Page 104 of Thrones We Steal

At this, I slowly turn, because the truth is, I do love him. He’s exactly the kind of man I envisioned myself marrying: honest, loyal, kind. He doesn’t deserve any of this. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He laughs without humor and presses his fingers into his eye sockets. “People always say that, don’t they? ‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ as if that somehow makes it okay that they did.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” A strong breeze lifts from the water and blows around us, raising the flesh on my arms. I rub at it with fingers that aren’t any warmer.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something along the lines of, ‘I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you?’”

“Even if I can’t?”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “This isn’t the way I saw my life playing out either. Sneaking around, pretending I’m not in love with the woman who’s going to be my queen. Always living in the shadows, being second-rate, second-best. But if it means being with you, in any capacity, I’m willing to do it.”

My throat swollen with tears, I say, “You deserve to be with someone who can give you their whole heart.”

“Oh, so this is all for my good? Is that it? I’m not good at being alone, Celia. I’ve spent most of my life figuring it out by myself, and I’m ready to do it with someone else. Now you’re saying I should be grateful to you for saving me from a life of misery?”

“Of course not. I just meant that you deserve more than I can give you.”

He makes a sound of disgust and shakes his head. “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say automatically, even though we both know it’s a lie.

“I’ll never be him. I don’t want to be him, even if it costs me you.”

The words sting, although I don’t think that was his intention. “I’m not asking you to change. Or to understand.”

“You’ll regret this someday.”

I hope he’s wrong.

But I’m scared he’s right.

* * *

The worst part about breaking up on board a yacht is that you have to wait until the boat is docked before you can get off. I spoke to the captain after Beck walked away, and he agreed to turn us around but said it will be an hour until we get back to land.

I curl up on one of the sofas arranged on the deck and wrap one of the soft cashmere throws around my bare shoulders. Regret mingles with the salt air, chapping my cheeks and leaving a tang on my lips.

Losing Beck is as different from losing Henry as fire is from water. Losing Beck is frustration itself, a plan I worked so hard at executing for years falling through at the last minute. Of course I love him, but it’s our compatibility, our once-mutual desires and goals, that make it so hard to watch him go. Have I just pushed away the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

Losing Henry, on the other hand, was losing a piece of myself. It doesn’t matter that he drives me crazy.

I need his humor and that belly-clenching laugh. I need the way he pushes me to my limits, the way he won’t put up with my bullshit. I need the way he takes one look at my face and reads everything I’m too afraid to say.

It should be easier to get over someone who so clearly doesn’t want to be with you.

31

“When You’re Gone” - Shawn Mendes

As I’m getting ready for bed, a painful lump having declared itself a permanent resident of my chest, strains of music float from Henry’s room. I haven’t heard him playing since that infamous night he threw me out.

The sound is mesmerizing, as is the knowledge that he’s on the other side, and I walk to the connecting door and rest my head against it to hear better. I picture him sitting there, completely immersed in the sounds echoing around him, losing himself in the music. What I’d give to watch him play again.

After a while the notes die away and all is quiet again on the other side. On my side, the only sound is the crazy pounding of my heart, knowing he’s so close and wanting to see him more than anything. I should at least thank him for setting up such a beautiful evening, right? He doesn’t need to know it was the catalyst for the end of my relationship.

Knowing I’ll talk myself out of it if I wait any longer, I knock on the door. What if he doesn’t answer? Or worse, what if he tells me to go away? I squeeze my eyes shut. Regret is already creeping in. I should’ve just gone to bed. What am I doing? The man clearly doesn’t want to see me, but like an addict, I can’t stay away.

I’ve given up on him answering and am heading back to my bedroom when he opens the door. Surprised and slightly horrified, I turn around. Cotton pajama pants hang from his hips, and he’s tugging a Harvard T-shirt down over his washboard abdomen. “You knocked?” he asks.

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