Rafe (Arizona Vengeance 6.5)

We were the quintessential golden couple. Prom king and queen. Most likely to live happily ever after. I was sitting by his side, his hand clutching mine so hard, I thought my fingers would break, when they called with his draft offer to the league. I shared in the same excitement as he did because we had planned for that moment. We’d spent so much time talking about what would happen if he ever made it to the professionals. I had doubts, but Rafe...never.

He’d straight-out asked me, “Poppy, you’re coming with me, right? Wherever I land? Whatever city? You’re coming with me, right?”

My answer was fast and easy. “Yes, Rafe. I’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

Until he decided he didn’t want me to follow him at all.

When he changed his mind—disregarding all our future plans—it came as such a shock I couldn’t even understand it. Just two weeks before he was set to join his new team, he flat-out told me that he didn’t want me to come.

I couldn’t even process it. I was so hurt, so blinded by what I thought was a failure on my part to be the right woman for him, that I had trouble even fighting against it at first. I was just...numb.

Then, after a whole lot of crying in my mom’s arms, I tried to rally a bit. Attempted to fight to keep him.

God, what ensued was awful. Without really even understanding why he was doing what he was to me, I tried to hold on to the illusion of happiness we had. It ended up being me...flat-out begging Rafe with all my might to change his mind. It was so ugly. The woman I am today is so ashamed of how pathetic I was back then, down on my knees, holding on to his legs, sobbing and begging him not to leave me behind.

My face heats up just from the memory of that pitiful eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t understand her own worth. Who couldn’t figure out that Rafe wasn’t good enough for her, and not the other way around.

But I know it now.

Rafe shifts in his seat, gaze still on the scenery whizzing by. I steal a glance at him, irritated that he’s only gotten better-looking over time. He’s filled out...become brawnier, but it’s the face that always gets me. Warm brown hair that always looks tousled and expressive hazel eyes. Gone is the boyish hotness, and in its place is an incredibly handsome, rugged-looking man.

Hell, even his gorgeous looks piss me off, and I turn back to the road.

The silence between us should be welcoming, but in a way, it’s grating. I’m torn between wanting to be a bitch to him because he deserves it and wanting to hug the hell out of him because of what he’s going through right now. To complicate matters, I love his father, too. I’m grieving just as he is, and I can’t even accept comfort from him, which I know he’ll attempt to give me at some point. I figure I’ll reconcile those conflicting feelings eventually.

I pull into our neighborhood. It’s mostly modest split-levels built in the sixties on small lots shaded by oaks and pines. Rafe’s house is the same dove gray it’s always been, with burgundy shutters and a small slab concrete porch with three steps. My parents’ house used to be a baby blue, but they just recently painted it white with black shutters. They added an iron railing to the porch, something my mom had wanted for years and my dad surprised her with.

I choose to park at my parents’ home since I’ll be joining them for dinner tonight—not that it matters. The parallel driveways actually run right beside each other, separated only by about three feet of new spring grass.

“Thanks for the ride,” Rafe says without looking my way, and then he’s out the passenger door. It’s closed before I even get the engine shut off. By the time I’m stepping out, he’s got his suitcase out of my rear hatch and is headed to his front porch.

I follow along behind, telling myself that it would be nice to check in on Jim and Brenda. Doesn’t matter that I just looked in on them a few hours ago, which led to me being asked to pick up Rafe from the airport. Doesn’t matter that Rafe and I aren’t even on speaking terms really. I stick close to him as he bounds up the porch steps and drops his suitcase off to the side beside an empty planter.

He hesitates for just a moment, his hand inches from the storm door handle. His face angles my way, and I get a glimpse of hesitancy in his expression. It doesn’t last but a second before his jawline hardens, and he pulls open the door. Without delay, he steps into the house, and for a moment, I lose sight of him.