Page 18 of What I Should've Said

What I should say right now, I can’t say. His lawyers made sure the truth was covered with a private settlement and an ironclad NDA, and I won’t give him the ammunition to use his own despicable actions to his advantage.

“Thomas, I…I have nothing to say to you. I can’t do this right now.”

“Are you kidding me?” He slams two fists down on the counter so hard that it makes me jump back a step. “You walked out on our wedding day, and then you just disappeared! And you don’t have anything to say? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You embarrassed yourself, me, your mother, my family! You ruined everything! Do you even know what it was like for me when you left like that? Everyone was there! Everyone witnessed me looking like a fucking schmuck!”

How does it always seem to go back to him and what he feels and what he’s going through?

I should tell him that this isn’t about me or what I’ve done; it’s about what he did. What he kept from me. What he lied about. The fact that he’s not the man I thought he was. But I refuse to bring this trouble to someone else’s door. Someone who pushed past their fear and told me the truth. Someone everyone else in the world has failed to protect.

“Fine, you don’t want to talk here? Then, we’ll go to my rental car.” Thomas strides around the counter until he’s all up in my personal space. “Let’s go,” he says in a stern tone of voice. “Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You—”

“Yes, you fucking are!” he shouts and grabs my forearm so hard I nearly slip on the spilled coffee in Lillian’s black Chanel flats.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” I implore as evenly as I can manage, hoping he’ll fall back on decorum and stop scaring me so much. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t lost my mind,” he retorts, and his fingers dig deeper into my skin. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re ruining your life. Can’t you see that? Do you even understand what your life is going to be like without me? I’m here because I care about you, Norah. I want what’s best for you. And this, right here, working in a fucking coffee shop, isn’t it. You need me.”

Memories crash into my head like a car accident. My mother. Thomas proposing. The wedding. The envelope. The fact that him saying I need him isn’t the first time he’s said that to me.

I hope the truth will set you free.

I should tell him I don’t need him. I should tell him that I’ve never needed him, but something stops me from saying it.

My chest feels like someone cracked open my heart with a crowbar.

“Norah, baby, you know you need me,” he whispers and moves his face closer to mine. “And it’s okay. I can forgive you for all the embarrassment you’ve caused. I can move past that, but you need to talk to me. Tell me what is going on.”

His words make my stomach churn. And I can’t even bring myself to look him in the eye.

I just want to get away.

“Stop, Thomas.” I yank my arm away from his hold. “Just stop. You need to go. I want you to go.”

“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens as he steps closer and grabs my forearm in his hand again, but this time, his grip is tighter, and his usually light hazel eyes look as dark as a bad thunderstorm cloud on a hot summer day. “I’m not fucking leaving here without you, Norah.”

I’ve never seen him like this. It freezes my vocal cords. Freezes my ability to do anything but stand there. I am ice and he is fire, and any minute, I am going to melt under his scorching glare.

Normally, Thomas Conrad Michael King III is perfectly groomed in every way and the skin on his face is baby-smooth and he always has his most charming smile intact.

But this version of Thomas is something I’ve never seen before.

His white collared shirt is wrinkled. His hair is a mess. And he’s angry, so angry, in a way that I didn’t even know was possible for a guy like him. Thomas never looks unkempt, and he doesn’t show any kind of negative emotion. But his fury is right there on the surface and showcased in every harsh line on his face.

“Get off me, Thomas.” I try to shake him free, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is rock solid, and with a harsh yank, he forces my feet to follow him toward the door.

The last thing I want to do is go anywhere with him, but my mind feels like it’s underwater and the shock of the situation is muffling everything around me.

“Thomas, let me go. Seriously. This isn’t okay.”

He doesn’t listen and his strides are quick and long, and the awkward angle at which he’s holding my forearm makes it hard for me to do anything else but focus on not tripping over my own two feet.

“You heard her. Let her go,” a voice that is not mine or Thomas’s fills the empty space of the coffee shop, and I look up to find fake Norman Wallace standing there, blocking the door. I didn’t even hear the tinkle of the bells.

“This isn’t your business,” Thomas spits. “Get out of the way.”

“Let go of her arm.” It’s a command, barren of any and all room for negotiation.

---