Page 37 of The Last Special Thing

Weston removed his hand and stared at her. “If you weren’t kissing him to make me jealous… then what were you doing?”

“We’re together. We’re dating. I just told you we were dating.”

His mouth parted, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re not serious.”

She was serious, but something in his tone also made her feel crazy. “I’m serious, Weston.”

He thought. “Do you want me to say I made a mistake breaking up with you?” He opened the car door. “Fine. It was probably a mistake.”

“I don’t want you to say that you ‘probably’ made a mistake.” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead.

“Okay, I made a mistake. Definitely. Can we go now? It’s almost midnight.” There was an unfamiliar plea in his voice, a softness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since the breakup. He granted her the emotion she had fought tooth and nail for, but it was too late. Why couldn’t he have recognized what he had when he had it? Why did one kiss with someone else tilt his whole vision of her?

She inhaled and tried to talk to him.

“I can’t be with you. I’m with Art.”

“What do you even know about this guy?”

“You’ve never even regretted the breakup until today. That killed me!”

“No one knows you better than me.”

They talked at each other without conversing, as they had throughout their relationship. After a few minutes of trading sentences, she shook her head and gave up talking altogether. She glanced down at the curb against the wheel of her car, feeling helpless.

He whispered, “I love you.”

Her eyes snapped to him, and her whole body turned to ice. “What did you say?”

He reached for her hands, and she didn’t pull away.

“I love you,” he repeated tentatively, earnestly.

Tears rolled down her cheeks against her will. It was what she had spent two years waiting for. And now? The first chance she had to move on?

“It’s too late.” The words were choked, barely above a whisper.

He let go of her hands and tilted his head toward the darkened sky.

All she had wanted was for him to love her, and he would never say it. He threw out the phrase as a life raft–only when he needed to use it. He couldn’t love her.

“Can I have my keys?” She opened her palm.

“I can drive,” he said gruffly.

“You’re high, and you’ve been drinking. I had half a beer two hours ago. I’m driving my own damn car.”

He hesitated, then took them out of his pocket.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she placed her hands on the steering wheel, thankful for the center console as a forced barrier between them.

After he buckled into the passenger seat, she pushed on the gas. His eyes darted between her and the road ahead of them. She had never seen him destabilized.

Speeding down the freeway, her thoughts spun incessantly.

Why does it take one man to make another realize what he has? Why can’t good things happen without something bad to even it out?

Off the exit, she followed the winding road, its scattered lighting rising into the hills. By the time she parked in the driveway, Weston was clenching his teeth.