Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Autumn
I’m still a little ruffled from hiding in Ezra’s closet. My heart hasn’t decided yet if it’s staying in my chest or making a run for it and now he’s here—in my kitchen, with icky pizza, college buddies, and apparently a question.
“I’ve been thinking about visiting Mav.” Ezra sits at my kitchen table, laces his fingers together, and waits.
There’s a short pause, and then Phil and I both explode at the same time.
“Are you insane?” I say, while Phil’s excitement is at the other end of the spectrum. “It’s about time!” he says.
Dumb Phil. I knew Ezra was wrong about that guy.
“Have you ever even met his father?” I ask, taking the phone from the counter and sitting next to Ezra at my table. My humiliation from before is forgotten; it’s replaced with pure annoyance.
“How could I? Ezra hasn’t seen the man in a decade.”
“And there’s a reason for that.” I shake my head. He doesn’t even know what he’s suggesting, what he’s encouraging Ezra to do.
I do know. I watched Ezra get screamed at. I watched him walk out of that house with bruises beneath his clothes and cuts above his eye.
“Dr. Appleby always said he should go back too,” Phil says.
“Dr. Who?”
Ezra clears his throat. “Ah, my therapist.”
Ezra has a therapist?
“She’s good. She got him past most of his issues.” It doesn’t slip by me the way Phil says the word most , as if I’m to blame for Ezra’s issues.
But then, maybe I am. Every day I see mistakes I made.
“Do you know what his dad put him through?” I say, ignoring the guilt building in my chest.
“I do—not firsthand, not like you. But I do.”
I scoff. “I’m guessing you don’t know the half of it.”
“I know that he carries around guilt every single day because of that man. Guilt he shouldn’t have. He was a child when he lived there, when he went through those things.” His dark eyes pierce me.
I flick my gaze up to Ezra, who’s gone slightly pale.
“He isn’t a child anymore. He can go in with new eyes—understanding eyes. He can see the situation for what it is and realize that he is guilty of nothing.”
I can’t argue with that. Ezra didn’t do anything wrong. By some miracle, he turned into the human he did. “I don’t disagree, but he doesn’t need to go back into that house to realize that.”
“He does if he ever wants to put the whole thing to bed. It never leaves him.”
I flick my gaze up to Ezra. Is that true?
“Umm,” he hums. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. I’ll figure it out. Thanks, Phil.” He snatches the phone and hits end before his friend can say more.
I stare at him and he slides a Diet Coke my way. He opens up the can in front of him, rather than talking, and takes a long swig. When he brings the can down, he’s scowling. “Oh, that’s bad. Like, really awful.”
I smirk, open mine up, and take a swig myself. Because I’ve changed. We both have. And I drink Diet Coke now. I like it.
“You don’t need to go over there,” I tell him.
“But I think Phil might be right.” His brows knit. “I wasn’t sure before. But maybe—”
“Ezra! Why would you do that to yourself?”
“Closure.” He lifts the can as if to take another drink, then remembering that he really didn’t like the stuff, he sets it down and pushes it away.
“What did Phil mean when he said Dr. Appleby helped you with most of your issues?” I take another drink of my bubbly, caffeinated soda.
He clears his throat, sits straighter, and looks me over once. All at once, I’m sorry I asked.
“She helped me move past Dad. She really did. Though she always said to close that door and lock it, I’d need to revisit him one day. See things with new eyes.” He swallows. “But she couldn’t ever get me over you.”
The Diet Coke in my mouth never makes it down my throat. His words have caught me off guard and I can’t stop the spew from coming. Every ounce of liquid in my mouth spurts right back out—onto the table, down my chin, and onto Ezra.
I scoot back in my chair, scraping it along the hardwood of my floors and tipping it over as I get to my feet. I don’t care that Ezra’s clean shirt is splattered with my spit and soda. Apparently, he isn’t going to leave my house clean—ever.
Shaking my head, I can’t quite look at him. “That can’t be true.” Finally, I bring my eyes up to his. “No,” I say adamantly. “You had a fiancée. You fell in love and proposed to someone else.” Even if they never married, that means something. “That’s very much moved on.”
He rounds the table, moving closer like a big cat cautiously watching its prey. “I did have a fiancée. You aren’t wrong. I proposed to Bre. But I never—” He shakes his head.
“There you go,” I say, not allowing him to finish that sentence. “She is proof you got over me.”
“You don’t know what happened with Bre.” He sits on the edge of the tabletop. Reaching out, he hooks one finger through my belt loop and pauses my short pace. He tugs until I stand directly in front of him, and I’m pretty sure my chest may implode.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, peering down where I stand between his legs.
“I think it does,” he says. His fingers at my hips find space beneath my shirt. The tips of his warm fingers brush over the edge of my hip, where my belt meets skin.
I sniff, my heart pounding, my emotions on overload. “It’s none of my business.”
“I want it to be,” he says, those fingers tracing my hip bone. “She broke up with me.”
So, not only was he engaged to someone else, but his feelings for Bre didn’t change. He didn’t end it. She did . If not for her decision, they’d be married right now.
I’m not sure what he’s going for here, what he needs me to understand exactly. Is it that he got his heart broken twice? That he loved and lost again? That he’d choose to be married to her if he could?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, unable to make myself sound sorry at all.
“I’m not .” His hands trail up to my face, tipping my chin up so that I’m no longer staring at the space between us. “She said she broke up with me because I was never fully hers.”
I swallow, and my throat burns with the action, with his words, with their unsaid meaning.
“She said she couldn’t marry someone who was still in love with the woman he lost. ”
I shake my head. But no words come.
“She was right. I didn’t even argue with her. A one-year engagement, a two-year relationship, and when she said goodbye, I accepted it without regret. She was right. I never got over you, Autumn.” He dips his head, peering at me as the tears I’ve been holding back spill onto my cheeks. “And maybe I’m wrong. But I don’t think you got over me either.”
His hand cups my cheek. It’s warm and strong and so wonderfully familiar. I’ve missed him. I haven’t wanted to admit it. But my chest is freed from its straining prison with merely the thought.
I cup my hand around his neck, step into him even more, and find his lips. Ezra’s arms slip around my back, hugging me close. His kisses trail from my lips to my jaw, and I shed a tear for every minute we’ve lost. His lips are warm and sweet, reminding me of who he was and who he’s become. And loving them both just the same. They’re both him.
For a single moment, I set aside years of pain and a million reservations. No, they haven't gone away, but I shove those doubts aside. Because right now, at this moment, wrapped in his arms, my hands in his hair, his heart pounding in tune with mine, I believe in us.