it had never meant more than a warm friendship or a happy
moment, because there was only ever Arthur in the back, front,
and center of her mind.
I’ve hated myself so long for feeling this way. How can it be
okay now?
She’d often daydreamed of getting this exact news, and
how she’d throw herself into Arthur’s arms upon receiving
it. He’d realize he’d always been in love with her, too. There would
be a lavish wedding on a dramatic cliff overlooking the ocean, and
perhaps an epilogue of the sweetly spun decades to follow.
Loving Arthur was no longer a wicked-but-safe secret that she
could never, ever tell. If she was allowed to love him, it also meant
he was allowed to love her. Or not love her. And that second option
made her feel so hollow and aching she didn’t know what to do
about it.
This was not a book, or a story. It was her life, and she knew
perfectly well from the changes in Cora and the heavy, slow way
her mother moved since her father died that life was not overly
fond of delivering happy endings.
She looked up at Charles, who had gotten paler even in the
short time they’d been at the boardinghouse. He seemed thin-
ner as well, his cheekbones and jaw standing out in sharp
relief. She realized with a start that he had wriggled into a place
in her heart. None of her other flirtations had managed to get
that far.
Perhaps she was merely a coward, but Charles was safe. She
knew how a love story with him would end, unlike the ever-
unknowable Arthur. She couldn’t let anything happen to Charles.
She wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.
Including me.