Chapter 31
Thirty-One
I am officially and irrevocably over Robert Pattinson.
How can it be that easy? The first time around, it was torturous just to get the girl to agree to a date.
She was over him, but she was also terrified to try again because of him.
She doesn’t look scared this time. Just sad.
Just disappointed. A little doubting rather than a canyon of distrust.
I can’t believe it.
She’s over Robert.
Just like that.
That man did both of us a favor by acting like the scumbag he is.
My chest and heart feel heavy, despite the uplifting end to our night. I walk over to Rosalie’s favorite chair—my cow print wingback and sit.
I breathe, just like weeks and weeks of counseling taught me.
“So easy,” I say, my voice cracking on the word. Because I am here, alone. Because Rosalie still doesn’t know who I am to her. Because the truth is, calling anything about this situation easy is laughable. My girl doesn’t remember me from before. She doesn’t remember us.
Nothing about this is easy.
I rest my head in my hands. My eyes sting and burn with angry, heart-wrenching, this-is-the-hardest-thing-I’ve-ever-done kind of tears.
I let them fall because I wish she were here.
I wish she remembered all of us. I let them come because I miss her—the her from before, the her that loved me, too.
I let the sobs overcome me because, despite the strides made this day, I am tortured without her.
In the midst of my complete crash out, my door flings open. “Hey Zev, do you think you’ll need your house key?” Rosalie stops halfway to me, her hand up, holding my keys out.
She’s looking at me—at the horrendous sight of a grown man crying. At my red face, puffy eyes, and the tears on my cheeks. I’m not exactly the tough guy who defended her this evening. But it’s too late to hide myself now.
“I should have knocked,” she says, but the words are quiet, her eyes relentlessly glued to my face.
She walks over to where I sit, dropping my keys onto the coffee table.
Positioning herself in the space between me and the table, she crouches until I’m peering down at her through blurred eyes.
Her long hair frames her face and her pale cheeks blossom with a blush.
Her brows pull together as she studies me.
And though she has no idea what’s happening, her eyes fill, too.
My compassionate Rosalie.
Rose cups a hand to my cheek. With the pad of her thumb, she brushes away the tears pooling beneath my eye. Another one falls in their place. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s all going to be okay.”
My gaze drops to her lips. I can’t help it. She’s so close, I’m inhaling her sweet rosewater scent with every breath I take. My eyes lock on hers, peering into her soul, just like I did before.
Her gentle fingers slide over my jawline and the scruff of my beard. Then, lifting up from her crouch, she leans close, her breath warm on my skin, before pressing her lips to mine.
Drawing back an inch, her eyes search mine for only a moment before her arms wind around my neck.
Her hands, her arms, her waist, her breath—she’s so close, so much closer than I’ve had in far too long.
I haul her onto my lap and into my arms, hugging her even closer.
Her lips mold with mine, and I respond urgently, kissing her back more desperately than I should.
All the while, my head asking me again and again if I’m dreaming.
Can I live here, in this dream?
This is nothing like the first time Rosalie kissed me. A silly game in a bar with our friends watching. No, this is just the two of us, all passion, yearning, and so much surety.
I need this. Maybe she does, too. Maybe she’s been missing me like I’ve been missing her and she doesn’t even realize it.
Swinging her legs over the side of the wingback chair, her hand cups my cheek once more.
She pulls back just an inch. Just enough to search my face.
Her breath is sweet like cinnamon and chocolate and warm against the bristles of my beard and the flush of my skin.
“Zev,” she whispers, and then she kisses me again.
Soft at first, then urgent. So, so urgent.
As she teases my lips open, I forget for a moment that our past, the story of us, is a stranger to her.
She is my Rosalie.
And I am hers.
Just as it should be.