Page 102 of Cara
I’ve stopped walking, framed by a painting of a woman on a lawn chair. “I have a mask?”
“Ninety-nine percent of the time, yes.”
“And this is that one percent?”
“Yes.”
I drop my gaze, pure instinct when observed this closely, while my insides crush in on me.Don’t let her see it.
She doesn’t protest as I break from my path, striding out of the quickly enclosing space.
In the brief time it takes her to join me in the Petrie Court, I’ve gathered myself and banished the storm.
This room is darker than the others due to the ceiling and glass walls, drawing in the stillness of the stars. A cloudless sky unveils the moon, casting brilliance on the pedestaled Cypriot sculptures surrounding us.
“I wish you could be honest with me,” she says.
“I poured my heart out to you this morning.”
She nods. “Yes, you told me how hard our lives are going to become. You told me how you will make me happy through it all… You didn’t tell me howIcan makeyouhappy.”
“You’re here. End of story.”
“I'm here, and there’s still a giant hole in your chest.”
She’s as damn infuriating as ever. Her and that observing. “Sophie.”
“It’s just us here. We’re alone. Stop holding back.”
I shake my head, refusing. I’ll be damned if I add anything else to the slabs already weighing down our chests.
I promised I wouldn’t lie, and I don’t care about it right now. I’ll lie if it keeps her smiling. “I handle things differently from others. Don’t mistake me losing my train of thought?—”
“Bullshit,” she snaps, disgust radiating from her explicit.
I school my face into an impassive stare. “It’s not.”
“I know you think you’re helping. You think by being the one who never loses their shit that you can keep both of our heads above water. You can’t. Itwilldrown you.”
“Forgive me if I don’t want to give them the pleasure.”
Why am I fighting her? Why is my voice souring when I’ve waited so damn long to be in this exact spot with her?
When I move away, she grabs my sleeve, digging into the cashmere. “Tell me what they did to you. Be honest.”
“No.”
She won’t ease up, seeking my eyes when I refuse them. “Tell me how losing your mother made you feel.”
“No.”
She’s fisting my shirt, stretching the material, hissing when I shove her hands down, walking off to decompress. To stop the ticking bomb that lives inside me from imploding.
I'm rounding a sculpture when she appears on the other side, avisionof rage. As if reaching out for a lifeline, her hands surround the back of my neck, stretching her toes to reach my height, and I still have to dip my chin to look at her.
This feeling is so familiar. It began when I lost her, and it hasn’t left. I hate it. I fuckingloatheit—hopelessness. I didn’t know the true meaning until she was gone.
My plea is soft and utterly desperate. “Sophie,please.”
