Her knock continues. “I have to…” Her voice is slurred. Drunk or maybe tired. Or both. “I have to talk to you.”
I pull the door open.
She barrels inside. Paces between the bed and the wall.
“Princess, are you okay?”
“No, I…”
“You want to sit?”
Her hair whips her cheeks as she shakes her head.
“You want a drink?”
“Yeah.” Her gaze shifts to the mini-bar. “A—”
“Water?”
“No, I… I guess I’ll just say it.” Her pacing ceases.
Her eyes meet mine.
She stares at me like I’m holding her heart. “Are you in love with me?”
“What?” Where the fuck did that come from?
“Are you in love with me?”
“Skye, we kissed for the first time two weeks ago.”
“But—”
“I thought that it was new. That I didn’t have to know yet.” I can’t know yet. She has to see that. I need more time. I need to figure this out. To figure out what the fuck love means. What it means to offer someone your heart.
She closes the distance between us. Places her hands on my bare chest. “Are you in love with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Fuck, I still can’t wrap my head around you wanting me.”
She swallows hard. “But you do?”
“I what?”
“You want me?”
I bring my hands to her hips. “Princess, let me get you some water. Something to eat. You’re drunk.”
“It was a party.”
“So?”
“People drink at parties.” Her fingers dig into my skin. “It’s an easy question, Forest. You love me or you don’t.”
” I—”
“Don’t say you love me as a friend. Don’t tell me that bullshit.”
“I—”
Her voice is needy. Desperate. “It’s an easy question. You love me or you don’t.”
“Skye.”
“What? Are you like all the other guys? You’ll fuck the fat chick because she’s the grateful type but you won’t—”
“You’re the one who pushed for this.”
“But—”
“You’ll fuck me, but you won’t wait for me?”
Her chest heaves with her inhale. “That’s not fair.”
“It isn’t.”
Her frown deepens. “It wasn’t like that. I love you.” Her inhale is sharp. “I love you, Forest. I’ve loved you for a long time. I need you to love me back.”
“Skye—”
“Just admit it. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t love me. That you’ll never love me.”
She’s probably right.
I’m not Gloria Gaynor.
I don’t know how to love again.
Sure, she’s here because she’s drunk and scared. But that doesn’t change the facts.
I’m not enough for her.
I can’t offer her what she needs.
I’m not capable of it.
“I’m sorry, Skye.” I reach for her, but she pulls away. “I still don’t know what it means. Or how to do it. Or what it feels like.”
She steps back.
Her eyes go to the ground.
Her body curls inward.
God, she looks so hurt. I want to wrap my arms around her. Hold her. Soothe her.
But there’s nothing I can say.
“Because you love her?” Her eyes meet mine. “You still love her?”
“No.”
“But you don’t love me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what that feels like.”
She takes my hand. Pulls me into her.
Her lips collide with mine.
It’s fast. Reckless.
She kisses me hard. Then she releases me.
Her eyes find mine. “You’d know. If you loved me, you’d know.”
“Don’t go.”
She blinks back a tear. “I have to.”
“Skye—”
“I’m sorry, Forest. I… thought things would be different.” She turns and walks out the door.
Chapter Forty-Five
Forest
It takes twenty minutes to arrange everything with Holden.
My head is racing. There’s no point in attempting sleep.
Instead, I head to the bar downstairs.
The party is over, but the bartender is still serving.
I take a seat. Order a Moscow Mule.
It’s too sweet, but it tastes like Skye.
Fuck, I already miss her.
My heart is already breaking.
It’s ridiculous. It was already broken. How can it break more?
I don’t know if I love her.
But I still feel the ache of losing her.
Maybe that’s enough to convince her. Princess, there’s a hole in my gut right now. Come back. Fill it.
Maybe that’s not love. Maybe I’ll never be enough for you.
But I’m going to be selfish for once.
I need you.
Stay because I need you.
Even though I’m not enough.
Even though I don’t give you what you need.
No. I could never ask that of her.
But, fuck, it’s nice to imagine for a minute. I could have a big, beautiful life with Skye. She could move into my apartment. Do all sorts of dirty shoots on my bed.
In our bed.
I could help her until she made enough to hire a real assistant.
We’d get a bigger place. Get married. Have a few kids.
I’d teach them to play basketball. She’d teach them photography. We’d argue over which art they should learn—photography or drawing.
I’d tell them to go to college, but they’d argue that I didn’t need my college.
We’d get old and gray (she’d finally dye her hair hot pink) and retire in Mexico, where we’d spend all our time swimming.
Even though I hate the beach, I’d love being there with her.
And the whole time, she’d be missing something she needs.