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Mostly. The only two days I want to hold on to are the first day he kissed me and the day when we drove away years later. Every other day I spent here can rot in hell.
“It took me years to get over this place,” I tell him, feeling the raw admission scratch up my throat with every word. Like I had to drag them out of me.
A second passes as the car slows to a stop under a red light.
“I know,” Bastian says and this time when he lays his hand down for me to take, his eyes stare at me. His eyes pierce into me, begging me to feel what he feels. “I have to do this, Chlo.”
I can’t resist pulling down the seatbelt to lean over the center console so I can kiss his cheek. His rough stubble is short and it nearly scratches my lips as he tries to capture my own with his. But I avoid the kiss, settling on giving him a peck on the cheek.
Sebastian leans closer to me, ready to take one regardless, I know it.
With the groan of the leather seat protesting the movement of his broad shoulders, I prepare to give him a cheek and nothing more. I just can’t kiss him; I can’t give him that bit of me, not when he’s hurting me the way he is.
He won’t tell me why he has to be here. Why now? Why are we back?
Without a straight answer, things can’t go back to being right between us. I won’t allow it. He needs to know that. And all I know is that it has something to do with Carter Cross.
The red light turns to green as he sits up, and with it the car behind us beeps. Bastian’s focus doesn’t budge, not until I grip his hand. I thread my fingers between his and pull his hand to my lips, kissing the back of his hand as the car behind us beeps again.
Sebastian’s frustration shows with his sharp, narrowed gaze aimed in the rearview mirror at the person behind us.
Always with a temper. What did I expect marrying the man everyone used to fear? He earned his reputation, and some bad habits die hard. The very thought makes me close my eyes with contempt. How could I think they’d died at all?
“Let’s just go.” I push out the rushed words as Bastian sits there, staring in his rearview and ready to pick a fight. “I want to lie down,” I say, giving him the excuse and he buys it. His expression softens, but only slightly.
He doesn’t ask and I don’t tell.
I ask and he doesn’t tell the whole truth.
We can’t live like this, but we can suffer in silence until it kills us.
Well, mostly silence. The quiet hum of the engine keeps us company for a moment until he speaks.
“You can’t hold back from me forever.”
His words are heard, but not answered. Not for another two blocks.
“And you can’t keep lying to me and keeping secrets,” I finally counter, although my voice isn’t as strong. It never comes out as strong as his, but it doesn’t need to. My words are just as right as his are, and we both know it.
He’s reticent again until we drive out of Crescent Hills, away from where our past lies restlessly. I don’t understand why we didn’t stop or where we’re going.
He said we were going home. And Crescent Hills is the only home I’ve ever known, but we’ve driven out of it.
It’s not until we pull into a long gravel driveway, nearly fifteen minutes away from the world I once knew, that I give him a questioning gaze laced with worry.
“I thought here would be better,” he tells me and with his words, massive iron gates part, creating a large opening for us to enter.
They’re beautiful and behind the gates is a grand estate, but it’s far too much and there’s no way in hell I want to live like that. In a massive house with more rooms than I would ever fill.
“We could never afford something like this.” Anxiety consumes me, wondering what the hell he did, who he stole from, or if he sold his soul to the devil until he speaks.
“Not this one,” he tells me when he catches my gaze. “That one’s not ours.” The relief is only slight.
“None of these are ours,” I remind him. “Our apartment is on the other side of the country. I said I’d come for a week, but none of these are ours unless we decide together.” I stress the last word, together, waiting for him to look me in the eyes. I can hear the gravel lift up under the tires just as easily as I can hear the pounding of my chest. Even if it still feels like a faint tick. That damn tick is loud.
“I know,” he finally agrees with me, rounding the large white stone home and driving past it, down into a tree line for a slow minute and then another. The trees are a mix of burnt auburn and evergreen. And the evening light casts shadows and sprays of light on the gravel road and barren dirt path.
We have to drive deep into the winter forest before I see a much smaller house. I almost want to call it a cottage, but it’s too contemporary. I have to lean forward in my seat to get a better look as he parks the car, although he keeps it running.
