Page 9 of Broken Strings

And he left me. He left Brinley.

Just to reappear now, standing on that freaking stage like his life didn't change at all. Did it hurt him at all to walk away? Did he think about me at all? Consider what it would do to me?

He reaches out for me, his expression so sad…but I don't believe it. I can't. Because his life didn't change at all. But mine did. Mine ended when he left, and it hasn't been the same since. Nothing has.

"Don't touch me," I whisper, scurrying across the couch away from him. "You don't get to touch me anymore."

Pain flows through his gray eyes, and I hate myself for it. I want to fling myself into his arms, tell him that I don't mean it. That I forgive him. That the past doesn't matter, and I don't care why he did what he did.

But I can't do that.

Because he didn't just leave me. He left our daughter, too. She's spent her whole life without a father because he walked away. My pain doesn't matter. Hers does.

"Baby, please," he whispers.

"Don't call me that," I growl, my voice shaking. "You don't get to call me that ever again, Grayson. You destroyed my life. You destroyed me. And now you say you came back for me? No. There is no coming back. You made your choice when you left me."

"I never would have left that day had I known…" He swallows hard.

"Had you known what? That you couldn't just waltz back into my life whenever you decided?" I hop up from the couch, pacing across the small room to put a little distance between us. "You may look like the same man you were back then, but I'mnotthe same girl, Grayson. You stopped being the center of my world when…"

"When what?"

"Doesn't matter," I quickly mutter. Sooner or later, I'll have to tell him about Brinley. But not yet. Not today.

"It matters to me. You matter to me."

I spin to face him, fury churning through me. "Imatterto you? Did I matter when you left me when I needed you most, Grayson? Did I matter when you broke me? I've spent six years grieving you, wondering what happened to you. Only to find out that you…" I break off, choking on a sob. "Did you ever care at all or was I just a game to you? Just something to do until something better came along?"

"Mina," he whispers, striding toward me, his hands extended. Only then do I notice the scars across the backs of them. They disappear into his sleeves, an army of burn marks, as if his flesh nearly melted from his bones. They draw me up short, stealing my breath. Right up until he's standing in front of me, anyway, reaching for me again.

I stumble back a step, trying to keep him from touching me. Because if he does, if I feel those powerful arms around me, I'll crumble, dammit all. I have no willpower when it comes to him. I never have.

He's the only thing I've ever wanted. From the very first moment I set eyes on him, I wanted him. I never stopped. Not when my father cut me off. Not when I thought he was dead. Noteven now, when he's standing in front of me, living proof that he never felt the same fierce love for me.

He was everything to me. And I was something so easily left behind for him.

"You kept me alive," he rasps, his eyes locked on my face. "When I lost everything, I clung to the image of you. When I couldn't remember my own goddamn name, I remembered your laugh. I'm here because of you, baby."

"And I've been in hell for six years," I whisper. "I waited for six years. I prayed for six years. I looked for you for six years. Where were you, Grayson? What happened?"

"I…" He shoves a hand through his long hair. "I don't remember everything, Mina."

"Right," I mutter.

"I'm serious. I woke up in a hospital in Mexico six years ago with no memories."

I stare at him in disbelief. "And what? You just magically ended up on that stage tonight? You just magically remembered me tonight?"

"I looked for you," he growls. "I tore Mexico apart looking for you. I came back here looking for you. But I couldn't fucking remember you."

"So you remembered me, but you didn't remember me?" As if that makes any sense. I shake my head, crossing my arms. "Right."

"No, goddammit. That's not what I'm saying. You haunted me, but I couldn't remember who you were. I looked, but I didn't know who I was looking for or if you even existed. I thought…" he trails off.

"Thought what?"

"That you were a figment of my imagination," he says bluntly. "Something my mind conjured up because I needed something about my fucking life to be real."

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