Page 73 of The Phoenix Bride
She shakes her head. “I wish you would be honest with me,” she says. “Sometimes I cannot tell when you are. You are a terrible liar, David, but not so when you are lying to yourself.”
“Sara…I…You are very dear to me,” I say. “Forgive me for not speaking with you sooner. I am glad to have you in my life, and I do not want to lose you.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “What does thatmean?” she demands. “I have asked you to marry me. You must either agree or refuse. Do so now, and save us both the grief of waiting longer. The city is on fire. This may be the last time we see each other.”
I bow my head, contrite. “I—I cannot marry you, Sara. I would be a terrible husband to you. We both know that.”
“What makes you think so?” she asks, raising a brow. “If you are refusing because you think you are somehow undeserving, you are misguided. You’re a good man, David. I would be proud to marry you.”
“I know, but—”
“Love grows with time. Marriage is a beginning, not a culmination.”
“Yes, but still—”
“Of course, I will accept your refusal. It’s just—I don’t want you to refuse for such a ludicrous reason—”
“I was in love with him,” I say, interrupting her. “Manuel.”
She blinks at me, falling silent. I await some further reaction—disgust, or shock, or anger—but after a long moment, she simply says, “Oh.”
It is the first time I’ve said it aloud, the first time I’ve truly acknowledged it in front of anyone else. It is ridiculous—the city is on fire, Cecilia is getting married, and I am about to lose everything—but I smile.
“I was in love with Manuel,” I repeat. It feels as if I have hadstones stacked upon me, like the graves I have visited, and they have suddenly been lifted away. “And now I am in love with someone else. So I cannot marry you, Sara. I hope you understand.”
“I understand,” she says faintly. “Did—did he know?”
“I never told him. I don’t know if he knew.”
“I see.” She tugs at her collar as if she might somehowlengthen her gown and cover herself with it, hide herself from me, and spare us both the agony of the conversation. “I had no idea.”
“I know.”
“He loved you, too,” she says. “I don’t know if it was in the same way, but he did. And”—her voice cracks—“when he died, you were there. You understood. I felt like you understood, when no one else did. Now I know why.”
“Sara, I am sorry,” I say. But, to my shock, she leans forward over the doorframe, wrapping her arms around me. Hesitantly, I return the embrace. Her tears dampen my shirt.
“I want him back,” she whispers into my collar. “I want it all back. I want everything to be as it was.”
“I want that, too. But we can’t go back. Not anymore.”
Sara sniffs and pulls away. She rubs her cheek with the heel of her hand. “I am angry with you,” she says. “You owed me an answer sooner. But—I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel.”
“Forgive me.”
“Stop apologizing,” she replies, scowling. “It helps neither of us, and it is extremely aggravating.”
“Pardon,” I say. Then I laugh, as does she.
“Does it hurt?” she asks gently. “That he’ll never know?”
“I was happy to have him in my life, regardless.”
She nods. “You love very quietly, David.”
“Perhaps I should have been louder,” I say.
“I don’t think so,” she replies. “There’s no need to be loud, if you are with someone who can listen.”
