CHAPTER NINETEEN #18
If he had said this to me back in high school? Oh, I would've been gone. Laid out. I'd have floated through the hallways like I was walking on clouds, doodling "Mrs. Caroline Westbrook" in my notebooks, picking out our future kids' names, and designing our imaginary dream house in my head.
He said was, my inner sass-monster cuts in, doing its usual job of yanking me back before I swan-dive straight into that dangerous little daydream.
Right. He said 'was'. Past tense.
So, it shouldn't matter. Right?
Except... it does.
God, it does something weird to my insides — like someone shook up a snow globe and now all the glitter's in a frenzy. My stupid, traitorous heart skips a beat anyway.
I smooth my face out fast, schooling my reaction before he can catch it. I already let him see how much he got to me earlier — practically turned into a drooling idiot at the sight of his bare chest. Yeah, not happening again.
"I wanted to tell you." His mouth tips into a chuckle, but there's no humor in it—just something tired, something that twists in my chest.
"God, I've wanted to tell you for years. That I liked you." His gaze flickers to mine, then away, as if it's too much to hold. "That I've been in love with you."
"But I couldn't. I didn't." He drags a hand over his jaw, his shoulders tight. "I didn't tell you because I was a goddamn coward."
A coward?
"What... I don't... What do you mean?"
"I had every chance to tell you how I feel. So many, actually. But I didn't." He shakes his head and lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh.
"The truth was, I was scared," he admits, voice rough. "Scared it was just me. Scared that if I told you and you didn't feel the same, I'd lose you—lose our friendship too. So, I stayed silent."
My fingers twitch against my thigh, and for a second, I almost laugh. Seriously?
I might as well have worn a neon sign that said "I ? Zach Westbrook." I basically turned into a malfunctioning robot every time he touched me — tripped over my words, went red in the face, the whole cliché package. And it wasn't exactly a secret either; half the school knew.
Why does he think I got terrorized by his fan club for years? He really is dense as hell.
God, if he knew how many nights I stayed up wondering if I was the only one feeling it.
"I kept waiting for the right time to tell you.
Like an idiot." His jaw tightens, like he hates admitting it out loud.
"Like some cosmic sign would flash in the sky telling me it was safe to tell you how I feel.
I told myself if I just waited long enough, you'd figure it out first. Or maybe I'd catch some look—some hint—and then I'd know. "
Again? Seriously?
If I'd been any more obvious back then, I would've hired a skywriter myself. Hell, I practically had "Please Notice Me, Zach" stamped on my forehead every time we were in the same room.
The words are right there, burning on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. No way I'm interrupting him now — I want to hear every last word before I say a thing.
"I should've just said it," he says quieter now, almost to himself. "Laid it all out. Even if it blew everything up. Even if it meant things between us got messy, or weird, or never the same again."
His voice edges up just slightly, sharp with frustration.
"Because if you really love someone—really love them—you don't sit around waiting for a sign like some background character in your own damn life.
" His hands flex against his thighs, "You take the hit.
You jump without a parachute. You set yourself on fire if it means they'll finally see you standing there. "
My heart trips, wild and uneven because that's exactly what I did. I set myself on fire for him once, and all I got was burned.
"But I didn't," he finishes, shoulders sagging like the confession wrung him out. "I played it safe."
A bitter little laugh escapes him. "I was too dumb to see what I had back then."
The sting in my eyes is sudden, and I have to blink fast before it spills over.
"And it took someone else showing interest in you for me to finally realize I'd waited too damn long."
Zach pushes off the bed, restless, his hand dragging through his hair as he starts pacing.
"When Jacob told me he liked you—that he was planning to ask you out—I..." His voice stumbles, rough. "God, I panicked. I didn't even know what I was feeling at first. It just—hit me. Hard. This wave of jealousy so strong it scared the hell out of me."
He stops pacing, turns toward me, his chest rising and falling fast.
"Because Jacob's a good guy. One of the best. I knew if he asked you out, you'd probably say yes—and why wouldn't you? He's safe. Smart. Easy to fall for. And I... I felt threatened in a way I'd never felt before, because if you fell for him—if you gave him the chance—I knew I'd lose you for good."
His jaw clenches, guilt twisting across his face.
"I didn't know how to handle it. I didn't know how to tell my friend that we liked the same girl. And instead of just being honest, I tried to shut it down. I tried to convince him to back off, to make him think it wasn't worth it, that you weren't worth it."
He swallows hard, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor.
"And I didn't even realize what I was saying—what was actually coming out of my mouth—until it was too late."
Zach steps toward me, slow and deliberate, as if testing whether I'll flinch. When I don't move, he crouches in front of me, close enough that I can see the tension lining his face.
"I'm sorry you heard that." His voice is soft but weighted. "God, I'm so damn sorry. Those words—what I said to him that day—they weren't just careless. They were cruel. And I can't take them back, no matter how much I wish I could."
A harsh breath rips from him before his hand finds mine, gripping tight like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His stare is searing, drowning me in the kind of regret that's almost too much to bear.
"Please believe me when I say I didn't mean a single word of it. I never thought you were worthless. Or..." His throat bobs, and he grimaces, almost choking on the word. "Fat."
The way he winces when he says it—like it physically hurts—makes my stomach twist.
I spent years trying to scrub his words out of my head.
Starving myself of every thought of him while quite literally starving myself of everything else.
Running miles, counting calories, watching the number on the scale drop like that would somehow erase what he said.
Like if I could just change enough, I could prove him wrong.
And for a while, I thought I did. Thought I'd finally won. I shed the weight, changed my look, built this shiny new version of me.
But the second I saw him again, it all came crashing back—every word he said that I tried to bury.
And right now, hearing him speak them again, it's worse. So much worse. Because it feels like I'm standing outside his balcony again, eighteen and broken all over.
My chest aches so hard it's like someone's got their fist around my heart and won't let go.
A tear slips free before I can stop it. I swipe it away quick, hoping he didn't notice—
But he did.
His expression crumples, pain etching every line of his face like my tear physically cut him. He reaches out, cupping my cheek in his palm, his thumb hovering just shy of where my tear fell.
His eyes shut, his forehead tipping closer like he's trying to soak up every ounce of the hurt he caused.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, the words breaking apart in his throat.
"You were never that. You were—" His voice falter.
"You were beautiful. You are beautiful. And not in some casual, throwaway way.
I mean the kind of beautiful that used to stop me cold.
The kind that made me look twice—hell, three times—because I couldn't believe I got to have that person in my life. "
He exhales, almost like saying it out loud knocks something loose in him.
"I saw it every single day. The way your hair would fall in your face when you laughed too hard. The way your cheeks would flush when you were excited. The way you'd talk with your hands when you were passionate about something."
He leans in slightly, his gaze flicking over my face before landing somewhere near my nose.
"And God—your freckles."
He almost smiles, soft and sad, like the memory stings and soothes at the same time. "Where are they, anyway?"
I shift, sitting up a little straighter. "I cover them with makeup now. I hate them." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don't take it back.
"You shouldn't hide them," he says quietly, shaking his head. "I loved your freckles. Still do."
He searches my face like he's trying to see them through the makeup.
"They were my favorite thing about you. I used to sit next to you in class just to count them when you weren't looking." His lips curve slightly at the memory, but his eyes stay soft, serious.
"They made you look like summer—like sunlight scattered across your skin. You were never more beautiful to me than when you were makeup-free, freckles and all. I thought they were the prettiest damn thing I'd ever seen."
My stomach flutters, heat crawling up my neck before I can stop it.
Ugh, of all the things for him to notice—it had to be the one thing I've hated for as long as I can remember.
It shouldn't matter, but it does, and it makes me want to both melt into the floor and throw a pillow at his stupid perfect face.
He draws in a breath, chest tight, like he's holding back more than he can say.
"I wish I could make you see yourself the way I did—still do. You were perfect to me, Caroline. Every curve, every imperfection you thought you had—I swear I loved them all. I never wanted you to be smaller or different. You were already everything."
His gaze catches mine, burning, earnest.