Page 145 of The Perfect Mistake

She looks at me for a long moment, and then she shakes her head. Another tear slips down her cheek. “No,” she says. “I don’t accept that reasoning. You don’t get to say that you’re pulling away because you don’t want to hurt me. We all hurt in life. That’s inevitable, but we do get to choose. That’s what I did for years. I chose the pain and soreness, all so I could experience the joy of that life, too. And maybe I’m willing to do the same thing with you. Maybe I’m willing to accept the risk of getting hurt… but I don’t think you are.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. No words at all. I don’t know how to make her see how much this is tearing me up inside, the thought of her having to justify being with me to everyone around her, all the time.

For years.

But it’s also killing me to think of her doing it all with someone else. Having someone else’s baby, moving out of the city, and gracing someone else with her kindness and her love.

“I think you’re terrified,” she whispers, “of getting hurt again. Of losing someone you love, and having difficult conversations, and handling your kids’ questions about us… and the perceptions of those around us that you married your nanny. I think this is all about you. Not about protecting me.”

“Isabel,” I say roughly. “It’s always been about protecting you. This job, the physio, the car service… I want you to—”

“The job?” Her voice sounds half-broken. “What do you mean, the job?”

“A part of me wanted to take care of you. Always have.” I rub a hand over the back of my neck and sigh in frustration. The impulse had been there longer than I cared to admit. The graceful lines of her, the soft smiles, the kind words. She’d always spoken to me like a person. Like someone she wanted to get to know, and not just Connie’s brother or a stranger passing by. And my hands ached to hold her then, just like they do now.

I’d just done my best to bury the impulse.

“But you just won’t,” she says. “Or you will, and in your mind, looking out for me is ending this now. Because that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That the age difference, and your way of protecting me, and… and… people’s perceptions…” She swallows hard, and while her eyes shimmer, her mouth is set. “I’m done being in places where I’m not wanted, or working to get someone’s approval. If you’d rather not try something real, but stay safe and miserable, then fine. That’s your choice, Alec.”

You’re wanted, I want to say. So much I don’t know how to think about anything else.

She pushes past me and heads in the direction of her bedroom. Her long hair swishes across her back with every quick step.

“Isabel,” I say.

But she doesn’t turn around. Her steps hasten, and I’m left with my fists clenched, regretting every word.

Even if I meant them all.

Isabel

I spend Thanksgiving Day with my family.

It’s my day off, and it’s wonderful to be surrounded by the warmth and laughter and delicious food. Mom chastises me for my rusty Spanish after I make a single mistake, and Seb nudges my shin under the table. He winks, and I smile back. He’s usually the one bearing the brunt of the language corrections.

I stay overnight at my childhood home, after board games and too many desserts, lying on my back on the couch. My sister is dead to the world on an inflatable mattress beside me, in the apartment I once called home.

I wasn’t here a lot, even then.

Always up early, out running or at the studio. And late at night, when I was catching up on homework, I’d sit at the kitchen table while the family slept. Only the faint sounds of sirens and laughter from the streets below kept me company.

Some things don’t change.

I shouldn’t be awake now. Shouldn’t be checking my phone, but I do anyway.

He hasn’t texted.

I was half hoping he would. That he’d be awake right now, too, lying in the bed I’ve become so used to, in a dark bedroom. Staring up at his own ceiling.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter to avoid crying. I don’t want to. Not when I’ve cried so much about dancing, and my hip, and my prospects. Not when those things are finally looking up. I have a potential new job with two other former ballerinas to dance again, to dance for fun. Life is good. It’s great.

But I can’t get over the look on Alec’s face last night. He seemed anguished, and frustrated, and more worn-out than I’ve ever seen him. Like he was carrying the weight of the world. Put it down, I’d wanted to yell. You don’t have to carry it all.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen. I spell it out in my head, the difference that had him so tormented last night. It’s greater than any age gap in my family, true. But my aunt is seven years older than my uncle and no one batted an eye when they got together. Would people really care that much? Would my parents freak, like Elena had said?

Maybe they would. At first. But life is long, and emotions calm quickly.

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