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His eyes widen farther. Lips pull tight. Panic passes over his features as his eyes flicker from the picture back to mine several times as he figures out what to say. How to get out of being caught.

“You want to know what the fuck's going on?” I scream. “That's what's going on. You. Screwing. Her.”

He stumbles back and sits on the arm of the couch. “No, Getty. No. That's not me.”

“Not YOU?” My voice cracks from the emotion, from the tears, from the hurt that's eating my soul alive right now. “Yes, Zander, yes. It is you. How can you say otherwise? The bruised thumbnail. The goddamn shirt from the bar. She. Has it. On! You're naked. At the Four Seasons. It all looks pretty fricking obvious to me.”

“No. It's—”

“Thanks for proving me right. That all men
are
exactly like Ethan. Even when I believed you weren't. The difference is what you did was ten times more cruel.” My sob hitches and I reach my hands out to keep him away from me. “Don't touch me.”

“Fucking Christ, Getty.”

I scamper back against the counter as he paces the room. Even lost in my own emotion, I can sense the turmoil that radiates off him and fills the kitchen. “She was there last night. At the club. At the fucking suite when the guys brought the party back.”

I jump as his fist tears through the drywall. His own yelp of pain echoing right after it. Looks like despite the pain, he's going to do it again. But all I can focus on is
that he knows who this woman was. He's admitting that she was there with him.

“She tried to hook up with me. I remember that. She tried and I told her no thanks. And then I went to bed. God, I was so fucking drunk that I don't remember anything much after that. The door to my room opening. The noise and light of the party in the suite. Then closing. I don't know.” When he looks up to me, if I had thought my heart was broken before, I might have been mistaken, because it's definitely broken now. Zander's face is wrought with apology. His body tense but defeated. Everything about him screams
guilty
right now when all I want him to do is give me a definitive answer.

And he doesn't. Seems he can't.

He just stands there with puppy dog eyes in a conflicted blue and mouth lax as he tries to remember the one thing he can to right our world.

“Please tell me you'd know whether you slept with her or not.” Tears slowly slide down my face because for some reason this seems so much harder to comprehend. Blatantly doing it is one thing. Knowing it ahead of time. Purposefully disregarding me.

But to sleep with someone, ruin what I thought we had, and it was so nonmonumental that he doesn't remember it at all? That his disrespect of me was so great that he'd ruin us for nothing?

I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't stand still. And I can't move. So I just stare at him with wide eyes and a heart that hurts so damn bad because I'm so in love with him right now and hate him all at the same time.

How did I let this happen? Again?

I've been cheated on. My husband had slept with countless women while telling me that I wasn't good enough. And now I'm looking at a man who was telling me I was good enough and he's gone and done the same thing? What does that say about me? That he was just telling me these things but that I wasn't satisfying him regardless?

I can't think straight. Not with him looking at me with those eyes and the unknown stretched in between us. Not
with my past a constant fog in my mind telling me I deserve exactly this.

I refuse to accept that this is my lot in life: for men to think I'm disposable and only good enough until they want someone better.

Like a hot blonde with a great rack who services racers in hotel suites.

My sobs are the only sound in the hollowness of the house. Both hands cover my mouth as I try to fight it off and not completely break down in front of him, but the force racks my body.

“Getty. Please. There's an explanation.”

My laugh hitched with my sobs is all I can emit. All I can give him when I've already given him so much of myself. More than I should have. More than I ever intended to: my trust, my history, my heart, my desire.
My truth.

“We need to—”

“I need you to leave, Zander.” My voice is serious. Quiet. Barely audible. And yet the jerk of his body, the flash of his eyes up to mine, tell me he can't believe what I've just said. “Please. You can't be here tonight.”

And I know I'm lying. Know I'm weak and can't tell him that we're over. That I need him to leave because I can't breathe when he's so close. And I need to breathe. To be able to think. To have more resolve in my voice when I tell him we're over for good. That it's perfect timing for him to head back to his old life.

The one without me. The one where he meets women like her.

Because I can't stay with a man who doesn't remember if he slept with someone. Every trip, every race, the worry will always be there. The doubt will always linger. And I can't live like that again.

So I lie. I ask him to leave for the night, stay at the hotel, so we can clear our minds and talk when we are calmer. Tell him I need time. That I need to think.

I stay where I am as he walks down the hall and gathers some of his things. I don't move when he stands inches in front of me with my welcome-home painting tucked under his arm and his eyes pleading for me to give him the benefit
of the doubt. I refuse to cry when he presses a soft kiss to my head before resting his forehead against mine in silence.

And I hold back the confession I was going to make tonight as I watch him close the front door, climb in his car, and drive away.

I love you, Zander.

I was going to lay my heart on the line and give you the only thing of myself I had left to give you.

And as I slide to the kitchen floor, tears on my cheeks and disbelieving hurt in my heart, I wonder
if
I had told him last night, whether it would have changed anything.

Or if it would just mean I'd hurt that much more right now.

That's the problem with
if
s. Of living with regrets.

You always wonder.

Even when the lies were exactly what you wanted to hear.

D
ays mix with nights.

I keep to myself these days. Lost in my paints. Consumed with the sadness. Burying the hurt the only ways I know how.

Stormy seas and rumbling clouds line my canvases stacked against the walls. Dark grays and blacks and blues. Endless turmoil in a sea that can only create more of it.

His knocks on the front door go unanswered. His words through the slab of wood tear me apart as I sit on the other side, heart numb, and mind in self-preservation mode.

And he waits. And he persists. Staying ten paces behind me as I walk to work. Sitting at table thirteen through my shifts. His way of reinforcing to me what his constant texts tell me:

I'm trying to be patient, Getty. I'm trying to let you know I'm right here whenever you're ready to talk.

Or

I'll get to the bottom of this, Getty. I'll find this woman and prove to you, I didn't sleep with her.

And

Don't you see I want this to work? You're not getting rid of me yet, Socks.

All of them sit on my phone just as his presence is constantly in my periphery. And I don't know if it would even matter if he found this woman to prove otherwise. The trust between us has been broken. The seed of doubt planted.

The notion that I need to rely on myself and no one else reaffirmed.

But damn it to hell, the hurt persists. In his presence. In his absence. In the desperation in the tone of his texts. In the temerity with which he's there day in, day out, so that I can't run away and hide from him. Hiding seems the best option, because the feelings are still there. The want is still real. The desire is still ravenous.

And yet I've felt so much over the past few days that I've started to feel nothing. I'm afraid. I'm doubting everything about myself: my decisions, my choices, my own needs.

Liam eyes me across the bar when I walk in. Asks without words if he needs to suggest that Zander leave. And I can't respond. I simply do my job. I collect my tips. All under the curious gazes of the locals, whose eyes are like a visual Ping-Pong ball between Zander and me, while the tourists are oblivious to the town gossip unfolding beneath their noses.

Then I walk home. Him behind me. Enter the house. He stands on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, eyes beseeching, and waits for me to tell him to come in. But I shut the front door. I cry in the shower. I don't eat. I've lost my appetite. My stomach churns.

So I paint.

All night.

Because sleep is impossible. Without his warmth to cuddle against. Without the heat of his breath against my hair.

Without the comfort I've gotten used to of him just being there.

Of not being alone.

*   *   *

“I have to leave tonight, Getty. I was hoping you'd talk to me before I had to head out.” His voice behind me is like an invisible magnet pulling me toward him.

With my hand on the front door and a bone-deep exhaustion running through me after my shift, I hang my head and close my eyes. I will myself to have the strength to talk to him without breaking down and letting him see how much this is killing me. While still wanting him, still loving him, I just can't be with him right now.

Not until I chase away my own demons, which make me question myself too easily. And him. And any possibility we might ever have at a future.

“What race are you headed to?” I ask the question although I already know the answer. Boston. A road race. A two-and-a-quarter-mile loop.

“Boston,” he says quietly. “Qualifying first part of the week. Then the race on Sunday. But I'll be back.”

I don't say anything. I'm too busy fighting the emotion in my voice to speak.

“Turn around. Please, Getty. Let me see your face.”

My chest constricts. It's hard to pull in air. But I turn around and face him; his hand rests on the god-awful pink handrail and his eyes lock immediately on mine. They search, they beg, they question, and I just hope mine don't give away any answers.

“Don't cry.” He steps forward and wipes an errant tear I couldn't hold back from sliding down my cheek. “It's killing me that you won't listen to me, Getty. You won't let me apologize, let alone even talk to you.”

“There's nothing to talk about,” I whisper.

“Bullshit. You know that's a lie. We're good together, Getty.
Goddamn incredible.
I've had nothing but time the last few days to think about this. To think about us. I can see that what I want has been right in fucking front of me, but I was so fixated on not letting it turn into a disaster that I made one of it myself.”

His words are too much. They cause me to feel again. And I don't want to feel. I shake my head, try to refute
him, and he reaches out and grabs my hands from where I've brought them to the side of my head to shut him out.

“No. You need to hear me. I'm not going until you hear me.”

“Zander, I can't.” I look up at him with tearstained cheeks and a trembling lip and meet his eyes.

“Yes.
You can.
” He cups the side of my neck, directing my gaze to remain on his. His voice comes out thick with reassurance, resolve, determination. “Think about us. Think about the past few months. We've laughed till it hurts. Made love till it feels so good it burns. We fight. We make up. We know each other's pasts. We accept them.”

“But that doesn't fix—”

“You're right. But you're talking from fear. You're so fucking scared right now, Getty. You're so worried that
I'm him
, you're not looking and seeing me. The man you know. Well, guess what? I'm scared shitless too. I'm afraid of taking a step when I'm typically the king of
just jump
. I'm scared of hurting you. I'm petrified of loving you. But fuck, Getty, more than anything, I'm terrified of not taking the chance and knowing if any of that fear is worth it.”

His words are undeniably powerful. They strike chords I don't want to vibrate with the impact they have on me. The look in his eyes—complete conviction in what he's saying—makes it so hard to think otherwise. My heart and head are in conflict. My sense of right and wrong on a demolition derby to see who survives with the least amount of damage.

“Do you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?” He steps back and turns around, walking the length of the porch, hands behind his head, body energized with determination but tense because of my lack of response.

“Yes.” I finally speak. Petrified to say yes and terrified to say no. “I . . . I can't take any more hurt, Zander.”

He turns around at my words. Walks back toward me. Smile slight, but there's hope in his eyes. Relief that I actually responded in his posture. “Then it's a good thing I'm here for the long haul.” He pauses. Takes a breath. “I don't want an answer before I leave, Getty. All I want is
for you to think about it while I'm gone. One week. I'll leave you alone so you can think through everything I just said. Because I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your sadness. I miss it from your touch. We deserve this chance.
No regrets, Socks.
Let us have a shot. Will you at least tell me you'll think about it?”

“Yes.” I nod my head.

“Thank you.” His hands are back on my cheeks, his lips pressing a kiss teeming with desperation against my forehead. We stand like this for a moment. And his lips move against my skin when he speaks in a hushed whisper. “Even if you gave me a hundred reasons why we shouldn't be together, Getty, I'd still look for the one reason to fight like hell for you. Remember that.”

And with that comment he presses another chaste kiss to my forehead before turning and walking away without another word. I stand on the porch watching his car long after the lights have disappeared down the road, his last statement repeating over and over in my mind.

I'm breathing normally for the first time in what feels like days. And the funny thing is, I thought it was Zander's presence that was making it hard to draw in air.

Now I wonder if it was the fear of him not being there that was causing the burn in my lungs.