I stare at him.
“What about fucking me, Claire?” he cries. “Where the fuck is my life?”
My eyes fill with tears at his anger. “Tristan,” I whisper.
“I want my own wife, Claire, with my own children and to live in a fucking house that we choose together.”
Tears overfill my eyes, and I swipe them away angrily.
“You told me when we met that there were three hearts connected to yours.” He begins to pace. “Did you not?”
I stay silent.
“Answer me . . . fuck it!” he screams.
I jump. “Yes.”
“So now that I’m in love with those hearts, and I want them as my sons”—he glares at me—“you tell me that I can’t have them?”
His silhouette blurs. “Tristan,” I whisper. “Please try and see this from my point of view.”
“You’re selfish, Claire.” His eyes fill with tears.
I drop my head as fear overwhelms me. I’m going to lose him too.
“I deserve to have my own family.”
“I know you do,” I murmur.
“I want the boys as mine.”
“Tristan.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He clenches his jaw. “You know . . . my mother told me way back then . . . that they would always be another man’s sons, that you would always be another man’s wife.” His eyes hold mine. “That you would never truly be my family—I would always be the stand-in.”
I screw up my face in tears. He’s so hurt.
He shakes his head. “I can’t live with that, Claire.”
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I’m saying goodbye . . . I’m nobody’s backup plan.”
I try to contain my sobs. “No, Tris,” I beg.
His haunted eyes hold mine . . . a silent beg for me to stop him.
We stare at each other, and this is it. The defining moment where I choose between my past and my present.
Regret hangs in the air between us, and I want to do as he asks. I want to concede to his demands.
Anything to keep him here with me.
But I just can’t . . . and it’s killing me.
Eventually, he turns and leaves. The door clicks quietly as it closes behind him.
I sob out loud into the silence.