40. James
Chapter forty
James
I t’s Friday morning, and like every day for the past month, I’m back outside Cora’s house. Same time, same place, same rejection. But today, I’ve come prepared. Today, I’m armed with takeaway coffee and raisin toast. I know she won’t talk to me, but maybe I can get her to eat something.
Her back is rigid as she walks out the door, her purse slung over her shoulder, and I can see the exhaustion in the way she moves. She’s thinner than she was when I first saw her at Eden, and I hate it. Her cheeks aren’t as full, and there’s a darkness under her eyes she didn’t used to have.
But what hurts the most is the spark that’s missing. The Cora I fell in love with was all fire—her wit sharp, her eyes bright. Now, the fire’s gone, snuffed out by me, by my mistake. I’d give anything to see that spark again, even if it’s directed at me in anger.
I take a controlled breath and step forward. “Morning,” I say, holding out the coffee and toast. “I got you breakfast. Raisin toast.”
She stops, her eyes narrowing as she glares at me. “Go away, James.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t like raisin toast.”
I hold back a sigh. “Got it. So, raisin toast isn’t your go-to breakfast every morning?” I ask, a smile pulling at my lips despite her arctic stare. “Coffee and raisin toast, buttered with a sprinkle of cinnamon.” I raise the brown paper bag in between my fingers and swing it back and forth.
Her eyes widen briefly before narrowing back into that sharp glare. “Great. So now you’re spying on me too,” she shoots back.
“You’re a creature of habit.” I shrug. “Come on, it’s warm and buttered, just the way you like it.” I hold out the bag and coffee, hoping she’ll take it. I know she hasn’t been eating much this past month, and I don’t want her going to work on an empty stomach anymore.
She glares, her lips drawn tight, her eyes like daggers. Then she snatches the toast from my hand. “Fine,” she snaps, her voice like ice. “ Now you can go away. But this doesn’t change anything,” she adds, her eyes flicking to mine for only a microsecond.
A small smile of victory creeps onto my face. She took it. It’s small, almost nothing, but to me, it’s everything. One tiny victory in this war I’m fighting to win her back. “You’re welcome,” I say, offering the coffee again.
She doesn’t take it though, just strides toward the gate, her pace quick and determined. I hate that she doesn’t even look at me most of the time. It’s like I’m a ghost haunting the edges of her life, begging for scraps of her attention.
I fall into step beside her. “Let me take you to work,” I offer, jutting my chin at my Range Rover parked just a few feet away. “It’s faster than the train.”
“No,” she replies without even looking at me, pulling her earphones from her purse and shoving them in her ears.
I sigh, but I don’t stop following her. We’ve had the same conversation all month. She picks up her pace like she’s trying to lose me, and I stay a few steps behind, making sure she gets to the train station safely. Every time she walks alone through this neighborhood, it drives me insane. The cracked sidewalks and random drugged-out fuckers lurking feel like a trap waiting to spring. I can’t stop imagining the worst—what if someone followed her? What if she screamed and I wasn’t there to hear it? I wouldn’t survive it.
When we reach the station, she doesn’t spare me a glance as she heads for the platform. The crowd is already gathering and the loud screech of the brakes slices through the air as a train pulls in. Cora doesn’t even look back at me as she weaves through the throng of commuters, her purse clutched tightly at her side. I stay back, watching as she boards the train, my heart filled with the tiniest bit of hope as the doors slide shut behind her. It’s just a flicker, but it’s there. She took the toast. After a month of silence, after endless mornings of cold stares, she took it. It wasn’t much—probably an act born more of frustration than acceptance—but it was something. A crack in the wall she’s built between us. Maybe tomorrow, she’ll take the coffee, too. Maybe next time, she’ll look me in the eye when she does.
Small steps. That’s what I keep telling myself. If I can just keep showing up, keep proving that I’m not going anywhere, maybe one day those small steps will lead us back to where we were. Maybe she’ll remember what we had before everything went wrong. Before I fucked it all up. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve taken one small step forward. And I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever I can get.
At work, I could have called her into my office. I could have forced her to talk, to listen. But I haven’t and I won’t. Our personal shit has no place in the office. It’ll only force her to quit to get away from me. I won’t ruin her career or have her scrambling for money again. That’s not love. I can’t do that to her. She deserves better—even if she hates me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up.
Every morning, I’ll continue to be here. I’ll offer her breakfast, offer her a ride, offer her a sliver of the life she deserves, even if she won’t take it yet. I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes for her heart to soften, for her walls to crack, for her to see that I’m not going anywhere.
Because I can’t lose her. Not like this.
Not forever.