Take This Regret (Take This Regret #1)(42)
Author: A.L. Jackson

His assumptions roused a spark of bitterness, an irritation with him for goading me into this date. But I knew I couldn’t blame him for this. This was my mistake. Yes, he’d badgered me into it, pestered me until I’d given in, but that was only because I’d never been clear with him. So many times I’d told him we could only be friends, though my reasoning had come weak, given with a false hope that maybe in the future I’d be ready, even though I’d known I’d never be. I’d just never wanted to hurt my friend’s feelings.

Scott handed me the smal bundle of purple, pink, and white flowers, which I thanked him for and took to the kitchen to place in a vase of water. I used that moment to regroup, to remind myself that it was only dinner. It was only dinner.

By the time I’d placed the vase in the center of the table and locked the door, Christian was about to get into his car, having already buckled Lizzie in the back. This time his eyes didn’t fal . They burned into me, blue anguish fol owing me to the curb where Scott was parked on the street, unwavering as Scott settled me into the passenger seat of his black sedan.

Did this hurt him as much as he’d hurt me? Could he feel anything close to the devastation I’d felt the night he’d thrown me from his apartment? His expression told me yes, at least some of it.

I found no satisfaction in it, no triumph in his misery.

Instead, I wanted to call out to him that I was sorry.

“Ready?” Scott asked as he dropped into his seat and started his car.

Forcing a smile, I lied with a nod, hating the person I’d become.

I ran upstairs, rushed through the buttons of my blouse, the zipper on my skirt, kicked out of my heels, trying to shake off my guilt.

It didn’t work.

I was a terrible person, plain and simple.

I’d used my friend.

Digging through my dresser, I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. Aggressively, I pulled a brush through my head ful of product and ironed in curls and twisted my hair into a loose ponytail, wishing the action could somehow erase every memory of this night.

Scott had been so eager, excited even. He seemed sure I’d final y crossed that bridge and I would be his at last.

It had been there in his eyes, in the way they gleamed when they’d wash over me, in the light brushes of his leg against mine under the table—in the kiss I’d avoided with a jerk of my head, the one that had landed in rejection against my jaw. I’d felt it then, standing at my doorstep, the way Scott withdrew his unreturned affections, his hands still firm in their hold on my shoulders while he tore the rest of himself away.

His eyes had been kind, lacking the reproach they should have held when he stepped back and uttered an apology of contrition. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I shouldn’t have forced you into this.”

I’d choked on his apology, angry that I’d caused him to feel the need, and insisted that I was the one who should be sorry.

He’d shifted in discomfort and tried to hide the wounded look on his face, as the idea of us became a firm disenchantment in his mind.

He’d shrugged in indifference and said, “It’s okay.” We both knew it wasn’t. We both knew what I’d done.

He’d left with embarrassment on his face and a halfhearted see you on Monday.

In my bathroom, I scrubbed the makeup from my face, blotting out the last bit of physical evidence of this self-inflicted fiasco.

Five seconds later, the doorbel rang, and it almost sent me spiraling to the floor in confusion. I no longer knew up from down, what I wanted and what I should run from, what to fear and what to embrace. When it rang the second time, I realized Christian probably thought I hadn’t yet made it home.

I rushed downstairs, my bare feet landing with a heavy thud with each step I took. I fumbled as I raced through the locks to open the door.

Christian seemed surprised by the sudden movement, even more so when he took in my disheveled appearance, my pajamas and frazzled hair, I could only guess the expression on my face to match.

Lizzie danced in, her voice a sweet melody, singing praises for her and her father’s night. She crooned about how they’d made dinner together at his apartment, shared it while they counted the lights of the boats floating out upon the water, how she wished I could have been there to see it.

The entire time Christian stood in my doorway, his face flat, mouth slack in surrender.

I leaned against the edge of the door, gripping it for support as I prepared to cross another line. “Wil you stay?” His eyes flitted over my face, searching, seeking answers that neither of us had. The only thing I did know was I wanted him here with Lizzie, with me—that I couldn’t bear to watch him walk away, that I needed him to stay—that I wished I didn’t fear that need so much.

“Please,” I said, all but begging.

His brow furrowed when my plea seemed to break through his numb defeat. His hands pressed into fists at his thighs, his mouth trembling as he looked over my shoulder, probed my family room to find it empty. His eyes bore into mine, molten anguish. “I hate this, Elizabeth,” his words abraded, his breathing labored. “It shouldn’t have been like this.”

I had no words in response to that truth. I only widened the door and stepped back in inferred summons.

Please.

Even if it were only for tonight, I wanted to pretend that it wasn’t like this, that he hadn’t hurt me and in turn, I didn’t have to hurt him—that I hadn’t hurt Scott in the process.

I wanted to pretend as Christian relented and stepped through the door that he wasn’t unsure of his welcome; pretend as we dimmed the lights and the animated fairy tale sprang to life across the screen that we didn’t look at each other with uncertainty, rattled nerves, and pounding chests; pretend as the three of us gathered on the couch that we did it every day and that it was normal for Lizzie to sit between us snuggled into her daddy’s side to share a bowl of popcorn and a blanket spread over our laps; pretend that together we’d seen this movie a hundred times just as Lizzie and I had, and that he’d been there when we’d seen it the first time more than two years before; pretend that later this thirst would be slaked, that Christian would lay me down, and that I would be his and he would be mine.

The way it should have been.

But make-believe could only get me so far, and I knew it was time I measured my strength and resolved how far I’d all ow my heart to go.

I glanced across at him. His arm was draped over Lizzie’s shoulder and he played with strands of her hair. His attention was not on the television but on her, attentive to the way her face lit up in laughter, the way she sang along, the way she hid her eyes when the film turned dark even though she already knew the result and her hero would live.