“Because I think we should. It’s like a huge dancing elephant in the room, and no matter how hard we ignore it, it’s always there. And I don’t want it to be there, Van. I don’t want that reminder of how I hurt you so much. I want it gone, and the only way is to talk about it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering that day. The one when he tore her heart out of her chest and trounced it all over the ground. She tried to breathe in, but her lungs wouldn’t expand, forcing air out in short pants that provided no oxygen at all.
“Breathe, Van,” Tanner urged, grabbing her hands and holding them against him. “It’s okay. We’re here in your room. And I’m not going to hurt you again.”
She opened her eyes, and he was staring right at her. He winced, as though he could see the pain in her eyes.
“I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you. I’ve thought about it every day since, and it’s pretty much killed me. I called you and left voicemails. I sent you emails, letters…” his voice trailed off.
“I got them.” Her voice was thick. It hadn’t been easy to ignore them. It had crushed her already-broken heart even further. In the end, she’d changed her number and her email address, and told her mom to burn any mail once she’d moved out. It had been the only way she could cope.
A one-eighty turn. Forget he existed.
Although that had been impossible, of course.
“What I did was wrong. I could give you excuses about being angry with you, about being too young to know how to deal with my emotions. But that’s all they are. Excuses,” he told her. “And I’ll never stop apologizing for hurting you in the worst way.”
He looked distraught. His face was close to hers, his eyes searching as though they were trying to find all the answers. She leaned forward, gently pressing her lips to his. “I forgave you a long time ago,” she whispered. “I just never knew what to do with that.”
“You forgave me?” Warmth rushed through him. He didn’t deserve it, not one bit.
She nodded, and the tension melted from his face.
“Because I’d understand if you didn’t.”
She scooted closer to him, until her breasts molded against the hard planes of his chest, her thighs intertwining with his. “It was such a long time ago. We were kids. Too naïve to understand that things aren’t always black and white.” She took a deep breath. “I owe you an apology, too.”
“You do?” His brows knitted together. “Why?”
“I’m the one who ruined our plans. Who broke our promises. I told you I’d go to Duke with you, and I didn’t.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yeah, but I know why you did it.” His smile was sad. “Or at least I know now. I didn’t then.”
“Yeah. That’s what makes it so sad. I didn’t know how to talk to you, and I didn’t want to listen. I was so afraid of what everybody thought of me, when the only opinion that mattered was yours.”
“I’ve always thought you’re amazing,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her cheek. “And funny, and beautiful, as well as the strongest woman I know. And every time I see you smile at me, I feel like the luckiest bastard in town. Not everybody gets a second chance.”
She smiled at him, a soft, hazy kind of smile, and he leaned forward to press his lips against hers.
“Are we done talking now?” she asked, sliding her arms around his neck and deepening the kiss.
“I am,” he rasped, as he broke away. “If you are.”
“Yep. Completely done.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What’re you doing?” Zoe asked, leaning on the doorjamb. Van was pulling out all the dusty old boxes that had languished at the back of her closet for years.
“Sorting through my old memory boxes.” For too long she’d ignored them, the same way she’d tried to push down the memories of that time. But since it was a Saturday morning, and she’d already checked in with the contstruction team, it felt like a good time to clear out the cobwebs. Get rid of the things that didn’t give her joy.
“Can I look?” Zoe asked, kneeling down beside Van and taking a box, sending dust flying into the air. “Oh god, these are ancient.” She sneezed, then screwed her face up. “How long have they been in there? Centuries?”
“Don’t be rude.” Van shook her head, then passed a photo to Zoe. “This was me at your age. Or maybe a little younger.”
Zoe glanced at the photo, her eyes wide. “Oh my god, are those flares? Why is the waistband so low?”
“They’re bootcut jeans, not flares. I wasn’t born in the seventies, thank you very much. And it was the fashion to have low waistbands.”