When I Was Yours(37)

“I got a drink already. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be waiting,” she says, like she expected me to keep her waiting or maybe not turn up at all.

Maybe I shouldn’t have.

“I would have ordered for you, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want…” She trails off.

Well, you would know, if you’d stuck around all these years.

I stop myself from saying what I want to say, and instead, I turn to the bartender and say, “Bottle of Bud, please.”

I take the seat opposite her. My cell starts to ring in my pocket. I pull it out, and without checking the screen, I silence it before putting it back.

I see her eyes on my phone, and then they lift to mine.

“Thanks for coming,” she says softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, Evie. We’re here because I f*cked up, and we have a mess to sort out.”

She meets my eyes. “But you wouldn’t have f*cked up in the first place, if it wasn’t for me.”

“No argument from me there.” Jesus, Gunner, quit with the bitter.

I don’t miss the flicker of pain that passes over her face.

Maybe that’s why I backtrack—not that I owe her anything, but seeing her hurt has always bothered me. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. I think we’re past the blame game by now.”

“Are we really?” She lifts a brow.

She always could see through my bullshit.

I let out a dry laugh. “Probably not, no.” Then, I give her a serious look. “But I want to be. I want to put this behind me and move on. It’s time.”

That’s almost the truth. I just keep thinking if I say it enough, it will happen.

And, really, where is there to go from here but forward? To what, I just don’t know.

The bartender puts my beer in front of me. When I look back at Evie, her face is turned away from me, staring out the window.

“That’s why I called today,” she says in that melodic voice of hers. “You’re right. It’s time to move on.” She brings her eyes back to me. “I got in touch with a divorce lawyer and started proceedings.”

Have you ever been shot?

No? Me neither. But what I’m feeling right now, I’m guessing, is pretty close to that.

I’m not surprised. It’s the logical thing to do. It’s not like we can get an annulment now. And we’re not together. We haven’t been for a decade. It’s not a real marriage.

But still, it hurts like a motherf*cker.

“Okay,” I manage out, trying to keep my composure.

“I just thought I should tell you face-to-face. I wasn’t sure if you had started proceedings or not?”

“I hadn’t.” I blankly stare back at her.

“Oh. Okay. Well, it’s good I’m telling you then. I mean, I didn’t want you to get any papers from my lawyer without me letting you know first. So, this is a good thing, right? I know you must want to be free of me, so I thought it was the least I could do for you—to start divorce…proceedings.” She has her hands on the table, twisting her fingers together. Babbling and finger-twisting was always a tell when Evie was nervous. “And, of course, I’ve taken full responsibility on the divorce petition. It’s termed something like, ‘fault-based divorce due to abandonment.’ But you’ll see that on the papers when my lawyer gets in touch with yours. So, if you’ll let me know your lawyer’s details, mine can get in touch, and then…I guess they’ll deal with it until it’s…finalized.”

I clear my throat. “I have a lawyer, but he’s not a divorce lawyer. I’ll find one, and I’ll let you know the details.”

I feel like I’m on autopilot at the moment.

A fast flowing stream of words is going through my mind, none that I’m saying and none that make sense.

I feel exactly like I did the moment when I realized Evie had left me.

Panic. Fear.

It’s like I’m reliving that all over again.

Losing her again.

I’m panicking over losing her when I don’t even have her.

What the f*ck is wrong with me?

“Okay. Well…I guess…I guess there’s nothing else to say. So, I won’t take up anymore of your time.” She’s standing up and getting her bag from the seat before hanging it on her shoulder.

All I can do is watch her, the fear of losing her increasing. Closing up on me, like a hand around my throat.

A big part of me, the nineteen-year-old part of me, wants to beg her to stay.

She moves out from behind the table. She stops beside me.

I look up at her.

“I am sorry, Adam,” she whispers. “I’m ten years’ worth of sorry. I just wish…”

She bites her lip. I see the glisten of tears in her eyes. My heart twists painfully.

“I wish we’d had a chance.”

I catch sight of the tears falling down her cheeks before she’s gone and out the door.

In my mind, I’m chasing her out of there and demanding to know why she’s so upset, wanting to know what she meant by wishing that we’d had a chance. I would force her to tell me why she ended that chance, why she really left, and then I’d beg her to stay.

But in reality, my ass is still planted firmly on the seat, exactly where it should be.