“I hate it when you make me feel like you don’t,” she shot back.
“I hate this conversation,” he stated.
“I hate the fact that I feel like you just tried to break up with me, and I’m still fucking standing here.”
Something like sympathy flitted across his features and he looked up at her, saying quietly, “Yeah, I hate that, too.”
Willow nodded, her stomach feeling like a sinkhole. “And right now? Right now I hate that I love you, because I do, and I hate that I’m afraid to say that to you because I don’t know how you’ll react, and I hate the fear and uncertainty and insecurity that I feel right now, but do you know what I hate most? What I hate most is that this conversation isn’t going to change anything, not for the better. You’re not going to do a damn thing to change things, and you’re going to let me walk out that goddamn door even though that’s not what either one of us wants, and somehow, somehow you get to feel like you’re not the one who broke up with me.”
By that point tears were shining in her eyes, wobbling above the rim but not falling. Ethan stood, wordless, and just stared at her. So many different feelings floated in the depth of his sad blue eyes, but all she could think was how much she hated that he was breaking her heart, how it wasn’t fair that she was going to lose him and she didn’t have to—he could stop it. But he wouldn’t.
For a split second, his mouth inched open and he looked like he was going to argue, but then his hand was pressed against the small of her back and he was yanking her up against his hard body, his mouth crushing hers as her arms wound around him in response, trying to pull him even closer.
Her hands wasted no time going for the waist band of his pants, but he caught her wrist, pulling back slightly.
“This would be a good time for you to slap me and make a dramatic exit,” he advised.
“You want me to go?”
“I want you to stay,” he stated. “But I’m afraid it’s going to lead to more of this and then an even messier explosion of feelings down the road, after you’ve already given up even more for me, and I don’t want that.”
She mulled over his words for a moment, head down so she wasn’t distracted by his too-handsome face. She still felt immeasurably sad, especially because he talked like it was some inevitability instead of a choice he was making. It was so cowardly and annoying, and she didn’t think of him that way.
The temptation to shove away sadness for at least a few more hours was very real, though, and as she bit down on her lower lip, she thought she’d rather have one more night with him than whatever scrap of pride she may preserve if she turned around and walked out.
Shoulders slumping, she leaned against him, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m so mad at you right now.”
“You should be.”
Then she pulled back and turned, tugging him by his t-shirt, until they had switched positions and it was her legs back against the couch. Unbuttoning her shirt, she peeled it off and tossed it in the floor while Ethan watched. Next came the pants, then her bra and panties. Once she stood before him completely naked, she quirked an eyebrow.
“So, should I leave?” she asked.
If the heat in his eyes didn’t tell her it was too late for that, his nearly-painful grasp on her hips as he pushed her down on the couch, dropping to his knees certainly did. Uncomplicated lust overtook her less enjoyable feelings and she spread her legs, sinking back into the couch and closing her eyes as the source of so much of her pain brought her immense pleasure one last time.
Ethan burrowed into his coat as rain pelted him, angry gusts of wind seemingly trying to push him back into his car. It was hard not to think of the tempestuous weather as some sort of sign.
Two nights ago he sat at his first family dinner in half a year across from the woman he’d sworn the rest of his days to. Hours later, after two rounds of angry, intensely emotional sex with another woman whose heart he’d just split open—again—he’d held her in his arms while she slept and mulled over every word she’d said to him that night.
Steeling himself against the wind and rain, he jogged up the concrete path from his old driveway to his old front porch, and without giving himself another second to rethink it, he skipped the doorbell and opened the front door.
Amanda was just walking into the living room from the kitchen, and she jolted in surprise, placing a hand to her chest.
“Sorry,” he said, offering a rueful smile. “I didn’t want to ring the doorbell.”
“Right. The kids.” Nervously clasping and unclasping her hands together, she said, “All right. You said you needed to talk. Where should we do this?”
He knew what she was asking—would it get ugly? He had no idea.
“The couch may be optimistic, but I guess we can always relocate if we need to.”
Rolling her eyes lightly, she shrugged and took a seat on the edge of the couch. Full of nervous energy and no less eager for whatever conversation they were about to have than he was, she rubbed her palms against her legs.
“How’ve you been?” she asked.
“Busy. Lots of work.”
“Work, right.” She nodded, but it was loaded and he knew it.