We fall quiet—a silence that brings everything into sharp focus. Seductive words, sexy dimples, arctic blue eyes, passion, and self-control… I fell in love with two men, went to war to keep them, and now it must end. Someone has to choose the break-up song and dance to the mournful melody, and that harrowing fate is meant for me.
I have to choose. Not in four months. I need to do it soon, within a week, and put us out of our misery. No more dragging my feet. No more waiting for some enlightening aha! moment. That’s never going to come. I just need to reach in and tear out part of my heart and be done with it.
After a while, Trace emerges from the bathroom and returns to bed in a pair of boxer briefs. He slides in behind me, aligning his body along the length of mine with my chest against Cole’s side and my head on his shoulder.
“Happy Birthday, Danni.” Trace kisses my neck, telling me with his lips that he loves me.
And I silently cry.
I wake to the sound of rain pelting the windows. A dreary morning. Cold mattress. No Cole. No Trace. Only the sick weight of dread pressing down on my chest.
Shower, clothes, coffee—I move through the motions, wretchedly numb.
Trace is locked away in the office, working. Cole left a note, letting me know he’s fishing.
With a mug of creamy coffee in hand, I stand at the kitchen window and stare out at the freezing rain. Who goes fishing in this weather?
Someone who wants distance from an awkward situation.
It rains for the next three days.
Three.
It’s an impossible number.
A cruel number.
Three is an emotional war.
Cole and Trace go out of their way to avoid each other. They live under the same roof, share the same bed, but they don’t exchange a word or a glance. We don’t talk about what happened. Every time I try, I’m shut down. So much for open communication.
When they’re alone with me, however, they arrest me with their eyes and undress me with their words. Each man makes me feel loved in his own way. A tender touch, sultry suggestion, brush of lips… But the intimacy ends there.
I understand. The rules are wrecked, and the future is unclear. They want space to process or do whatever it is they need to do.
I’m giving them space, but they’re crazy if they think we can go another four months like this.
While they spend the rainy days in separate parts of the house, I’ve been holed up in the dance studio. Well, not exactly holed up. I leave the door open and blare the music. I’m here, ready to listen when they’re ready to talk.
I have some things of my own to say.
Gripping the ballet bar, I face the rain beyond the windows and sync my hips to the somber melody of You Don’t Know by Katelyn Tarver.
Cole and Trace make me insanely happy. A lifetime with either of them is a fairy tale come true. No matter how much I compare and separate and weigh their differences, there’s no wrong choice.
But Cole’s the one I found first.
He set my soul on fire with a look and kissed me with lips infused with forever. There’s a dance soldered to my bones choreographed for him and him alone.
Our chemistry is magnetic, undying, our history so deeply sown it can’t be uprooted. We’re soul mates, finding our way back together, over and over.
He has to be the choice, and the only way I’ll know for sure is if I make it.
When the song ends, I walk to the stereo and play it again, swaying and humming to the painful lyrics while thinking about Trace.
I dance in mourning for the hurt I inflicted on him. I dance in longing for the love I share with him. I dance in fear for the words that will rip him away.
With my back to the door and my emotions running amok, I don’t sense him approach. Not until his hand curls around my hip and his forehead rests against the back of my head.
Everything inside me starts to melt.
Don’t give in, Danni. You must do this.
Against all instinct, I force myself to go cold, emotionally, mentally, pushing him away.
His hand slides down my thigh, tracing the hem of my spandex shorts. I tense up, and he notices, removing his touch.
My stomach shrivels, but I keep my voice even. “Do you want to talk…about the other night?”
“No.” He prowls around me, hands behind his back, and ensnares me in his analyzing gaze.
Fitted black trousers and a crisp white button-up, his attire is as sophisticated as his composure. The way he scrutinizes me, the subtle sharpening of those incisive eyes, it’s as if he already knows.
My resolve weakens, and I consider waiting until tomorrow. Or the next day. But the longer I delay, the harder it will become. It’s now. Right now. Open your mouth, idiot.
Shifting to the stereo, I power off the music. Then I turn back, standing taller, and fix my expression into one of bravery. “I want to talk—”
“I want you to remove your clothes and whatever is putting that fake look on your face.”
Cold bones, hunched shoulders, hemorrhaging heart, I wither beneath his command. My brave mask gives way to rising tears, and I step back, clasping my throat and fighting down the anguish.
He glares at my trembling hand, my leaky eyes, and his entire demeanor changes. His arms fall slack at his sides. His scowl loses its intensity, and he shakes his head slowly, imperceptibly, as if in shock. Denial.
I wipe the wet misery from my cheeks and hug my waist. “Trace…”
He snaps straight, and his eyes bore into mine as his words echo in my mind.
If you know, we’ll all know. And that will be that.
“Say it.” Harsh and guttural, his voice cuts me to the quick.
My throat seals up, holding the confession captive.
I’m a heartless bitch if I choose Cole. I’m a heartless bitch if I choose Trace. I’m the queen of all bitches if I don’t choose at all.
I made a decision. It’s time to grow up. Declare it. Fight for it.
Pulling in a serrated breath, I release my lungs slowly. “I choose Cole.”
He goes chillingly still, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, his stark eyes locked on mine. He wants to argue. It’s right there in the rigidness of his jaw. The impulse to demand a different answer is eating him up inside. But more than that, he wants what he cannot control.
I refuse to force your hand on this…I want your heart to beat for me and only me, not because I command it, but because we’re meant to be.
I know the moment he accepts my choice. His throat bobs. His chest heaves, and he stumbles back.
The look of total devastation on his face tears me apart. His pain is scarring, like the sharp edge of a knife leaving its marks inside me.
He glances around the room like he’s unsure where to go or what to do. Stunned, lost, he’s beautiful, fractured perfection.
“Trace…” I approach him, dying a thousand deaths. “Say something.”
He stabs a hand in his hair and spins toward the door. Then he walks out.
I run after him, chasing him down the hall and through the bedroom. I scan the rooms for Cole, but the house is quiet. He must still be down at the dock.
“Please, talk to me.” I follow Trace into his closet.
He shrugs on a suit jacket, buttoning away his emotions behind expensive threads. His hands shake as he yanks random clothes off the hangers and shoves them into a leather bag.
“You’re leaving?” My heart crashes into my shoes.
Of course, he’s leaving. What else is he supposed to do?
He doesn’t answer me, doesn’t look my way as he continues to pack. I gulp down a sob, refusing to give it life. I’m hurting him irreparably. I don’t deserve to cry.
“It can’t end like this.” I reach for his arm and think better of it. “We have to talk about it.”
“It must end this way. A clean cut.” He slides past me, bag in hand, and strides out of the bedroom.
I follow him into the living room. He grabs his keys from the kitchen island and heads toward the front door. His car is parked in the driveway, a twenty-second walk away. Twenty seconds is all we have left.
“Trace, stop!” The shrill in my voice announces my desperation. “Please. Wait.”
The slowing of his gait lets me know he’s considering. The pause of his feet at the door tells me he’s analyzing the risks of hearing what I have to say.