Page 27 of Promise

“Why gift me the house then?” I counter. The mortgage was marked paid. The deed titled in my name.

He falls back in his chair and lowers his gaze, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the tabletop.

“In case I died on the track. I wanted you to be taken care of. I wanted you to be secure with the house.”

My heart plummets to my stomach. He thought he’d die? I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to love me. I had wanted him to love me.

When he finally glances back at me, a deep-seated fear dulls the flame in his sharp eyes. He hadn’t been afraid of death. His fear was something else.

Dart was afraid of homelessness.

His mother had him too young. His father was never present. Eventually, his mother disappeared, lost to drugs. She’d left Dart with his grandparents, whom I’d never met. He was especially close to his grandmother, who died when he was in middle school, leaving him with an ornery, abusive grandfather who passed away when Dart was seventeen.

He told Dart he would never amount to anything.

Dart had been too young to live on his own. Too old for foster care. Instead, he became transient, moving from friend’s house to friend’s house, until finally staying at my house his and Tate’s senior year. For some reason, my dad took to Dart and told him to stop couch surfing. With Cortland away at college, Dart was set up in Tate’s room.

Clint had his own space.

I was only thirteen at the time.

Dart was strikingly handsome as a teenager, but annoying, like my older brothers, and I ignored him. His teasing. His winks. His sharp smile made my newly-teenage belly flutter.

When he was eighteen, he moved out.

You’ll always have a home with us, I’d heard my mom tell Dart before he left.

He wanted to make something of himself. Be someone, he’d told my dad.

He didn’t go off to college like his friends but started work in construction.

Years later, after we were married, Dart told me how a house of his own was something he craved. When we bought this place, he actually cried. Not a full-on sob but a few tears to mark his accomplishment.

And he did become someone. To me. He was my best friend, my lover, my husband.

His fear of homelessness now included me. He didn’t want me without a home, even if the place was missing him.

I stare at his face. His eyes are sad, but the laugh lines are still present. We shared so much joy when we purchased this place, had so many hopes and plans. He worked so hard to give me everything I wanted. Not just finished hardwood floors and a new kitchen layout, but a space that was ours. A roof over our heads and a fire in the hearth to keep us warm in the winter. We’d been house poor with simple dinners, but we had one another to nourish our hearts. Our souls.

My brows pinch with the memory, the depth of our connection and desires.

It’s all such a confusing battle. The beauty of the past mingled with the hurt of the present.

“Tell me you don’t love me anymore.” He interrupts my thoughts. “And I’ll walk back out that door. You’ll never need to see me again if you can look me in the eyes and mean it.”

I lower my lids, glaring at him across the table. The ringing in my ears distracts me. My pulse rushing, memories like chaos firing in all directions inside my head.

“I hate you.” My voice is quiet, rough like loose gravel in my throat, because the truth is rocky. I am caught in the crossfire between anger and love. What hurts the most is the disappointment.

Promises unkept.

I sigh, turning my head away from his assessing gaze. The fear that he might read in my eyes the truth. A truth even I’m not able to put into words.

“That’s what I thought.” The corner of his mouth tips upward. He’s not gloating, but he is a bit smug. He heard the lack of heat in my declaration, the absence of conviction.

I could still love him. Maybe, possibly, but right now, I don’t like him.

His expression sobers a bit. He swallows thickly. “I’m sorry, Trin. I know the words are not enough, but I’m just sorry.”