I can’t lie to him, but my heart still feels intact. “I didn’t say that.”
“You haven’t said much of anything.”
“I haven’t cried either.” I suck in a staggering breath. “I’m doing the best I can to hold myself together.”
Offense colors his expression. “That’s not your job. It’s mine.”
“No,” I say, already shaking my head. “That’s what I used to need. That’s not your job anymore. You once said you’re not going to save me. I am going to save myself. I believed you, and more than that, I know you’re right. Please never doubt how much I love you, though.”
“Your dad had a heart attack, and you left. I had to find out both of those major pieces of information from Tealey.”
Slipping my hands under my cheek, I say, “I called. Twice.”
“You didn’t call when you landed. Isn’t that something you do for someone you love?”
“It was late, three hours later in New York.”
A humorless chuckle rustles through his chest. “Did you actually think I’d come home to an empty apartment and go to bed like you weren’t supposed to be lying next to me?” He glances at the canopy, but then his gaze lowers again, and he says, “Let me rephrase that. Did you think I’d carry on in life like my heart hadn’t gone missing?”
I hate myself for doing it, but even more for saying it out loud, but the truth has a basis for my actions. “I didn’t think about the consequences.”
“You didn’t think about me.”
“No. I was thinking about my dad and hoping he’d survive long enough for me to take a five-hour flight across the country just so I could tell him that I love him.” I look down, shame filling my entire being. “I’m supposed to be mad at him, and I still am. I’m still so hurt by what he did to me. But he’s my dad and the only one I have.”
Reaching over, he rubs my cheek and then moves closer to pull me into his arms. “You’re on shaky ground and feeling big emotions. I understand that it’s complicated—”
“Complicated?” I tilt my head back to see him. “My love for you shouldn’t be in question.”
“It’s not.” His voice is calm despite the conversation. He stares straight at me, making me want to look away under the intensity. I don’t. I look at him and take it because however we leave this bed, together or broken up, I need to feel every second of what gets us there. “I don’t doubt your love for me. I don’t doubt your loyalty or commitment. I know you feel those things for me.”
“Then what do you doubt, Jackson?”
“That you feel as strongly as I do.” He rolls away and onto his back, draping his forearm over his head. “You didn’t want a relationship, and I pushed it. You didn’t want to move in, and I insisted. You wanted to stand on your own two feet . . . Fuck.” He looks at me through the corners of his eyes. “I fucked it all up.”
“No, you didn’t.” I lift on my elbow, anchoring it into the mattress.
His arm lowers again. “Like I said, I don’t question your love for me. I question the timing. There’s a natural progression, a timeline of how things should be.”
Panic starts burning in my chest, so I say, “I wasn’t where you were, but I got there.”
The smallest of smiles is noticed, but then something else washes through him. “I need to tell you why I was mad yesterday.”
I fist the sheet to brace myself. I can’t lose him, or I’ll have nothing left.
Sitting up with his back to my padded headboard, he says, “I’m in—”
My phone buzzes across the nightstand, causing me to look back over my shoulder. “It’s the hospital.” I glance back at him. “I need to take this.”
I’m not asking, but I appreciate his patience. I grab the phone and press it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Ms. Marché?”
I sit up, feeling sick to my stomach. He didn’t go into surgery that long ago, not quite two hours. Is this standard procedure to give an update at this stage? “Yes?”
“This is Nurse Wilcox. Are you close to the hospital?”
“No. I’m at home.” Using that word for this house makes me wince when it leaves my tongue. I look back once more at Jackson to catch a wave of pain rippling across his face. Dammit.
The nurse says, “You need to get here right away.”
I bolt to my feet. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Jackson’s already getting dressed when I pull the same pair of pants that I had just taken off right over my fitted shorts and slip on the flip-flops again.
As soon as we’re in the car, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Your dad needs to be your priority right now.” He glances over at me once more, and I notice the difference in the hue of his irises—a darker shade of blue that’s mislaid the light.