Page 19 of Jace
“Isnothingabout to make you cry?”
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, a tear escaping over her lashes. “I’ve had a perfect day with you, but I have some news.”
My heart clenches. “Bad news?”
“No, it’s not bad.” But tell that to her eyes. Like me, they can’t find the truth in her words. “I’m, uh…” She gulps as if she’s about to be sick but chokes it down. “I’m, uh…”
Officially divorced?
Got in a big fight with her ex, but it’s over?
Scared to admit this is a not-date date?
Whatever it is, I’ll take anything with Vivian. Her friendship. Her time. Her tears. I won’t rush her. We can go slow. We can let this build for months. But whatever it is, good god, I know she feels this between us.
How even when she’s giving me macarons, or I’m leaving her hibiscus tea. Or we’re poring over an Ansel Adams photobook together. Or laughing about the crazy sex toys in the shop. Or we’re bitching about the weather or admiring the azalea blooms.
Fuck, Vivian and I have something together. It’s so tender, it’s overwhelming. So powerful, it defies logic. We have a chance, and I hope it starts today. I hope we can?—
“I’m reconciled with my husband,” she whispers like it’s a shameful secret. “As of last night. That’s my news.”
My mind reels. Our world stops. The ocean tips over and empties itself.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Vivian hates him. He hurt her. You can’t be healed by the one who broke you. You have to heal yourself. She wants to divorce him.
But… she’s not?
“But, Viv, I thought?—”
“It’s done.” She bows her head, staring down at the sand between our bare feet. “I’m committed to seeing it through, and…”
Committed.
That’s what it sounds like. A death sentence. An execution of hope. Her hope. My hope.This.
This beautiful feeling between us.
Blinking back tears, she glances up at me. “And if you’re disappointed in me and don’t want to be friends now, I understand.”
She’s reading my concern as disgust. Like she’s ashamed of her choice and doesn’t want a witness to it. Like she fears she’ll be judged as weak for reconciling with her husband. Like she knows many hate him and worries we’ll hate her.
But I swallow down whatever the fuck is choking the life out of me, whatever the fuck is crushing my heart.
For her, I can do this.
“I’m your friend, Viv. Today. Tomorrow. I promise. No matter what.”
I want to hold her, but I don’t dare. If I do, I won’t let her go.
If Vivian Tate were mine, I’d make her smile. If I had a chance to love her, the only tears she’d cry would be in bed while I was still inside her, and the orgasmic rush we just shared would overwhelm us with sweet emotions.
Goddamn, I’d kill for her, but that’s not the life she’s choosing.
She’s choosing her vows, and she’s not breaking them.
I’ve never been married—and God knows I want to be to her, I admit—but I know vows should mold you, not break you. They’re supposed to make you stronger when she looks destroyed by them.
