Page 27 of Let's Be Forever

He wipes the lone tear under my eye. “Yeah. Because we would’ve done it together.”

Sylas has his life together and I don’t. It scared me, dreading the possibility that I was pregnant. It wouldn’t have just changed my life, but his and our relationship drastically. While he’s always said he wants me in his future, sometimes I feel like he’s out of my league.

He’s part of this social circle I don’t belong to. Despite what he’s said, how he includes me, I’m far from able to fit in. His parents, his family members, and his friends are wealthy beyond words. It’s still incomprehensible that I’m surrounded by people who have millions in their bank account. Sylas included.

Sometimes I can’t believe he chooses me, that he wants me. I know I’m not what his parents would’ve chosen for him, what the people he’s close with expect when he brings me around. It’s always a shock, like they can’t fathom why he’d be with a girl like me, a girl who has nothing to offer him.

“I wouldn’t mind having kids. Maybe in the future, when I’ve finished culinary school and worked for a few years. I’dbe okay with two…maybe three.” I exhale a shaky breath, imagining a future with Sylas and our kids.

He flashes me a lopsided grin, dimples indenting his cheeks. “And that means no condoms. I’m so here for it.”

I chuckle. “But what about you? This is your life too.”

“You are my life.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I want kids. I want mini yous. Many of them. And I want to marry you.”

That renders me speechless.

“You are my happiness. I want you and only you. Please stop being shocked about that fact. You should’ve seen it coming. I plan to marry you. It’s going to happen.”

Now more tears spill. “Okay, I need you to stop being so sweet and amazing.”

His chuckle is husky. “I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I’m always going to be here. No matter what life throws at us, we’re going to do it together. I promise. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay, Sy.”

I always thought I knew what I would do if I ever saw Sylas again. I imagined going off on him, using every curse word in both Spanish and English, and throwing in a slap or two. I pictured feeling confident and on top because I’d be able to confront him and not feel anything for him. I’d be proud that I walked away and didn’t look back, knowing he was finally left in the past.

I envisioned finally moving on so many times. But in all those times, I didn’t picture this. Sylas, sitting on the floor of my bakery, slumped against the display case with a trash can perched between his thighs. His eyes demoralized, the bags underneath them swollen and dark. He stares straight ahead at nothing in particular. There’s an empty, faraway look as he sits there, motionless, still clinging on to the bin.

“Hey.” I crouch in front of him, and my fingers jerk at my side, contemplating whether I want to reach out to touch him. I almost don’t, but against my better judgment, I rest my palm on his knee, gently squeezing. That seems to finally draw him out of his trance. “Why don’t you drink some water?” I lean forward, picking up the bottle and uncapping it for him. Even with the bin of vomit, I catch a whiff of tobacco and wonder if he’s been smoking again, then scold myself for letting it concern me. “Here, please drink.”

He nods stiffly before taking large gulps. I squeeze his knee again.

“No, small ones. You drink too much, too fast, you might throw up again.”

He does as I instruct and then sets the bottle down, his somber gaze meeting mine. “How did you know that?”

“I threw up a lot my first trimester.” Flashbacks of me running to the bathroom first thing in the morning spring to mind. “I quickly learned what helped and what didn’t.”

“What helped?” he asks, seeming genuinely intrigued.

My heart lurches, remembering how many times I wished he were there, thinking if he had been, he’d hold my hair. He had after one too many times of partying hard. I’d always say never again, and he’d say it didn’t matter because he’d always be there to hold my hair. But he wasn’t there when it mattered the most.

“Not much. I’d just wait it out. Though I did make sure to stay away from bacon. The smell disgusted me.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes drifting shut briefly before they lift despondently back to mine. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to?—”

“Stop.” I press my lips tight, straining not to blink to ease the pressure growing. “Stop apologizing.”

“Anna.” He sits up. From my periphery I see him stretch his hand, and then I feel it rest on top of mine. For a moment I let it be, but when a whimper scrapes the side of my throat, I remove it. “I am sorry and I’ll never stop being sorry because I should’ve been there. I should have?—”

“But you weren’t, and that’s not going to change anything.”

I drop on my butt and scoot over to sit next to him, leaving enough space that even if he were to stretch his arm, he wouldn’t be able to touch me. The warmth of his rough palm burned my skin—I can still feel the weight of it on my hand—and shockingly my body craves to reach out, to feel him again.

I bristle at the thought.

“I should’ve been there,” he mumbles, but I hear the conviction in his voice loud and clear.