Page 100 of What's Left of Us

I have to look away when her intense gaze becomes too much to bear. “Because it’smymess. It’s my responsibility to fix it.”

“It’s too much responsibility,” she says, voice softening as she rounds the island. “And it shouldn’t be your problem to bear anymore. You walked away from the Del Rossis for a reason.”

But Georgia didn’t.“I told her I’d keep her safe,” I murmur, meeting her eyes for the briefest second until understanding crosses her tense features. “I promised, Marissa.”

The image of Luca Carbone’s hand on her back makes me nauseous. But not as much as the look on her face when I told her I was done.

I’ll never fully be done. Not until Nikolas goes down for everything he’s done, starting with her and ending with Conklin.

Sympathy washes over her. “The promises you made to her when you said your vows hold no weight now, Lincoln. You’re free. She made her choice, and you need to make yours. You’re on a suicide mission, and what will that earn you at the end of the day?”

It won’t be Georgia.

That’s what she’s saying.

Because Georgia made her choice.

And it’s not me.

You’re free.

I tried giving Georgia that freedom once, and look where it led us.

Marissa’s hand finds my biceps. “Matt wouldn’t want this for you. He’d want you to live and find love again. He’d want you to behappy.”

I stare at her hand—at the ring she still wears on her finger.

I wonder if she’ll ever be happy again. I’d like to think she and I are cut from the same cloth. We both love Matt too much to let go. So, how could she expect me to move on without getting any closure?

“I’m in too deep, Riss.”

“It’s a suicide mission,” she repeats.

I smile emptily. “I know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lincoln / Present

There’s something differentabout the doctor today, but I can’t pinpoint what it is. Her glasses are the same, and so is the color of her hair and how it’s pinned back away from her face. She’s routine. Precise. She’s wearing the same black skirt I saw her in two months ago, with a brown silk shirt that brings out the color of her green eyes.

Cocking my head, I drape my ankle over my opposite leg. “Do your friends ever pester you about moving on with your life?” I ask, filling the silence so my blatant staring doesn’t seem so obvious.

She gently bobs her foot, covered by a black stiletto with a thin heel. Maybe that’s new. I’ve always seen her in loafers that make her look about ten years older than she is. “Some of them do. Most of them have learned to let me be until I’m ready.”

My eyes watch her foot swing before trailing up her lean legs until they stop at the hem of her skirt. “And when do you think that will be?”

Her answer is to arch an eyebrow in silence.

Half of my lips kick up. “I’m asking because there’s no timeline for these kinds of things. And you seem like the type who loves those.”

“On the contrary. I find timelines to be misleading and damaging.”

I settle into the couch, relaxing my arms over my chest. “You really trying to tell me you don’t like timelines? You strike meas the type of person who makes meal plans, weekly workout routines, and picks out outfits days in advance.”

If I look closely, I can see the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks. “There’s a difference between routines and timelines.”

“Indulge me then.”

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