Page 177 of Sin

“Sinclair trait.”

“I noticed.”

He pulls back. “And call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

I smile. “You know me too well.”

“Working on it.”

On the ride home, I think about what Tate said. Maybe the choice isn’t between staying and leaving. Maybe the real choice is whether I keep letting fear make the decision for me.

My apartment is quiet when I get back and the letter is still on the kitchen counter.

I stand there for a long time with my coat still on and my purse hanging from my shoulder. Then I set down my bag. Take off my coat. Wash my hands. Make tea I will probably forget about. Delay, delay, delay. Finally, there is nothing left to do except stand in front of the counter and admit that a piece of paper has been holding me hostage.

I pick it up.

The envelope feels heavier than it should.

My thumb slips under the flap.

Then I open it.

25

Laurel

Laurel,

I don’t know if I’ll send this.

Maybe I’m writing it because Wilder told me to, and for once in his life, the little bastard may have been right. Maybe I’m writing it because there are things I should have said to you before the world had to hear pieces of them first.

Maybe I’m writing it because I miss you so badly I don’t know what to do with my hands.

I’ve started this letter six times. Every version begins with I’m sorry. None of them feel like enough.

I am sorry, Laurel.

Not in the easy way. Not in the way men say it when they want the words to become a shortcut to forgiveness. Not in the way I used to say it when I was trying to smooth over something I had no intention of truly facing.

I’m sorry in the way that sits in the bones.

I should have ended my marriage before I ever touched you.

I should have been honest with Jenna before there was anyone else.

I should have been honest with myself before I let wanting you become the only honest thing about me.

You deserved better than stolen rooms, locked doors, and excuses dressed up as business trips. You deserved a man who came to you clean. A man who could stand beside you in daylight without making you carry the weight of his unfinished life.