I stride toward the kitchen, figuring she might be in there, considering she was supposed to be cooking. But the space is empty, save for the full dinner spread on the counter—including dessert. It’s all finished and yet there’s no sign of her.
Worry creeps across my shoulders, tightening the muscles, but I force myself to shake it out. She’s probably just upstairs getting changed. Maybe she accidentally spilled something on herself and needed to put on something new.
I take the stairs two at a time, calling out for her again, figuring she didn’t hear me. When I don’t get an answer this time, the worry slowly morphs into dread.
It momentarily stops when I throw open the door to her bedroom and spot her, but it rushes in when I see the suitcase she’s kneeling next to.
Her head snaps up when the doorknob bangs against the wall, and I hate the panic that lights her eyes at the sound.
“I’m sorry,” I rush to say, but I stop in my tracks as I stare down at her. “What are you—what are you doing?”
Her gaze drops to the suitcase, hands returning to the task of putting items inside. “I have to go back to DC.”
The words are quiet, nearly a whisper, and they’re not said with her usual confidence. It’s…weak.Sheseems weak, like something has beaten the life out of her and has left a husk in its wake. It’s a Stella I’ve never seen before.
“You—what?” I shake my head, not understanding. Is this what she wanted to talk to me about? I know I’m late, but not so much that I thought she would give up on waiting and start on whatever plan she’d hatched without explaining it to me. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t lift her head, just keeps steadily working, folding a blouse and pressing it into the case. “There are some things at home I need to handle.”
Home.The last times she’s said that, she’s meant here, this house. Our home. But other than that throwing me, it’s the timing of it all.
“Our wedding is in five days,” I point out.
“I know.”
I wait for more, staring slack-jawed. “Okay…” I try not to scoff, but the derisive sound escapes anyway. “Will you be back by then?” Or is this her way of telling me it’s over? That we’re completely done?
Finally, Stella looks up. The misery in her gaze catches me out, my breath hitching.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“You don’tknow?” I repeat incredulously. I let my hands fling out to the sides, silently begging for her to let me in and tell me what the hell is going on. “Stella, what—”
“I have some business to take care of,” she interrupts, louder this time, but it’s still not her voice.
I don’t recognize this woman on her knees. And I don’t know what could have turned her into—
No. I do know. If she’s going back to DC and it’s got her this wrecked, then it’s because of her ex. Something has happened between her invitation this morning and her packing now, and I’m certain it has to do with him. The only times I’ve ever seen her close up and curl in on herself like this were when something I did reminded her of him or whenever I pressed too hard to share about her past.
The fight floods out of me, and then I’m on the floor in front of her, kneeling on the other side of her suitcase and trying to get her to look at me. “Sweetheart, talk to me. Please.” I reach across to where her hand rests on a pile of clothes, covering it with mine. “Is everything all right?”
She’s quiet again, fighting for the right answer. It’s a long moment before she quietly settles on “It will be.”
But that’s not good enough. I need more. I need a real explanation of what Étienne has said or done to have her crawling back to America mere days before we’re supposed to prove to everyone that our love is real.
“Stella,” I hedge, squeezing her fingers, trying to keep her with me even though she’s already slipping away. “You don’t have to—”
“I need to go, Thomas, okay?” she cuts in. The words are rushed and her eyes are pleading. “Will you let me do this? Please?”
I want to tell her no, that I won’t let her do that because I don’t want her to leave our home to go see another man. But that’s not my place. Stella doesn’t need my permission for anything. She never has and never will. I’m certain she knows it too, so the fact that she’s even asking in this roundabout way instead of just jerking her hand away and storming off is a punch straight in the heart.
She’s said it without having to say the actual words—she feels for me as deeply as I feel for her. This is all reciprocal, a closed loop of respect and adoration, the start of something that’s steadily building to more.
And now I have to watch her walk away from me.
I’m slow to draw back. Slow to stand. Slow to step to the side and watch her zip the suitcase closed. She keeps her head down, eyes low, lips pressed together hard. I’ll break if I see a single tear slip down her cheek, but I doubt she’ll allow herself that show of emotion.
I have to let her go and pray she’ll come back. She’s said her piece and I won’t debate her on what she thinks she needs, because I get the feeling that what she needs is closure. Still, I can’t stop from grabbing the handle of her suitcase when she moves for the door, stopping her.
