“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says.
I can’t look at him.
“Not yet, anyway,” he adds. “I’m just asking you to let me at least try to make some of this up to you.”
“You can’t.”
“Demi.” He moves closer. I turn away. It’s juvenile, I know. “You can’t even begin to imagine how many nights I laid awake thinking about you. About us. About old times.”
I focus on a salt fleck on the floor of the foyer. It must’ve been tracked in from outside, when I sprinkled ice melt on the steps earlier.
“If I could go back,” he says. “I’d make different choices. I never would’ve left that night. I just thought I was doing the right thing.”
“Was there someone else?” I ask the heaviest question of them all, the one that’s lingered over me like a dark cloud. It’s the only plausible answer to this ridiculous question. My broken, teenage heart could only ever accept the explanation that he left because he loved someone more than he loved me.
“God, no.” Royal cups my face with his stained hands, turning it to face him. “Never.”
Our eyes meet.
“I don’t understand.” I pull his hands from my face. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
Royal gives me a nervous smirk, a dimple popping up on his right cheek—the one I used to kiss when we were younger.
“Maybe I’m scared,” he says, puffing his chest out like I needed any kind of reminder that he’s all man now.
“Scared of what?”
“Scared you might look at me differently. Think of me differently.”
“I loved you more than you could’ve possibly known,” I say. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done back then to change that. I was stupid in love with you.”
His lips tighten, and he offers a pained smile.
“I want to tell you, Demi. You deserve to know. I owe you that much.” His words come rushed, and he licks his lower lip. “But I’m not ready, and neither are you.”
I offer a sarcastic “ha,” step away, and slap my hand against my side.
“Fine, then,” I say. “If this is all the closure I’m ever going to get, so be it. Can’t force you to tell me anything, so I won’t waste my time trying.”
“Closure?” He lifts a single eyebrow. “Closure means we’re done forever. Means we’re never going to see each other again.”
“Exactly.”
I didn’t wait seven damn years for him to stand in my home and refuse to give me the answer I deserve. All those years, I’d painted him as some kind of idyllic fantasy. He represented youth, and carefree summers, and can’t-sleep-love. Happily-ever-afters and everything little girls dream of. He was a cool breeze on a hot day. Electric kisses and mischievous firsts. An addiction I couldn’t get out of my system.
And I still can’t.
“I want to see you again,” he says.
My gaze snaps to his, fitting perfectly. The thundering heartbeats in my chest threaten to knock me over with each boom. I hate that his six little words so easily command my attention.
“Maybe I don’t deserve it,” he says, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I still want it.”
I fold my arms. “Entitled much?”
“I’ll tell you what happened, Demi. I promise. But not yet. Let’s get to know each other again. Let me take care of you,” he proposes. “And when the time is right, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
I exhale. “How can I believe you? How can I trust you?”
“You can’t.”
My breathing halts.
His expression hardens. “But I’m asking you to try.”
I walk backward until I bump into the bottom of the stairs. Perching on the second to last step, I rest my head in my hands.
“I don’t know. I have a lot on my plate right now.” My gaze is fixed on his worn boots. In my heart of hearts, I know he’s had a rough seven years, and my chest burns when I think about all the ways his life could’ve turned out better. “I don’t think I have the energy for . . . this . . . right now.”
“Yeah, that’s not a good enough reason for me to walk away.” He takes a step toward me, dropping to my level and pulling me up. “I’ll be here in the morning to shovel your driveway before I go to work. I won’t bother you. Don’t worry.”
His hand reaches behind me and helps itself to the back of my jeans, where he retrieves my phone and keys in his number.
“There.” He slides it back in my pocket, his fingertips brushing my hips and sending a hitch to my breath. “You can reach me anytime. Anything you need. And I’ll drop off some dinner for you tomorrow night. Just text me and tell me what you want.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He shrugs, as if to imply it doesn’t matter. But it does. It matters. So much.
“No, really. Why?”
“Making up for lost time, I guess,” he says. “Making up for a lot of things.”
“I hate to inform you, but it’s going to take a lot more than shoveling snow . . .”
I’m smiling.
What the fuck?
No.
No, no, no.
I’m supposed to yell at him.
Stomp my feet.
Curse his name.
Beat my fists against his chest and then kick him to the curb.