Page 123 of How to Walk Away

“Are you saying youkidnappedme?”

He turned back. “I didn’t kidnap you, but I have been one of your captors. You have been held hostage—robbed of your old life, isolated from your old friends, and at the mercy of others. You have faced adversity that most people never see. In response, you’ve created an imaginary bond with one of your captors—to feel safe, and to create hope, and to feel less alone. It’s a classic form of self-preservation.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“Am I wrong?”

Actually, I didn’t know. I guess that was one way of reading the situation. “Isthe bond imaginary?” I asked.

Ian didn’t answer.

“Do you feel it, too?” I pressed. “Or did I just make it up?” My brain could list a hundred reasons why a guy like him would not even remotely be interested in someone like me. Of course! It defied all logic to think that he might. And yet—I didn’tthinkit. Ifeltit. I felt it over and over.

“I am fond of you,” Ian said then.

“How fond?”

Ian didn’t answer again.

“Because, honestly,” I finally said, cracking the silence, “if you don’t also feel what I’m feeling, then it doesn’t matter if what I feel is real or imaginary, does it? If you have no interest in me—and I have no idea:sometimes I feel like you really do, and sometimes I feel like you absolutely don’t—then this conversation is pointless. We don’t have to talk about kidnapping, or theories of psychology. You just say you’re not interested, and we’re done here.”

Ian didn’t speak.

“Just say you’re not interested, and you go home to Scotland, and I stay here with my mother and eat spaghetti for dinner, and we’ll never see each other again. Easy.”

Ian stared at the floor.

“Just say you’re not interested,” I whispered then, hoping with every cell in my body that he would say the opposite.

Finally, he turned to me, and something had shifted in his eyes. There was no softness there anymore. “I’m not interested,” he said.

I sat back. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that. Not in that way, at least. Not like it wastrue. “You’re not?”

His voice was flat. “I am fond of you. You have been a pleasant patient to work with. Your situation is tough, and I’ve been impressed with your drive and your strength. But I do not have romantic feelings for you.”

I took a few breaths in slow motion. Did I believe him? “And so that very passionate, Olympic-level kiss at the lake?”

He shrugged. “I guess I’m just a good kisser.”

“How about that other kiss—when you publicly, in front of a whole room of onlookers, ended your own career?”

He looked up very carefully, straight into my eyes. “I must have let myself get too lonely.”

“So,” I said, putting it together, “it wasn’t passion—it was desperation?”

He almost looked a little bored. “That’s one way to put it.”

“So,” I tried again, hoping to make him deny it, “what you’re saying is, you knew I’d developed a slightly overwhelming crush on you, but you didn’t dissuade me because you were lonesome and horny?”

“That’s another way to put it.”

“Okay,” I said, and then I felt a wash of shame.

Of course he wasn’t in love with me. Why would he be? What had I been thinking? He could do and be and choose anything he wanted. He had the whole world ahead of him. All I had was a tiny little half-life. What was exciting or attractive or lovable about that? I’d forgotten what I’d become. If Chip, who had known me at my best, didn’t even want me, how could I hope for anyone else? I was no longer lovable.Note to self.

“Okay,” I said again. My chest started to ache as it all hit me.

There was no point in being honest anymore. There was no way to save face at this point, either. I just had to get him out of here. Fast, before the universe collapsed.

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