Page 76 of Licks

He dropped his head, and I stared over him, seeing nothing yet everything. Everything I missed out on because of what he’d done: meeting my father, learning about the man, discovering my history, my genealogy.

I also really heard August, clearer this time. Louder, his words pounding in my head. He hadn’t told me because he’d been messed up. Because I’d hurt him nine years ago and hadn’t apologized, and we’d spent that time nursing our wounds. He hadn’t told me because I’d broken his heart.

I did this. Me. Not him.

I ruined my chance to meet my father.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen. I wish I could change the past. Make different choices.”

A sharp laugh rattled my seizing lungs. I was the reigning queen of shitty choices. I’d pushed August away before college, had destroyed him after by sleeping with his brother. I was responsible for this twisting in my gut now, a fierce knot of failure.

I deserved the pain. Every agonizing twinge.

What I didn’t deserve was August. Booking that plane ticket had been a mistake, a futile attempt to cling to what could have been. That’s all we’d been doing, really, pretending we could forget. I’d never forget now. Not when my actions led to this.

Slowly, I stood, aware of passing crowds, but feeling separate. Alone. “I’d like you to give me my father’s address and go.” My voice sounded flat, detached.

Panic widened his eyes. “What? No. I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t have a choice. I need to go there, and I’m going alone.”

“No way. You said you wanted me there and I want to be there for you.”

I wanted him with me as much as I wanted to rewrite our past. An impossibility. I couldn’t even look at August. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to look at myself again.

Fortifying my strength, I blinked away snapshots of the past two days: August strumming my guitar, the sexy curve of his lips, his laugh, his voice, how his body had possessed mine. I blinked away imagined images of us in Germany, our rose-colored future. I poured gasoline on it all and watched it burn, like in his hate song. “Please give me his address and go,” I repeated.

He gripped the sides of my head, forced my focus on him. “I know you’re angry with me. I deserve it. But this is bigger than us. Please let me come.”

“There’s no us, August.”

He flinched. “Excuse me?”

“This thing we’ve been doing…” I motioned aggressively between us, but he wouldn’t release his hold on me. “We’ve been playing make-believe, pretending we can forgive and forget. It’s not realistic. Too much has happened.” Tears slipped down my cheeks, countless emotions pushing them free. I wanted to hate him for his actions, but I was the only person who deserved blame. I also loved him. Irrevocably. Crushingly. Embroiled in this tangle was the loss of a father I’d never met, and a stewing self-hatred flooding my veins. My choices. My actions. My fuck-ups.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Gwen. I’ve forgiven you. I’m done with grudges and self-pity. I want to move on. I have moved on. And I’m not letting you go.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

The dark slash of his eyebrows softened, his hands gentling on my face. “I love you, Possum. I love you and I’ve forgiven you. So, yeah, I think we have lots of choices.”

No, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. I tried to shake my head, but his hands tightened. I squeezed my eyes shut. “You can’t love me.”

“I can and I do. I’ve loved you since you ran through my sprinklers and stuck your tongue out at me. I loved you every time you scared me when pretending to sleep, when you shoved grass down my shirt, and fought me for my comic books. The past nine years, even. I loved you when I hated you, Gwen. So I need you to tell me what you need, how I can earn your forgiveness.”

What he could do? After all the ways I’d failed him, he was pleading with me, wanting to shoulder my burden. As though I wasn’t the root of this disease. I gripped his wrists and removed his possessive hold of my cheeks. “You’re forgiven.”

He exhaled roughly. “Yeah?”

God, his hope was palpable, a warmth I’d kill to sink into. Live in. Never leave. But he had never really been mine to keep. “You’re forgiven,” I repeated, stepping back, creating space. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I don’t forgive myself for what I did to you and for never apologizing. I don’t forgive myself for hurting you so badly you couldn’t reach out when you got my mother’s letter. Not meeting my father is my doing, not yours.”

“No.” He shook his head, moved toward me.

I held up my hand. “Just give me the letter. Dragging this out will only hurt more.”

“Dragging what out?”

“This charade. We’re over. It’s over. We both need to move on.”