He would be the perfect, understanding boyfriend if I could just be with him. But how can I? In all reality, we both know we shouldn’t be together. No one else would understand. I can barely understand.
I’m thinking Ethan feels the same way.
“I can’t lie to you. It’s overwhelming, and it’s scary to imagine that he’s reached out to you like this,” I tell him, trying my best to choose my words carefully. “I want to be there for you. I want to help you as a friend, Ethan. I hope you know that.”
“I could really use a friend right now,” he murmurs.
“Give me ninety minutes,” I say before I end the call.
It takes me closer to two hours before I finally arrive at Ethan’s house. Traffic wasn’t the best, plus I stopped off and bought us large coffees before I got to his house. I figured we’d need the caffeine boost.
By the time I approach his front door, he’s already there, standing in the open doorway, wearing a button-down black-and-blue flannel shirt undone over a black T-shirt and jeans, Molly at his feet and wagging her tail furiously. She looks ready to burst with excitement. The moment she spots me she comes wiggling over, her tail whipping fast, lashing through the air as she sniffs my legs from the knee down.
“Coffee,” Ethan says gratefully as he reaches out to take the small cardboard tray from my hands. “Thank you.”
“And the doughnuts from yesterday. I left them in the freezer, but hopefully they mostly thawed out on the drive over,” I say as I follow Ethan into the house, closing the door behind me with my foot. I reach for Molly’s head and give it a rub, balancing the pastry box in my other hand. “How did she do last night?”
“She was great. Got a little whiny when we first went to bed, but eventually I picked her up and let her sleep next to me on the bed, curled up like a ball all night.” He rolls his eyes, looking the faintest bit embarrassed. “I told her we shouldn’t make a habit out of her doing that.”
“Why not? I think it’s adorable.” I set the box on the coffee table and turn to look at him, purposely keeping my expression as cheerful as possible. I don’t want him to think I’m worried or apprehensive over the real reason I’m here. Knowing I’m going to read that letter, or at least catch a glimpse of that man’s handwriting on a piece of paper that he’s actually touched, shouldn’t make me so nervous.
But it so does. And maybe it’s not right, me unable to be real with Ethan when I expect nothing less from him, but I can’t help it. The man that is his father is a complete monster. I’ve suffered at the hands of Aaron Monroe and I’m one of the few who actually survived.
So did Ethan. We’re both survivors.
We make nice and pretend nothing bad has happened. I grab the box of doughnuts and bring them to the small kitchen table. Ethan walks over and sits down, bringing our coffees with him. His gaze never leaves me as I putter around his kitchen like I belong here. I find plates and napkins, then ask if he might want a glass of milk when finally he tells me to come sit down and eat.
“Thank you,” he says when I sit across from him and reach into the box, extracting a doughnut covered with rainbow sprinkles. “For coming over. I know—I know you probably don’t want to deal with any of this. So I appreciate that you’re here.”
“I want to help you, Ethan. I want to be your friend,” I tell him, ducking my head. I’m sure he hates that I say I only want to be his friend. Isn’t that the worst way to break up with a guy? Besides, I can’t face him right now. It’s too hard. “We’re eventually going to have to talk about everything that’s happened, but I just . . . I don’t know how. I don’t understand exactly how we came back into each other’s lives, and why you felt it necessary to keep your identity a secret.”
“Would you have been happy to know it was really me, Katie? That it was Will you were talking to? Spending time with?”
If I’d known he was Will, I’m not sure how far I would have taken any of this. “I don’t know how I would’ve reacted,” I admit.
He takes a deep breath and I keep my head bent, fear and nerves and anger making me tremble. My appetite leaves me yet again, the doughnut sitting in front of me totally unappealing. I don’t want to hurt him, yet I do. I want to give him comfort and I also want to hit him. Scream at him. Allow him to speak and then beg him to shut up.
I’m completely conflicted. Hopelessly confused.
“When I saw your interview, it was a total shock, to hear your voice, to see your face. You looked the same, yet different. So grown up, so beautiful. And I knew . . .” His voice drifts. “I knew I wanted to try and find you.”
I wait for him to say more, refuse to allow his words to touch me. Affect me. I need to remain strong. Impassive. As though what he says doesn’t mean anything.
“Do you really want to hear this?” he asks, his voice soft, the slightest bit shaky.
I lift my head, my gaze meeting his. I see the reluctance there. And the pain—so much pain. “I need to hear it. Before we can move forward, I have to know what led up to our meeting.”
Yesterday was the two of us playing at normal. Pretending life was fun and carefree when it so wasn’t. Our problematic past will always plague us. I don’t think it’s possible for me to be with him right now, not romantically, but I can’t let him go, either. We’ve shared too much, been through too much together. To walk away after everything that’s happened would be cruel.