Page 114 of Boiling Point
He sat slouched in the armchair of my bedroom, navy-and-burgundy dressing gown belted loosely around his waist, staring at the carpet. Or through it.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Why should anything be wrong?” he said flatly, never lifting his eyes.
I shook my head. “This is what you warned me about, isn’t it?”
He looked up, gray eyes dull, but said nothing.
“You’ve been here for two days. Two. And they’re already rubbing off on you. This doesn’t work if you shut me out.”
He dropped his gaze back to the carpet. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then fill me in. Because I just went from walking on clouds this morning to the most awkward day of my life. One minute,you’re asking me to marry you. The next, you go off with your family, and now you won’t look at me. I’m not an idiot, Cal.”
“It’s not you.”
“‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ Wow…” I flung myself back on my pillows and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve heard that line before, but I never thought I’d hear it from you.”
He stood and moved toward the bed. Bracing his hands on the footboard, he looked at me. The brooding was gone, replaced by pain rolling off him in waves.
I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. “You told them, didn’t you? You told them you wanted to marry me, and they shot you down.”
“No,” he said softly.
“If you’re trying to spare my feelings, it’s not working.” I dropped my chin to my knee. “I was stupid to think I was good enough.”
“Damn it, Gabrielle! This isn’t about you.” His words hit like a slap. And they stung just as much.
I rolled onto my side, curling toward the window. Tears welled, hot and stinging. I blinked hard to hold them back, but it didn’t work. They spilled anyway.
I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to keep the tremors from my voice. “You should sleep in your own room tonight.” Another breath. “I’m tired.”
He didn’t argue. I heard him shuffle toward the door. The knob creaked. His voice—smooth but frigid—coasted across the room.
“Funny thing about Branleigh Park—it changes people. Seems neither of us is immune.” A beat. Then, clipped and formal, “Good night.”
The door clicked shut.
And the waterworks began. Sobs ripped through my chest. I smothered my face in the cool pillow—partly to muffle the sound, partly to press it all back down. Like that ever worked.
I’d told myself this was different. Thatwewere different.
Maybe I had been a fool to believe that a man like him—thirteen years older, Oxford-educated, so sharp and sure and finished—could really want someone like me. A girl still trying to make sense of her life, her grief, her future.
He was an accomplished physicist, and if the universe was just, a breath away from tenure. I didn’t even have a bachelor’s degree yet. He had old money, old manners, and a name people recognized. I had student loans, a flimsy résumé, and a heart too easily handed over.
What had I actually thought would happen? That we’d somehow outrun the odds? That his family would raise their crystal glasses and toast the scandal? That I’d be enough?
It was stupid.Iwas stupid.
What was I even doing here? I didn’t belong in this house, in this family, in his world. Maybe I never had.
There was no version of this story where we belonged together. Not really.
And the worst part—the part that ached deepest—was that I still wanted him to come back. To walk through that door, lie down beside me, and say he didn’t mean it. That he was scared too. That he’d shut me out because that’s what he does when he’s hurting, not because he didn’t love me.
But the hallway was silent.
