Page 62 of I Still Love You

“Of course,” Luke agrees. “Enjoy your night, Mr. Winslow.”

Harry’s smile stays in place as he retreats, and I look around, taking in the spacious room the charity dinner is being held. From the wooden beams on the ceiling to the dark chocolate-colored wooden floors beneath our feet, the décor is truly stunning. A tapestry hangs between bright, elegant chandeliers, each side of the fabric pinned to the wooden beams. Tables are done up in pure white tablecloths that stretch to the ground, and the centerpieces match the paper luminaria bags on the pathway outside leading to the entrance.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Luke asks, turning his body to face mine and blocking the rest of the crowd. You’d think it’d be hard to feel the energy between us with how many people are around but being nearly chest to chest almost silences the chatter and jazz band’s first song. “They knock it out of the park every year.”

“Apparently, they’re not the only ones. Just under a million dollars, Luke? That’s incredible.”

He smooths his palm over my cheek, moving to rest his hand on the back of my neck. Ignoring my compliment, he says, “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I haven’t been…” He glances down, but I don’t miss the way his throat bobs with a swallow.

“The sunshine on a rainy day?”

The corner of his lip lifts. “Decent,” he says quietly. “I haven’t been decent to you, and I feel awful over it, and I deserve that.”

“Don’t,” I reply. “It was upsetting, yes, but I’ve forgiven you.”

He drops his hand. “That makes one of us.”

I smooth my hands over his tie. “Tonight is supposed to be about you. Don’t let things from the past ruin it.”

“Tonight is about the hospital.”

“Yes, because of you. Without your connections, they wouldn’t be celebrating, would they?”

He clasps his hands around mine at his chest, softly pulling them from his tie. An icy chill runs up my spine as his brows knit together. Gone are the butterflies that swarmed me a minute ago. That…pained expression on his face is a sure sign we’re shifting backward. “Why did you agree to this?”

There must be a hundred people here, easily, but as big as this space is, I don’t want to have a serious conversation with so many ears present. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because,” he starts, quieting his voice, “it doesn’t make sense. I treated you like shit, and you allowed me to. You could’ve walked away. You should still walk away, but you’re here. Why?”

I think back to the past few years, to all I missed out on because I wanted to deal with my father’s death by myself. I’ve been alone, and while I’ve enjoyed the experience of traveling for work and meeting people who will forever be engrained in my heart, I’m being pulled in the opposite direction. I could blame it on being back in Quaint, where reminders are plenty, but it’s not only that.

It’s him.

These past few weeks haven’t been easy, but it’s allowed me to put things in perspective, making me more aware of the guilt I’ve been carrying all this time. The overwhelming culpability of leaving him, of breaking his heart, and making him believe that I never wanted the same things as he did.

He might not realize it, but he sacrificed so much for me when he didn’t have to. Just like he’s telling me now, he should have scurried at the first sight of me. He should never have agreed to fake it for me. He risked his freedom, his name, when Andrew tried to have his way with me. I should be asking why he invited me.

“Why, Layla?” he presses. “Tell me why because…damn it.” His nostrils flare. I’m unsure if it’s from uncertainty or anger, and he looks over my head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling.”

My brows wrinkle in confusion. “You invited me, Luke. If you couldn’t handle it, then you shouldn’t have propositioned me.” Frustration shoots up the back of my neck, swirling in my head. “I thought we were moving on, that we could be civil with one another. I thought that was part of the reason why I’m here. An olive branch, if you will.”

Am I overacting? Maybe he’s just genuinely curious? No. If he were, his brows wouldn’t pull downward. His eyes wouldn’t be that same dark shade of green they replicate whenever we argue.

Tonight clearly isn’t the right time to amend past transgressions. That much is true. “Thank you for the night. It really was a beautiful time, and I’m so happy for you. This is an enormous accomplishment.” With one final deep breath, I say, “I’m calling an Uber. You stay. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Layla,” he bites, his words digging into my exposed skin. “Don’t.”

I raise my chin in a weak smile. He thinks I’m running, but I’m not. Can’t he see that? I’m giving him space. Time to work through whatever it is he’s still struggling with. As long as he’s white knuckling it, we’ll never move forward and be anything. Not even friends.

And I…I am so tired of living in a time where so much hurt is present. I’m worn out from the blame I put on myself. From the shame, from the distance I’ve created between people I love most and me. I’ve grieved, and while there are reminders here that make me sad at times, I’m ready for something different.

27

Luke

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I losing my shit? Moments ago, my damn ego swelled with pride when Harry Wilkins praised me for a job well done. Call it asinine, but no matter how old you are, it still feels good to be told you’ve done well.

I may not have spoken with the donors directly, but had I not convinced the Quentin Wolves to host an annual Pledge of Commitment game with Quaint Regional years ago, the six figures on the screen behind the jazz band wouldn’t exist. I’ve put in the work with the Wolves every year, with their coach and P.R. department, to make it happen. Sure, it might be easier since I’m friends with a couple of the guys, but I deserve the pat on the back.

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