Chapter Forty-Six

Briggs

I’m lounging on the obnoxious teal couch in the corner of my dressing room, staring at my broken knuckles, when a knock sounds on the door.

I toss the sample questions that I’ve been blankly staring at for the last half hour down on the coffee table, forcing my tired limbs to move and answer it. I haven’t slept a second since leaving her last night, and I’m no longer capable of lying to myself that I’ve moved on. The problem with that is I feel the same type of denial inside of her.

We’ve been ripped away from each other at every turn, never having a chance to catch our breaths before time is taken away by life’s obligations and our decisions. The truth is I’m still fighting it, and fighting is the opposite of forgetting. She can’t be my past when she’s all I long for in the present. I’m nowhere near ready to say goodbye. The pendulum is swinging—the noise crippling me as it slices through time, like she and I don’t matter. Whenever I reach in to stop it, I lose another piece of myself, and the seconds tick on.

When I swing the door open to see Scottie standing there, her face wrecked from endless tears, I know here and now—time is up.

So many times, I dreamed of her showing up just like this, telling me that she finally realizes she needs me just as desperately as I need her. For a split second, I allow myself to believe it’s the reason she’s here until her eyes connect with mine, and my heart plummets back into the dark hole it’s resided in for five long months. Slipping on my shirt, she steps inside, while I shut the door behind her, examining the damage.

Her face is red and swollen, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. She’s been crying. I reach out, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

God, I love her wild hair.

I allow my thumb to trail the side of her face, and she sucks in a breath, leaning into my hand.

My heart goes wild, leaping and flipping in my chest. It’s not right, but I already know all too well that there is no controlling my masochistic heart when it comes to Katy Scott. It wants this woman, and I’ve done everything I can think of to change that fact.

I close the space that separates us, opening my arms wide. She falls into them willingly, soaking my shirt with tears she cries for another man. Loving Scottie is equally the easiest and the most difficult experience of my life. We are perfect for each other. We belong together, but it isn’t that simple—because every moment, every touch, every memory is stolen from the man she’s already promised herself to.

“What happened?”

“We happened.” Her body stiffens.

Scottie backs away, fiddling with the frayed hem of her worn T-shirt. She lifts her eyes, locking with mine. “I can’t lose him, and I won’t lose my son.”

And there it is—the one thing standing in our way. It’s something I can’t compete with, and I don’t want to. We are perfect, and we are impossible. I can’t ask her to leave them, and I won’t. If it had been just Gavin, maybe. No, definitely. I’d drop to my hands and knees, and I’d beg. But, Noah needs his mother, so I simply nod my head in understanding. But I don’t—I don’t understand at all. Love is supposed to be enough. It’s not supposed to rip you to fucking shreds.

A loud knock sounds on the metal door, causing her eyes to widen in a panic, interrupting our conversation. I’m in no condition to speak to anyone at the moment, but I have to get rid of them. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I hold up a finger.

Each step I take away from her is painful. It always is. Opening the door just a crack, I poke my head out, finding a slew of people anxious to help dress me for the show. It suddenly seems so ridiculous. “Hey, ladies. I’m in the middle of something. I’m just gonna pick something from these racks and get ready myself. I’m fully capable,” I wink, trying to disarm them with charm.

They all start talking over each other, trying to put up an argument. “I really can’t do this right now,” I insist as I begin retreating back to Scottie. “Thank you all so much. Sorry.” I shut the door and bolt it, taking a few deep breaths before striding back across the room toward her. She stands with her shoulders thrown back, her features lined with determination, as stormy eyes search mine.

“I know that look; I saw it the day we met.” I give her a smile she doesn’t return. She’s in protective mode, and I’m not the one she’s protecting.

“I need you to break my heart,” she declares, wringing her hands nervously. “Give me a reason to hate you, because wanting you this way is…it’s ruining me. It’s ruining my life.”

She is dead serious.

Lifting her chin, as if ready to take a blow, her turbulent eyes implore mine. “Tell me about them. Tell me about all of the women you’ve been with since Germany.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Hell no.”

“Oh, please, Briggs. How long did you wait? A few days?” She laughs sarcastically. “I bet you didn’t even make it a day.”

She’s coming out guns blazing, and I can see it’s physically killing her to do it.

“Are we playing the guessing game? Do I get to ask how many times you’ve fucked your husband?”

“Sure,” she says with a shrug. “We’ll trade. You go first.”

She’s bluffing, and I’m calling her on it.

“Don’t do this, Scottie. You don’t really want to hear about that.”

“Humor me, Briggs.” Her eyes plead with mine. “I need to hear this.”

“Fine. You want the truth?”

She nods.

“Complete honesty?”

Again, she bobs her head.

She stands stock-still as I pace the small room, feeling the blood begin to boil beneath my overheated skin.

Fuck it.

I stalk back toward her, stopping inches away. “You really want to know that there have been so many that I’ve lost count? How they’re all blondes with blue eyes? But the blue, it’s never right, and their smiles—all wrong.”

She swats at the fresh tears that trail down her cheeks as her lips begin to tremble. Reaching out, she places a hand on my chest, and I know that she must feel the way my heart is pounding against my rib cage, reaching for her. Always reaching for her.

I jerk myself away and brand that touch to memory.

In about forty-five seconds, my heart is going to implode. I start ticking them down.

“You want me to tell you all about how I have to drink myself stupid, till their faces blur enough that I can pretend…” I pause, running a hand down my face. “So that I can pretend they’re you? You want to know how fucking miserable I am? How when I slide between their legs, I close my eyes, and it’s your face I see? How I’m always careful not to kiss them because their lips are all wrong. How every time I finish I want to fucking kill myself because I can’t stand the pain of wanting the one woman I can never have.”

Thirty seconds.

“Is that enough?” Her eyes snap to mine. “Hate me yet?”

Face crumbling, she gasps out a sob, wrapping her arms around her shoulders.

“Come on, Scottie. Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m still the same prick you hated when we met. Nothing’s changed. I think we’ve romanticized this situation long enough, don’t you?”

Taking another step away from her, I tilt my head. “You’re a housewife,” I say snidely. “Someone else’s wife and I’m a career soldier. This isn’t exactly ideal.”

She flinches visibly, and my heart bottoms out.

Fifteen.

I cut my hand through the air. “At the end of the day, this was nothing but a big mistake. And we never would have happened if—”

“Stop,” she cries out painfully. “Stop, I’m good,” she whispers before rocketing toward the door just as I reach for her, my fingers curling in the space she just left. Handle in hand, she looks back at me with the sweep of her eyes until they meet mine. That’s how we started, and it’s only fitting it’s how we should end. For the moment, we’re right back there in the place we created, where we are perfect. Where our souls line up without any visible smudges on the seams. In a place where there is still so much love, so much that I can’t stop the tear that slides out before batting it away with the back of my hand.

An identical tear runs down her cheek. “Thank you.”

Three. Two. One.