Chapter Fourteen #2
“I know,” I whispered.
His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, there was something broken in them. Something that looked like shame. “You knew,” he repeated, his voice barely audible. “You knew I thought you were her, and you didn’t stop me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. Not against me, but against himself. I looked down at my coffee, watching the steam curl upward in delicate spirals. “I didn’t want to stop you.”
My confession came out softer than I intended, but it was the truth. The raw, painful truth that I had been carrying for two weeks.
“Hope.”
“You were hurting,” I continued, my voice trembling slightly. “You were in so much pain, and I just... I wanted to help. I wanted to make it better, even if it was just for a little while.”
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough and frustrated. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. You shouldn’t have—” He stopped, his hand dropping to the table with a dull thud. “I took something from you I had no right to take.”
My chest tightened, and I forced myself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t take anything I didn’t give.”
“You were a virgin.”
His words were flat, factual, but they landed like a punch to the gut. I felt heat flood my cheeks, and I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “How did you know?”
“The blood,” he said quietly. “On my fingers. On the grass.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with something that sounded like regret. “I didn’t know. If I had known, I never would have…”
“I know.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the faint drip of the coffee maker behind the counter, and the distant sound of a car passing on the street outside. But mostly, I heard my own heartbeat, loud and frantic in my ears.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out like a confession he couldn’t hold back any longer.
I looked up sharply, my breath catching. “What?”
“For two weeks.” His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles white. “I’ve been in Medicine Park, but I’ve been coming here. To Lawton. At night. Watching you.”
My stomach twisted, a strange mix of fear and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope. “Why?” I whispered.
“Because I couldn’t stay away.” His voice was raw, stripped of all pretense. “Because I needed to know you were okay. Because I—” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Because I’m a fucking coward who didn’t know how to face you.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. He had been watching me. For two weeks, while I’d been moving through my days like a ghost, he had been there. Watching. Waiting.
“I saw you at the farmers’ market,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “At the farm. Here at the diner. I saw you smile at customers and help your sisters and serve coffee like everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine, was it?”
I shook my head slowly, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“You looked...” He trailed off, his eyes searching mine. “You looked like I feel. Hollow. Like you were going through the motions but not really there.”
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it, and I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand.
“I broke you,” he said, and the words sounded like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I broke you, and I didn’t even realize it until I saw you behind that garage with Angel.”
“You didn’t break me,” I countered, my voice trembling. “You just... you made me realize something.”
“What?”
I took a shaky breath, my hands still wrapped around the coffee mug as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded.
“That I had been waiting for you. All this time, I had been waiting for something I couldn’t name, and then you showed up, and I thought—” I stopped, my throat tightening.
“I thought maybe you were it. Maybe you were what I had been waiting for.”
His expression crumpled, and for a moment, he looked like he might reach across the table and touch me. But he didn’t. He just sat there, his hands still flat on the table, his eyes locked on mine.
“And then you walked away,” I finished quietly.
“I know.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Hope.”
The apology hung in the air between us, fragile and uncertain.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe that he was sorry, that he cared, that maybe, just maybe, there was something between us worth fighting for.
But I was terrified. Terrified that if I let myself hope, if I let myself believe, he would walk away again.
And I didn’t think I could survive that a second time.
“Why are you here?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “Why now?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving mine. And then he spoke, his voice low and rough and filled with something that sounded like desperation.
“Because I need to know if you’re pregnant.”
His words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I stared at him, my mind going blank. The coffee mug was suddenly too hot in my hands, the steam rising between us like a barrier I couldn’t cross.
“What?” I breathed.
“I didn’t use protection,” he said, his voice tight. “That night at the pond. I didn’t—” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “I need to know, Hope. Are you pregnant?”