He exhales deeply, knowing I’m right. His eyes drop away from mine.
“We’re so good together,” I whisper as I pull his face back to me. “In . . . in another life, we could have been great. Just not this one.”
His eyes search mine, and I feel like he has so much to say but is choosing to remain silent.
“Promise me something.”
“What?” He sighs, unimpressed.
“Promise me . . . that sometimes . . . you’ll think of me.”
Our eyes are locked. “No, I can’t do that, Anderson . . . if I can’t have you, I don’t want to think about you.”
I smile sadly and lean in and kiss him. Our faces screw up together.
This is goodbye.
We stare at each other, and he runs his fingers over my face, as if memorizing every inch. “I wish things were different,” he whispers.
“Me too.”
He frowns, and I know he wants one last time. He goes to lie over me.
“I can’t, Tris.” I shake my head, emotional overload threatening. “I just can’t.”
He clenches his jaw and gets out of bed in a rush. He dresses in silence as I lie and watch him.
“You know I’m right,” I whisper.
He does his tie, refusing to look at me.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.
“Nope.” He pulls his jacket over his shoulders and retrieves his expensive watch from the bathroom and pats his pockets as he makes sure he has everything. He goes to the door, and I hold my breath as I watch him.
“Tris.”
He turns back to me.
“Can . . . can you say something, please?”
“What do you want me to say, Claire?”
Tears threaten. “Anything?”
His eyes hold mine for a beat, and finally he speaks. “Goodbye.”
I swallow the lump in my throat . . . not that.
He turns and leaves. The door clicks closed, and I stare at the back of it.
He would have fought me if he wanted it.
He didn’t.
And now I know.
I stand under the hot water and let it stream over my head. I’ve had the worst week.