Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(66)

“What about him makes you happy?”

“Well…” I thought about it for a set of irregular heartbeats, feeling myself unravel like a ball of yarn. “He…he’s…well, he knows poetry and literature. He brings me flowers, knew to take me places he couldn’t have possibly known I wanted to go—”

“Those are things that he does,” Greg interrupted, his voice short and tight. “What about him? About the man himself? Tell me, Annie, for the love of God, because I need to hear that you’re happy so I can let you go.”

My heart lurched in my chest, my lungs tightening as a slow ache filled my rib cage.

But I had no answer to give. Because the man Will was—I realized it in that moment, far too late—was unknown to me. He was a stranger, and it wasn’t him who had made me so happy but the idea of him, the prospect of happiness so much more than the man himself.

Greg, on the other hand, wasn’t a stranger at all.

I reached to lay my hand on his forearm, but when he turned, when he pinned me with his gaze, so hurt and heavy with longing, the little bit of air left in my lungs disappeared.

Those emotions had been there all night, since before that, since always perhaps. But the smooth mask had fractured and crumbled and fallen away like dust, and the truth of his feelings were written in every curve and line of his face.

“Every day, it’s gotten harder, every day since you met him. I’ve wanted to tell you how I feel, how you make every day brighter, better. How you’re what I look forward to each time I walk through the doors, how you’ve changed the way I see the world. But you want him, and I couldn’t interfere. So, I tried. I tried to stand aside, tried to be your friend. I’ve done everything you asked because it makes me happy to see you happy, but it hurts me, too. Coming here tonight was a mistake. I tried…I tried to give you the ticket. I tried…” Weariness cracked his voice, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the column of his throat. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t. It hurts too much.”

He looked out the window again, and I stared at his profile.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say. Because I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know. I couldn’t give him answers I didn’t have. I couldn’t tell him I wanted him, and I couldn’t tell him I wanted Will.

I couldn’t bridle my racing heart.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, a moment so heavy and thick, I felt like I might drown in it.

But he finally said, “Don’t be sorry, Annie. You’ve done nothing wrong. I wish you every happiness, and I hope he endeavors to be the man you deserve.” He turned the weight of his gaze on me, stopping my heart for a breath. “But I can’t do this. I can’t torture myself with your company, knowing you think of me like a brother or a friend. I can’t bear it.”

“We…we can’t be friends?” I said, my voice trembling.

His throat worked, his jaw tight and eyes deep and dark. “Not now.” He looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him no, that the night was perfect, that he was the person I’d wanted to share that night with, who I wanted to share a hundred more nights with. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to beg him to change his mind.

But shock left me speechless.

The cab pulled up to the curb, and we sat in silence for a second, then another, and another until it was too much. So, I opened the door and slipped out of the car, standing in the open mouth of the doorway.

“I’ll see you around, Annie.”

And then I closed the door, not knowing if I’d responded or what I’d said if I did, not knowing what I wanted or needed, what was right or wrong, what was true or false, as I watched the taxi drive away.





17





Welcome to Hell





Annie

My alarm beeped piously to wake me, but its efforts were lost. I’d been awake for at least an hour, lying in the dimness of the stormy daylight.

The colorless morning matched my heart.

Sleep had eluded me through most of the night; my mind had been consumed with all the things I should have said, should have done, should have known. Crying had given me no relief, no shed of emotion, no fresh perspective.

The night before resurfaced, the rush of happiness, the familiar comfort of Greg’s company, the feeling of his arm under my palm, the look on his face when I’d played.

And the moment it’d fallen apart brought that joy down like a wrecking ball.

I’d lost him. I’d hurt him.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known how he felt; I should have. I should have seen what his kindness meant. I should have seen the truth of his feelings. I should have told him I felt the same.

But I hadn’t. Mostly because I’d had the obvious truth brought out from under my nose. And partly because I’d felt so much shame in the shadow of my inexperience. I was a fraud, a pretender, a little girl playing dress-up in her mama’s heels, trying to be a grown-up.

My phone was still in my hand, the alarm turned off without any memory of quieting it. When it buzzed, I glanced at it, surprised. My heart jumped off a bridge when I saw it was Will, hitting the ground with an anxious thud when I read his message.