Page 72 of Fated

“Do you think you trust too easily?”

He watches me for a moment, taking in the moonlight falling over my face.

“I don’t trust easily,” he finally says, and when I lower my eyebrows he explains. “I learned a long time ago that if you don’t trust, then you’ll live a lonely life. You have to choose. You can trust or you can die alone. I chose trust.”

I swallow, my throat still raw from the search for Amy. It hurts thinking about what he said. Because while he chose trust, I chose to be alone. After Joel I made the choice to smother the chance of any relationships because I felt incapable of giving my trust.

I couldn’t. Not even to my best friend.

“And if you’re betrayed by the people you trust?” I ask, contemplating my worst fear. Loving and then losing.

“Then I’ll move on. I’ll survive.”

“It’s not so easy.”

He glances at me, waiting for an explanation.

“It hurts. You’ll want to rage. Maybe you will. You’ll be so angry you shake. You’ll be so sick with grief that you can barely stand. It won’t be so easy to trust again. It’s not so easy to move on?—”

“Becca.”

I turn to him. His expression is resolute.

“What?”

“If I’m betrayed by someone I love?—”

“Yes?”

“I might rage. I might be so angry I shake. I might be consumed by grief. But most of all—even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve done—I’d hold my anger. I’d hold my grief. So I wouldn’t say or do something I’d regret. God knows the tears of regret hurt more than the tears of sorrow.”

I stare at him, stunned. “You sound like Amy. Are you a philosopher too?”

He gives me his dimpled, eyes-crinkled smile. “I only mean I can handle grief. I can handle anger. But regret? It’s a weight I wouldn’t wish on anyone. So if I’m betrayed, then I’ll do my best to keep loving that person. If I gave them my trust, then I imagine they’re worth it.”

He reaches out then, taking a strand of my hair that’s fallen free of my braid and tucking it behind my ear. I sway toward him, caught up in the quiet gentleness of the moment.

“You would stay in a situation that hurts you?”

“No,” he says. “I’d stay in a situation to help someone else. And then I’d go.”

Now I wonder if we aren’t talking about Becca and Robert. Maybe we’re actually talking about us. Fiona and McCormick.

He’s here. I’m here. I’m opening up, allowing myself the possibility of love.

But when that’s done, when I’ve felt all the heady-night, starlit love I can, I’m going to leave him.

He’s helping me even if he doesn’t know it. Is that a betrayal of him? And if it is, will he be the one to go first?

A stinging ache presses at the backs of my eyes and my throat feels swollen and achy. I can’t imagine it. He couldn’t be the one to go first. Dreams don’t work that way.

“I want you to tell me your story,” I whisper.

The crescent moon has risen high, spilling over the water. It’s the middle of the night, the perfect time for sharing secrets.

“Even though you already know it?”

“Pretend I don’t.”

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