Page 41 of I'm Not Yours
“Not happy?” He whipped around. “Is that how you would describe this, Allie? Not happy? Youleft. You took off. You dropped a note on my table. Hell, does this remind you of what happened between us years ago? I think we’re doing great, I’m hoping we can do something normal like have dinner and watchthe sun go down when I get home from work, and then I find out you’re gone.You are gone.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I wrung my hands together. I deserved his anger.
He strode over to me and stopped three feet away, his face stormy, jaw tight.
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t want . . .” I said.
“You didn’t want what? You didn’t want to have a conversation about why you had to leave? The potential conflict? What does that say about you and what does it say about us? That you’re too afraid to speak up? That you can’t trust me with something you need to do? That you think I’d try to change your mind? That isn’t the case, Allie, and you know it.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” I felt sick, anxious. “I had to go by myself.”
“Then fine. Go, but don’t shut me out and take off. Damn it, Allie.”
“Jace, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left without telling you—that was awful. I need to tell you a few things. Things that happened years ago, things that happened recently, and then . . . and then you can decide if you even want to be with me again.”
“I want to be with you, Allie. I have made that perfectly clear this whole time.” He threw up his arms. “That hasneverchanged.”
“Can we sit down? Please? My legs are about to give out and I’m going to fall into an inglorious heap on the floor.”
He held out an arm, frustrated, hurt, baffled, and I sank to the sofa. He sat down beside me and I reached for his hand. Even then I needed his comfort. He automatically held mine, our fingers entwined.
“First, Jace, I’m sorry. I am sorry to the depths of my soul.”
“For what?”
I told him everything. I told him about living in a trailer, the abuse from my dad, fleeing to Bigfork with my petrified mother, her death, and back to my dad and the abject loneliness, fear, and poverty. I told him why, as a young, poor girl, I redesigned my used clothes with satin, lace, and beading; how I later hid that young, poor girl behind designer outfits and high heels. I told him why I liked apples.
“My dad had always told me I was trailer trash. He also said I was stupid, useless, worthless, a slut, had a face like an apple core, had strange gold eyes, not good enough for any man . . .”
Jace swore, got up, and started pacing in front of the fire.
“I didn’t think I was good enough for you, Jace. I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t in Yellowstone. But inside I felt dirty. I felt unworthy. I was ashamed.”
“Is that why you broke up with me?”
“Part of it.”
“There wasn’t a Zack, was there?”
“Of course not. There was never anyone but you. There has never been anyone but you.”
He strode back over to me, kneeled, and cupped my face so I couldn’t turn away. “Then why? Why did you break up with me?”
“I broke up with you . . .” My eyes filled with tears and I put my hands over his and bent my head. Jace wiped my tears away with his thumbs.
“Why?”
“I broke up with you because I was pregnant.”
The words went off like little bombs. “You werewhat?”
“Pregnant.”
“But we always used birth control—”
“Not that one time, by the lake, at night . . . remember? We had gone swimming.”
“Oh my God.” Remembrance dawned and he sank onto the couch next to me, his head in his hands. I put my arm around his broad shoulders.
