Chapter Nineteen

One of the reasons Connor had rented his house was that it came fully furnished. He’d put up a few shelves, but he could leave those behind. Everything he needed—clothes, books, his kitchen knives—fit in his car. He was surprised he could pack up so quickly, but wasn’t that the benefit to not settling in?

After years messing around, it was time to stop kidding himself. He wasn’t a fine-dining chef. If he were, he wouldn’t have left that world behind as soon as he had the chance. And he certainly wouldn’t have stayed away for so long.

He could cave and work at Mackenzie’s, but what was the point? Mack didn’t want to be with him. His father would just as soon have him work with Matthew than attach his name to some bar. Things were clearer now than they’d been in a long time. He’d let himself be stuck in one place for too long.

He was zipping up a duffel bag when he heard knocking on the door. “Come in!” he called, thinking it was Austin or Sam. He’d left a message for them as soon as he got off the phone with Matthew. He knew he’d be back to visit, but he wanted to see them in person before hitting the road.

He opened the door, ready to smile and reassure his friends it was going to be fine. But the smile froze on his face before disappearing altogether.

“Come to get your dress?” he asked.

“What?” Mack looked confused, like she’d already forgotten about it. “No, of course not.” Her face was flushed, her eyes looked glassy and sore, and he realized she’d been crying.

She came into the house, which was a mess, but she hardly seemed to notice. “Connor, I’m so sorry. I never should have said that to Abbi, and she should never, ever have repeated it. It was stupid. Can we…” She took a breath. “Can we pretend it didn’t happen and go back to the way things were? I mean, the way things were starting to go?”

It was tempting. So tempting. He could run his hands through her hair, kiss the tears off her cheek, take her upstairs to make love to her all afternoon. Call Matthew back and say never mind, he wasn’t coming after all. His life was here. Or it would be, for as long as Mack was.

Maybe if it had been a real apology, a way forward instead of a way back, he would have. But he couldn’t. She wanted to pretend everything was fine, as though her hurtful words didn’t matter—as though he should simply roll over and take it like the dog she said he was. She wanted everything to go her way, but there was no rewind button.

“No, Mack,” he said. “We can’t pretend. We can’t go back like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mack said.

“This seems to be a trend. You say something fucked up, then take it back when you get called out.”

“Tell me what I have to do. Tell me how I can make it up to you.”

“I don’t think you can, Mack,” he said sadly. “I think this is our story. We’ve never been on the same page—about anything. There’s no reason things would be any different now.”

She opened her mouth to protest. But then her breath seemed to catch as for the first time since walking in, her eyes shifted away from him and took in the surroundings. She noticed the duffel bag by his feet, the boxes stacked in the hall.

“No,” she whispered. And then, louder: “No. Connor. Tell me this isn’t happening.”

“I’m moving to Oregon.” He turned to put another stack of books into a box. “I know you want to pretend nothing happened, but I can’t.”

She rushed over, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Connor, please don’t do this. At least wait until we can talk about it some more, until we can decide.”

There was something wild in her voice, desperate and so unlike Mack it almost scared him. He pulled away quickly. “I’m sorry, but I already called Matthew. It’s done.”

“So un-call him! Tell him you need more time.”

She followed him as he pushed past her to carry the duffel bag out to the car. He threw it in and slammed the door. “We’ve known each other for three years, Mack. Three years to decide if you want me or not. Don’t you think I know the answer by now?”

“That’s not fair. We haven’t had three years together—not like that. This thing just happened, and now you’re making huge decisions. Why does it have to be rushed? Why can’t you give me a chance?”

He stormed back inside, but he couldn’t get away from her eyes, her voice, the nakedness of her pain. He’d thought she’d say she didn’t care, he should do whatever he wanted—anything to hide the way she felt.

But this was different. This was raw and hurting and it was too much, too fast, too deep all at once. He didn’t know what to think, how to respond to this person who was so unlike the woman he thought he knew. The woman he’d become convinced he’d never be able to know.

He stopped blustering around, packing his things, and cocked his head at her. “Did you honestly tell Abbi I’m a dog?” he asked. “Do you really think that I’m—what was it? Incapable of love?”

“Connor.” Her voice was quiet. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It’s a simple question. Don’t worry about my feelings—you obviously didn’t before. Just tell me. Did you say those things last night?”

“You’re twisting my words,” she said, a familiar edge to her voice. “You’re taking things completely out of context.”

“Yes. Or no.” The edge to her voice had nothing on his. They were back on solid ground. This fight they knew how to do.

Finally, after a long pause, the word slipped out. “Yes.”

“And Cute Adam?” He said the words with a sneer.

“Is so not in the picture.”

“But his number’s in your phone.”

“Doesn’t mean I called him.”

“I know that I haven’t always shown you the best of who I am. But the other women I used to go out with? That was before anything happened between us, and I’ve never looked back. You’re holding my past against me when all I’ve done is try to show you that I’ve changed.”

“And I’m telling you I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“You said those things to Abbi after we’d talked about that first night we’d met, the reasons nothing happened way back then. Did what I told you not even matter?”

“I was joking, Connor,” she said. “Abbi and I were just…joking.”

But he could hear the way her voice deflated, and he knew it wasn’t true. Abbi hadn’t thought those words were a joke. She’d thought they were part of the same old bullshit, Connor the man-whore, Mack the one calling him out. Mack may have regretted the words, but there was no way some part of her hadn’t relished it—or at least wanted to relish it—at the time.

“You don’t get to say things that are stupid and cruel and then make them not count by pretending it was all a big joke. You said this last night, Mack. You made fun of me to Abbi, and then you drove straight to my house and you…”

“I didn’t mean it,” she said when the words stuck too deep inside him to get out.

“Which part didn’t you mean? When you said you hated me, or when you came over and made love to me?” He tried not to let his voice break, but he couldn’t hide it. Not fucking. Not having sex. What they’d done last night was different. They’d both felt it. Or he’d thought they had.

“I meant every word I said to you last night,” Mack said. “And every single thing I did.”

“How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to know you want to be at my place when you’re saying one thing to your friends and another to me? I can’t believe how easily you lied today, Mack. Making up stories, an answer for everything. You should be an actress. I just wish I knew when you were acting—whether it’s with your friends, or with me. Or maybe it’s both. How would I know?”

“You wanted me to tell everyone I was here? You want them to know what we’ve been doing?”

“I want it to not horrify you that this could be real.”

She was silent for a while. A silence that spoke volumes, telling him exactly what he’d known but been too blind to see. “That’s not what I’m saying,” she tried.

“Then what are you saying? Give me something that might make me think staying wouldn’t be the stupidest idea of my life.”

She folded her arms. “I’m not going to beg you for this.” Despite the way she’d come in here, her voice was cold. How could he chip past that? Was it even worth trying?

“It’s not supposed to feel like begging to tell someone you want to be with them.”

The silence was interminable.

“I want to be with you,” she finally said, but her voice was tentative, small.

A laugh escaped him. “Now that I’ve coerced it out of you.”

“You can’t tell me what you want me to say and then get mad when I say it.”

“And you can’t see admitting to vulnerability as anything other than giving me what I want. How are we supposed to build something when you won’t be open with me?”

“How are we supposed to build something when you’re running away?”

He put another stack of books into a box. “I’m not running, Mack. I’m making the best decision I can with the options I’ve been given.”

“You promised you weren’t leaving. When your dad called this morning, you told me about the money, the pressure you’re under, but you promised you were going to stay.”

He straightened and looked at her. Her body was tense, but he knew her well enough to see the panic in her eyes. She looked desperate, terrified, but he couldn’t say whether that had to do with him, or simply with the realization that her plans—whatever they’d been—were going awry.

“So stop fixating on the whole Mackenzie’s thing and let me have my restaurant.”

“Don’t fucking manipulate me, Connor. I’m not going to cave just so you’ll go out with me.”

“See?” he said. “I know where your priorities lie. You want me to stay, but you won’t make a single compromise to make it happen.”

“I’m supposed to be worth staying for,” she said. “And you’re supposed to never renege on a promise.” A tear tracked silently down her cheek.

He sighed. She had him there. “Plans change,” he said. And he didn’t say it meanly, but he could see something inside her flash hot and fast. She wiped the tear furiously away.

“Bullshit,” she hissed. “This is your choice, not something that’s happening to you. But I should have known better than to believe you’d stick around. Ever since you arrived I’ve been waiting for you to leave. Stupid me for starting to think I was wrong.”

“Plans change, people change—of course they do,” Connor shot back. “But it’s like with the restaurant—you want to bottle everything up and stop it from moving, do the same thing we’ve always done. But life doesn’t work that way. I don’t know if you want to keep me here because you love me or keep me here because you’ve gotten used to having the same punching bag around.”

He paced around the boxes, his arms up, the words coming fast. “Or maybe you don’t want me here. Maybe you’d rather have everything be the way it was before I arrived so nobody pushes you, nobody makes you get out of your rut.” He turned and glared at her from across the couch. “You want everything to stay the same, but keeping up with what that means is exhausting. And I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be the person you turn to and then push away. I’d say I need to know where I stand but you’ve already given me the answer. It’s time for me to accept it and move on.”

“You think I want to stay in one place?” she sputtered. “You think I’m stuck, and you’re the hero for packing up without a second thought? Connor, you don’t know a goddamn thing about me, and fucking me a few times doesn’t change that.”

She took a step toward him, and he swore she seemed to grow right in front of his eyes.

“I grew up in foster care, you asshole. My mom died of an overdose, and I bumped around through seven houses from age six to eighteen. It sucked, but that’s not the point. The point is that you should trust me when I say I know a thing or two about moving on. And changing plans. And being let down when people tell you one thing and then act a whole other way.”

It was as though someone had come in and sucked up the air in the room. Connor’s chest was moving, everything seemed like it was working, and yet he couldn’t catch his breath. Something was leaking from inside his chest. He wanted to take it all back, every insensitive, presumptuous comment he might have made over the last three years. Every time he might have assumed, or dismissed, or been anything less than the kind of person he wanted to be.

But a voice hollered inside him, pounding on his ribs, reminding him that it wasn’t his fault—that she’d been through this, or that she was hurting. That she’d spent so long protecting her heart, she’d wound up sealing it closed.

“When I made these plans with Matthew,” he said carefully, “it wasn’t to be another person who leaves you.”

She choked on a bitter laugh. “Sure it was. You promised me you weren’t going anywhere. You didn’t even want to move. And then Abbi came and—” She waved her hand as though that covered it, as though what had happened was Abbi’s fault and not her own. “And now look at you. Can’t skip town fast enough, promises be damned.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want to be in this. You lied to our friends, made me look like a fool, and now you’re turning me into the one who’s making this unravel. I thought things had changed when you spent the night here. I thought I loved you, but I don’t know, Mack.” His hands hung helplessly by his sides, making fists to grasp at nothing. “I don’t know if I can let myself go there. I’m sorry. I really am. But you’re being honest with me, and I’m trying to be honest, too.”

“It’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it.” She shrugged like he’d told her he couldn’t pick up an extra shipment of tomatoes and could they make do without. “I guarantee whatever you’re thinking, I’ve heard it before. People say they love you. They say they’ll take care of you. But they don’t. They send you back. They get sick of you or they already have their own kids.”

She looked around the room, her eyes going soft and unfocused, taking her somewhere else.

“Or you’re too old, you’re not cute anymore, you’ve got too many problems because you don’t immediately hug them and call them Mom and Dad and gush about how grateful you are on your first terrifying night in a new house.”

She shook her head, a wry expression on her face as she gazed across at nothing.

“Or they say they’ll take care of you and then they sneak into your room at night and it doesn’t matter if you bar the door or stay up all night or run as far as you can with whatever bus fare you can scrounge. They’ll find a way.”

Her eyes slid back at him, as though remembering he was there. Or as though she’d never forgotten, and it was he who needed the reminder that this was real, this was happening right now. She swallowed hard, and Connor might have expected her to be crying—thick, choking sobs that would break down his defenses and leave him no other option but to put his arms around her.

But she wasn’t crying. Her eyes blazed with fury, and her jaw was set.

“And in the end, you’re still left. Because people always leave. That’s what they do.” She swallowed. “I should have known you’d be exactly the same.”

“Mack,” he started.

She shook her head at his helplessness. “Don’t bother. Go to Oregon, have a nice life. You think you’re the brave one for leaving? The one who’s got the balls to have an adventure?” She walked to the door, but before she left, she turned. “Fuck you, Connor. Having guts means being able to stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when it sucks. The people you want on your side are the ones you can trust not to bail when things don’t go their way.”

“Well, at least you can waste everyone’s money on Mackenzie’s now,” he said, because he couldn’t come up with anything else. But it was a low blow, and he couldn’t blame her for her last look of disgust before she walked away.