I’d been given a few days with him.
So had the rest of them.
Brooke walked out, and tears slid down my cheeks.
Lucas’s arms wrapped around my body. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head no.
He bit out a curse and kissed the top of my head. Why did being in his arms have to feel so right? It felt like forever. And yet, even when Brooke had unleashed her tirade . . .
He’d said nothing.
“Tell me the truth, Thorn,” I whispered. “Have you canceled all of your weekly dates?”
He stopped rubbing my back.
“Lucas Thorn.” I whispered his name like the rest of them, with psychotic desire. And it hit me.
They full-named him.
Because that’s what you did for those who are unreachable.
You put them on a pedestal because it’s the only way to handle the inevitable.
If he was “Lucas Thorn,” then it made sense that eventually he’d tire of me.
If he was just “Lucas,” or just “Thorn,” he was a person, reachable.
“Avery, I haven’t talked to them yet, but I will, I swear.”
I closed my eyes against the angry tears. “You haven’t talked to them . . . yet?”
“Avery”—he sighed—“look at me.”
I pulled back, afraid of what I’d see reflected in his eyes. But they were clear as day. There was no confusion or guilt, which was what I’d come to expect from Lucas: he had always been solid, incapable of feeling anything for one single person.
“I want you. Only you.”
“Okay.” My thoughts jumbled together. “And the thought of being with me and only me—no more Mondays or Fridays—that doesn’t terrify you?”
He. Said. Nothing.
“I think I have my answer”—I nodded—“I’ll just . . . Can you tell my parents I got sick? I’ll catch a ride with Austin so that you don’t have to drive me back.”
“The hell!” Lucas gripped my shoulders, his fingers dug into my skin. “Would you rather I lie? Of course I’m terrified. I’ve never done this before! You can’t judge our future by my past!”
“But that’s the thing about pasts . . . As long as they stay in the past, you can move on. But you, Lucas Thorn, have not moved on. You’re stuck in between your past and our future—and that’s not fair. To either of us.”
“I love you!” His grip tightened. “Avery, I love you.”
My heart cracked. Could he tell how hard this was for me? To be in his arms? To walk away when all I wanted to do was crash my mouth against his and beg him to say he loved me over and over again?
But when you love something . . .
You let it go . . .
“Prove it.” I nodded.
He released me and turned on his heel, jerky movements that weren’t normal for a man who did everything with a predatory smoothness that was most of the time absolutely terrifying.
“This is bullshit.” He ran his hands through his hair. “All of it. I can’t believe you’d listen to Brooke.” He paced back and forth. “Avery, I don’t know how to prove it! If I knew how, I would do it. Just tell me—I can’t lose you.” His eyes filled with tears.
“That’s my point!” I choked back a sob. “You’re hurting me without even knowing it. Your moral compass is so skewed that you don’t even realize how you’re hurting me!”
“HOW the hell am I the one hurting YOU?”
Speaking of hurting, my head was starting to throb. After a moment, I held out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Thorn . . .”
With a curse, he pulled out his cell and tossed it in the air. I caught it with both hands and pressed the home button to light up the screen.
Fifteen new messages.
All from different girls.
“This”—I pointed at the screen—“this hurts.”
“Avery, I haven’t even responded.”
“I want you to choose me not because I’m pressuring you to, because I know you’ll resent me for that. I want you to throw this life away because you want to. And right now you don’t. You think you do, but it’s a comfort, having someone on the side, just in case. I can’t wait at home, knowing that one day you’re going to smell like another woman’s perfume. I want all of you, not a day, not five days—I want forever.”
I chucked his phone at his head and walked out of the room.
And right into World War III in the living room to witness a screaming Austin holding Brooke in an impressive headlock. Grandpa Lewis was clapping his hands like they were doing some sort of country jig, and my mom was trying to pry Brooke and Austin apart while Thatch stood nearby, looking guilty and extremely sad, which made no sense at all.
I stomped over to him, shoved his ripped chest, and shouted, “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing, I—”
Austin released Brooke. “NOTHING?”
He had the good sense to backpedal. “Austin, we aren’t exclusive—we talked about this. We—”
In tears, she slapped him so hard across the cheek that my own face stung.
Thatch cursed and grabbed his cheek. “What the hell!” he roared. “Austin, we discussed this!”
“ONE WEEK AGO!” she yelled. “And I said I wanted more and you said okay!”