Page 112 of Sweet Caroline
“Uh, yeah. I think so.” Her features are tinged with a sadness that makes me want to pull her into my arms and make promises I can’t keep.
Caroline drove us to Seattle in heavy silence after our almost-conversation back at her place. Hearing her tell me she’dget over ithad been like swallowing hot solder—a burning sensation seared my throat at the implication that there’s something here to get over. And,fuck me, there is. I’m in so deep I might as well be lying at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. With a shovel.
She’d all but confirmed she’s fallen just as hard. The pain in her eyes had said it all.
But, no matter what happens after tonight, and no matter how much it’ll hurt to say goodbye, Caroline’s given me a gift. She’s helped me realize I don’t need to keep hiding from what life has to offer. My routines have kept me sober, of course—no doubt about it. But she’s helped me see I can loosen my strict death grip on structure without sacrificing sobriety. And I’ll never be able to properly explain to her the freedom she’s given me.
Not that I’ll even get the chance to try.
Fuck.
It hits me all over again that this is it. I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep tonight. Alone. I’ve gotten so used to having Caroline in my arms, her fingers absentmindedly playing withmy hair when I lay my head on her chest. The way her heartbeat hammers, then slowly settles after we?—
Okay, God, I need to stop thinking about it or I’ll fucking cry.
I hang back, letting her lead us into her father’s office, suddenly aware that this is her family home—her turf. Naturally, the first person my eyes snag on is Fletcher, probably thanks to some hypervigilant part of my brain scanning for threats. Threats or, y’know, nearby assholes.
The room is busy, full of chattering people huddled in small groups, most of them on phones or laptops. Pete’s staff, I assume. Maybe some friends, if the bastard has any.
I squeeze Caroline’s fingers tighter when Fletcher heads in our direction.
“Caroline,” he says, flicking a level glance my way. “You look nice.”
“Fletcher.”
The dead-eyed way she greets him—nohello, no pleasantries, just his name—makes my chest swell with so much pride that it’s hard to keep a straight face.
Fuck him up, fancy girl.
Letting go of her hand, I slip my palm to her lower back. Even through her dress, the warmth of her skin is a familiar anchor in this room teeming with strangers.
Her eyes slide to mine and linger there for a moment.
I hold her gaze, hoping she can read my silent words:You got this.
When it becomes clear Fletcher isn’t fucking off, Caroline breaks the silence. “So, did you need something, or?—?”
“I was actually hoping we could talk. Alone, if possible.” Another glance my way, like he’s wondering why I’m still here.
“I don’t see the point.” Caroline’s gaze only lands on her ex for the briefest pause before she scans the room, as if showing him she’d rather be talking to anyone else. That, or she’ssearching for the emergency exits like a nervous passenger on an airplane.
“Please, Care-bea—” He seems to catch himself. “Caroline. Please.”
She turns to me, clearly uneasy and probably remembering what went down the last time she left my side at a busy event.
“I’ll be right here,” I reassure her, despite the way my entire body bristles at her spending even a second with this douchebag. Remembering the cameras—and, let’s face it, as a final fuck-you to Fletcher—I dip down to kiss the corner of her lips.
The temptation to keep Caroline away from Fletcher is strong, but she’s gonna be navigating this shit on her own soon enough. And, I remind myself, I have no claim on her, despite the way every cell of my body screams she’s mine. As of tomorrow, she won’t be in my life anymore. Won’t be in my arms when I wake up in the morning. My heart twists at the thought.
Fuck, I’m gonna miss the shit outta that.
She cautiously crosses the room with Fletcher and I finally let my eyes jump to the election coverage on the huge TV. The graph of early vote counts shows two nearly intersecting lines, although, I note with satisfaction, Pete’s is the lower of the two. But, with heavily overlapping error margins, it’s too early to say how the race will pan out.
“Miles.” Pete appears over my left shoulder and sidles up beside me, swirling the remnants of a glass of whiskey.
Shit. This is the worst kind of déjà vu.
“Surprised you came tonight,” he adds, then drains the dregs.
