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“No. I didn't.” His eyes shone, though he didn't look away this time. “I didn't know whether you were happy, whether you'd met someone, or whether you'd spent years hating me. I didn't know because I hadn't bothered to find out. I told myself I was sparing you the trouble of hearing from me, but the truth was that I was sparing myself the possibility of hearing that you never wanted to speak to me again.”

The room seemed quieter than it had a few minutes earlier. Outside, a car passed on the road, its tires whispering over the pavement. I fixed my attention on the familiar furniture around us, the photographs on the shelves, and the small marks on the coffee table that had been there for years. I needed those ordinary details to keep me from being swept back into memories I'd spent a long time trying not to examine.

“Your parents visited you,” I said.

“They did, whenever they could. They were proud of me, and I was glad to see them. But they knew I hadn't contacted you, and I think they were disappointed in me. They didn't keep asking because they knew I wouldn't listen.” He let out a slow breath. “They retired to Florida eventually. I kept moving through my career, and I kept telling myself that one day I'd have to face what I'd done.”

“Then you came back here.”

“Yes.”

“And ran for sheriff.”

“Yes.”

“Did you think you'd find me waiting?”

“No.” He answered quickly, then paused, his fingers tightening around each other. “Not waiting, exactly. I knew I had no right to expect that. I knew you'd had years to build a life without me, and I couldn't ask you to put that aside just because I'd finally found the courage to come home.”

“Then why come back?”

He looked toward the window, where the dark glass reflected the room behind us. For a moment, I thought he might give me the practical reasons: his career, his family, the familiarity of the town. All of those things were true, but I had a feeling they weren't the whole answer.

“Hartwell Cove was home,” he said. “I'd spent years moving from place to place, building a career and telling myself that was enough. But wherever I went, I was still the man who'd walked away from you without giving you a chance to say goodbye. I couldn't keep running from that forever.”

He turned back to me, his expression tense.

“But there was another reason. One I wasn't sure I had any right to admit, even to myself.” He swallowed. “I hoped that maybe, after all this time, you might be able to forgive me. Not forget what I did, and not pretend it hadn't hurt you, but forgive me enough that we might have a chance to get to know each other again.”

My heart gave a small, painful lurch, and I gripped the chair arms.

“I know we can't just pick up where we'd left off,” he continued. “We aren't those kids anymore. We've lived separate lives, and we've both changed. But I wonder whether we might find something between us again. Something new. Maybe we could build a life together this time, one where we talked to each other and made decisions together instead of me deciding what was best for you.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn't come back expecting you to say yes. I know you might never forgive me, and I know I might have to live with that. But I couldn't spend the rest of my life wondering whether there might have been a chance if I'd finally come home and faced you.”

I stared at him, trying to make sense of the hope he'd carried into town with him. Part of me wanted to be angry that he'd brought that hope with him at all, as though the years he'd left me to wonder and hurt had somehow left a door open for him. Another part, the part I was trying very hard not to listen to, was painfully aware that the thought of building something new with Josiah wasn't as impossible as I wanted it to be.

“Did you ever try to love anyone else?” I asked.

Josiah was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his clasped hands. “Once I got to Baltimore, I started to realize I'd probably left things too late with you. Even if I'd found the courage to call, I couldn't expect you to have been waiting for me. I knew that. I just couldn't seem to accept it.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking uncomfortable. “I tried to move on. I accepted a few invitations when people asked me out, thinking I ought to give myself a chance to meet someone and build a life that didn't revolve around what I'd thrown away. But I never got very far. Sometimes I'd cancel beforehand, making up some excuse because I couldn't bear the thought of going. Other times, I'd show up, try to get through the evening, and eventually have to apologize and leave. It wasn't fair to the other person, and I knew it. They hadn't done anything wrong. I just couldn't pretend I was interested in someone when all I could think about was you.”

My chest tightened, and I looked down at my hands. I hadn't wanted to ask that question, and I wasn't sure why I'd done it. Perhaps I'd needed to know whether I'd been the only one carrying the past around. Perhaps some foolish part of me wanted to hear that what we'd had was real enough to leave a mark on him, too.

“I eventually stopped accepting invitations,” he continued. “It seemed kinder than putting someone else through that. I told myself I could live with being alone. I had my work, and I had a career I cared about. I didn't need to make someone else unhappy because I couldn't let go of a man I'd walked away from.”

The answer didn't undo anything. It didn't give me back the years when I'd wondered whether I had ever mattered to him as much as he'd mattered to me. But it was an answer, and for the moment, I let it stand.

“I don't hate you,” I said.

His expression changed, but he didn't interrupt.

“I wish I did. It would be simpler if I could look at you and remember only what you did to me. Then I could tell you to leave and know that I meant it.” I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “But I remember us, too. I remember the boy I fell in love with, and the years we spent together. I can't pretend those years meant nothing just because you hurt me.”

“I never wanted you to think they meant nothing.”