldn’t reach out if I wanted to because my phone was shut off.”

I nod slowly. I think that’s a crock of shit, but I’m trying really hard to be respectful of his feelings and his thought process. It’s hard, though. How could he not know I’d never be mad at him for that? “Did I…” My voice trails off as my body starts shaking again. “Did I break your trust somehow? Is that why you didn’t come home to me that day?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why didn’t you come back once your mind had cleared?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.

He looks down. “I thought about it for a couple of months. I was planning on it, even, but then I found Holden and I couldn’t leave him. What was I supposed to do? Come back with him? I hadn’t talked to you in months. I had no idea what kind of reception I would get. Especially coming back with Holden in tow.”

Holden. Holden, Holden, Holden. So he’s the reason for all my grief, then? Can’t say that makes me like him any more. Roman reaches for me but hesitates, his pain palpable. “It shouldn’t be like this,” I say. “You shouldn’t be afraid to touch me. I shouldn’t be afraid to love you.”

His breath catches, and he makes a strange choked sort of sound. “No. It shouldn’t be like this, but it’s my fault it is. I’ll never be able to apologize enough.”

I hop off the counter and stand in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body and breathe in his scent. I take his hand, electricity sparking to life on my skin, and lead him from the bathroom and into my bedroom. Once we’re standing in front of my bed, I’m suddenly frozen with indecision. Do I want to invite him into my bed? Feel him there and experience what it’s like to have him in my space that way? Is it going to break my heart again? I think even if I don’t, it’s going to break my heart. Could it be any worse than it is now?

I look at him. “I hate to ask, but I have to. What exactly is up with Holden?”

“He’s my best friend. My brother.”

“That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all.”

I let go of his hand, shaking out my nerves, my hands jerking through the air. I’m a nervous wreck—all anxious energy and fluttery stomach. How is he so calm and collected? I narrow my eyes. “How is this not affecting you? Why are you so calm?”

His lips twist into a rueful smile. “I’m not calm. I want to give you space to work through your emotions. It’s definitely affecting me. It’s taking everything I have not to beg at your feet for a chance to make this right.”

“What?” I ask, not really sure what I’m supposed to do with that information.

“Do you wanna know what my therapist and I talked about last week?”

Well, that’s irritating. What other shit do I not know about Roman? “You have a therapist?”

“Yes, Beck. I have a therapist. I’m a survivor of pretty severe physical and mental abuse—it was necessary. Plus, Holden threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t at least try to talk to someone.” His lips quirk into a fond smile, and I grit my teeth at the envy that rises in my chest. Fuck, I can’t stand Holden . I know that’s not fair to him. He hasn’t done anything to me. In fact, he’s actually someone I think I could like quite a bit, if he didn’t have so much of the person I no longer get to know.

“Sure,” I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “I’d love to know what you talked to your therapist about last week.”

“You,” he says, and my lungs seize. “I’ve talked to her about you a lot, actually. But last week, specifically, I talked to her about how I want to win you back—your trust, your affection, the way we used to be together. I want all of that back.”

“I don’t think I can be that person anymore,” I say, emotion threatening to choke me.

Roman steps toward me, his movements slow and tentative. He leans in like he’s going to kiss me. My stomach clenches, anticipation making my breathing shallow. But he stops before our lips can connect. “I think you can be anyone you want to be,” he whispers. “But I’d be happy to have you as you are.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the tears that want to escape. Jesus Christ, I am so tired of crying. Roman rubs his nose against mine, his breath warm against my lips as I inhale a shuddering breath. “Beck, I’d really like to try that kiss again,” he whispers, his voice soft, vulnerable, like he’s scared I’m going to deny him. “But with about ninety-nine percent less hatred and way more tenderness.”

“I told you. I don’t know if I can be that person anymore.”

“I think you’re wrong,” he whispers, then gently slots his lips against mine. My breath catches as his mouth moves over mine. I haven’t kissed like this in… years. If I’m being honest, since him. Fireworks explode behind my closed eyes, my heart racing in my chest. A whimper rises in my throat as Roman cups my face, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of my neck, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones. He deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth, brushing softly against mine.

This. This is what I’ve been searching for. In all the wrong men, in all the wrong ways. It’s a cruel joke that I thought I could find this anywhere else.

My hands move to his hips, gripping him as I step closer, my chest brushing against his. My entire body ignites at the contact, another whimper exploding from my throat as my fingers tighten on him.

God, this is everything.

Slowly, our lips part, and he pulls back, his hands still cradling my face. His brown eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown, his cheeks flushed. I sigh, utterly captivated by how beautiful he still is, by how he can still melt me with the smallest touch.

“Perfect,” he whispers, sending a shudder through me.

“I didn’t mean it,” I choke out, a lump forming in my throat. His face twists in confusion, so I clarify. “I don’t hate you. I’m sorry I said that.” My eyes burn, an ache forming in my chest at the thought of him believing I hate him.

“I don’t hate you either,” he says, his lips curving into a small smile. He leans in again, brushing his lips against mine in a feather-soft kiss.

His hands drop from my face, and I feel the loss in my soul. “I want to earn your trust back. I need that. I think you do too, even if you can’t admit it to yourself yet. You may not hate me, but you don’t trust me.”

I drop my eyes, ashamed, but he reaches forward, gently tilting my chin up. “Nope, you’re not doing that. You don’t trust me, and for good reason, Beck. But I’m going to earn it back, no matter how long it takes. I’m going to go home now, but I’ll leave you with my number and a promise. I’ll answer every time you call and respond to every text you send. That’s step one. You’ll see that I’ll never leave you unanswered again. And when you trust in that, we’ll move forward. Okay?”

I nod, the intensity shining in his gaze making it impossible to do anything else. He gives me a soft peck, then steps back, making my hands fall from his hips. “You’re worth it, Beck. You always have been. We are worth it.”

I nod dumbly as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Put your number in,” he says, handing it to me. My hands shake as I type my number in. I hand it back to him and within seconds, a buzz comes from my pocket. He smiles brightly at me, and my heart skips a beat. I didn’t think that could still happen to me.

“Text me. I promise I’ll text back. Or call me anytime. Actually, FaceTime me when you’re ready for bed. We can talk, if you want to.”

“Okay,” I say. He leans in, stealing another quick kiss, before turning and walking out of the door.