***
Feeling as though my heart is in my hands, I knock on the door to Luke’s apartment.
I sent him a text message this morning asking if he had time to talk.
He’s pulling twelve-hour shifts all week, but he told me he could see me anytime during the other twelve hours.
I’m here now, knowing that what I have to say won’t take much more than a few minutes.
I’ve rehearsed it over and over since I saw him with Auggie last night.
I’m a coward for handling the situation this way, but I need to save my heart.
Walking away from this without hearing the man I love tell me that he doesn’t want me anymore is selfish but necessary.
If guarding my own heart makes me cruel, so be it.
He yanks open the door, dressed for work. He’s so handsome. A soft smile spreads over his lips.
I skirt around him because I can’t touch him. Touching him will only make this harder. I already feel as though my heart is taking a beating.
The click of the door shutting turns me around.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for days about something important, “ he begins, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m so fucking nervous, and this isn’t the best timing. It’s going to take awhile to explain everything, so maybe you should have a seat so I can get it all out before work.”
I swallow, trying to remember all the words I memorized. I can’t recall any. The only thing sitting on the tip of my tongue are three words.
I love you.
I want to say it. I long to say it, but I can’t.
A knock at the door stops time. It stops my lie about needing space after my breakup with Warren. I can’t tell Luke that what we had is fun, but I have to focus on myself.
None of those dishonest words leave my lips as he whispers, “I wasn’t expecting anyone else. Fuck. I’ll see who it is.”
I move a half-step to the left to give him room to pass me in the small foyer.
When the door opens, a rush of emotion hits me like a thundering wave. Auggie screams his name, Brooklyn’s face lights up at the sight of him, and my effort to shield my heart fails.
I almost drop to my knees.
“Brooklyn,” he says her name softly. “What are you doing here?”
“My fire engine is here,” Auggie answers for his mom. “You let me pick it from the box in your closet, Daddy. I forgot it.”
Daddy.
It takes every ounce of strength I have left to not sob into my hand.
Desperately, trying to find a way out, I shuffle in my sneakers. “I need to go.”
“No.” Luke’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Afton, please wait.”
I glance up into his eyes. They are the eyes that I first looked into when I ran away from my unfulfilled life, and they are the same eyes I stared at when we sat under the stars in my backyard garden after we made love.
“I have to go,” I insist.
“We’ll talk soon.” His hand slips, freeing me from his grasp. “I work all week, but we’ll find time. It’s about the future. It’s important.”
It’s important but not necessary.
I see his future right in front of me, and I’m not a part of it.
I slide past Auggie and Brooklyn on my way out as Luke struggles through an awkward introduction, never saying who they are to him.
He doesn’t need to tell me. They are his family, and I’m his past.
As soon as I’m outside of the building and on the sidewalk, I run. I run around pedestrians, across streets, and around corners until my lungs burn, and I can’t feel anything but the pounding beat of my broken heart.
Chapter 50
Luke
No matter what the hell I do, I can’t get time with Afton Neal, and that is the only thing I want. She is all I want right now.
She’s been distant for more than a week.
At first, I attributed it to work since she pushes herself harder than anyone I’ve ever known.
I saw it myself with the imagery she’s creating for my grandmother. The shots that Afton posted in the online gallery for Marti were stunning. Dante directed me to them after he snooped around and found the link.
Marti’s impressed. I know that because she left me a voicemail telling me that Afton understands her food. I heard the warmth in her tone when she spoke about the woman I love.
I sprint down the sidewalk headed toward Afton’s home. I’m desperate to talk to her. I need to talk to her more than I need my next breath.
A spot of red hair ahead of me is a beacon. I recognize the guy based on the pinstriped shirt he’s wearing and the expensive shoes.
“Joel,” I call out his name.
He turns instantly, but I don’t get the greeting I expect. Instead of a smile, he’s scowling. His hand is fisted at his side.