“Your dream was to get out of your house. Go to Stanford.”
“Yeah, but it was also to be your wife.”
If I'd stabbed Kit in the chest with a knife, the look on his face wouldn't have been as bad as this. He looked in agony.
“You married someone else.” His voice was quiet.
Yeah, Robert. God, he was a mistake. “You weren't exactly an available option.”
I turned to roll off the bed, toss on my clothes, but he grabbed me about the waist, spun me back. His touch was gentle, but I wasn't going anywhere.
“Say it.” His eyes were darker. There was anger there, but not at me. “Say it, Crys. You’ve waited years to scream at me. Go ahead.”
“You slept with Lindsay Mack. You made your choice.”
He ran a hand over his face, sighed. “Do you remember what my parents said they'd do if I took up music?”
His parents were rich and stuck-up, more interested in appearances than people. At least they had been back then.
“They threatened to disown you.”
He smiled at that one. “One thing about them is they don't lie. They followed through, Crystal. I knew they were going to do it, too. Labor Day weekend, when everyone else had moved into a college dorm, I moved out. No money. No place to live.”
God, that must have been so hard. My parents didn't care about me at all, but I'd had the shelter a full ride scholarship, four years at Stanford. A dorm room, a dining hall, all of it. He'd had none of that.
I deliberately took my time looking around the room, at this ridiculously expensive hotel room famous for hosting movie stars and Presidents. “It looks like you made something of yourself, gave your parents the middle finger.”
He offered up a weak laugh. “Yeah, I did do that. I had nothing, kitten. I was nothing. And you? You were going places. Your dreams were all going to come true. I couldn’t fuck that up.”
I didn't like the way this conversation was turning. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. “You were part of my dreams,” I countered.
He shook his head against the pillow. “No. I would have killed those dreams. Every single one. You had to go to Stanford. Show everyone how smart, how fucking perfect you are. And you have.”
I jumped out of bed then, pacing the room, not caring I was naked. I looked down at the suite's fancy carpet, at the way my bare feet sunk into the soft strands. Back and forth, processing what he'd just said. I stopped. I swear my heart stopped. Slowly, I turned to face him. “You didn't sleep with Lindsay Mack.”
The words were no more than a whisper, but he heard me. He didn't deny it. Didn't say I was wrong.
“Oh my god, Kit. Why?”
I started to cry then, remembering the moment he'd pushed me away. He'd ripped my heart out. He hadn't looked like a guy who'd been indifferent. He'd tried to look like an asshole, and he'd been really good at it. In my darkest hours, I’d thought I’d seen a hint of pain in his eyes, of torment, but only for a second. I’d scolded myself for imagining him in pain as he'd looked as crushed as me. But that look hadn’t been my imagination. I saw it again now.
He was quiet for a minute. Ten years the truth had been hidden. Ten years he'd remained silent, let me think the worst of him when in fact he'd done it for me.
“Because you had to go. You were talking about turning Stanford down, staying with me. I couldn't let you do it.”
I could barely see him through the tears.
“But—”
“Come here.” His voice was soft, but I heard the steely undertones.
I moved to the bed, put my knee on it. He pulled the covers back, settled beneath them and tugged me into him. The covers went up and over me so we were face-to-face, so close I could see the dark flecks in his eyes.
“You wouldn't have left me without a good reason. I had to break your heart, and I’m sorry. But you would’ve stayed and I couldn't let you do that.”
“It wasn't for you to decide,” I countered, wiping my eyes with my fingers.
“Yes, it was. You were mine. To love. To protect, from those assholes at school, and in the end, from yourself. I couldn’t let you give up your future for me.”
I shook my head, the tears falling again. God, what he'd done. My heart had been destroyed but I understood. And he was right. I was eighteen and stupid. I was going to walk away from a full ride scholarship at Stanford and chase him to New York? And do what? Wait tables and try to pay for community college on my own while he played gigs?
He’d been strong, and a hell of a lot smarter than I was, at least about us. He’d loved me enough to let me go, and I could only imagine what he'd felt pushing me away.
“And now?” I asked.