“Georgia,” I rasp, bouncing Aurora, hand rubbing her back gently. “Baby. What happened? What are you talkin’ about? Who?”
She shakes her head, eyes locked on Aurora like she’s drowning in her own guilt.
“I fucked up,” she says, voice cracking. “I read the letter. And I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. Because all it did was prove me right.”
My heart goes still. “What letter?”
“The letter from Marlee,” she whispers, tipping her chin at our daughter. “Her mom.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
My vision tunnels then sways before zeroing back in on her. It’s always on her. On them. My world.
And right now, it’s shattering.
“You’re her mama,” I finally force out. Swallowing hard, I grab her hand and place it against Aurora’s cheek. “You, freckles. You are her mama now. It’s us. You, me, Rory. We’re a family.”
“But we’re not,” she says, smoothing Aurora’s curls like she’s memorizing them. “I want it so bad, but it’ll never be me. Every time you look at her, you’ll see her real mom. You’ll see the woman who came first. The one you built this house for. The one with her eyes and her smile and her laugh. The one with the initials in a tree. Your forever and always.”
She yanks her hand away and steps back, voice breaking.
“And I’ll just be the shadow who tried to take her place.”
“Georgia…”
How did I fuck this up so badly? And how the hell did Marlee get to her from the fuckin’ grave?
“I would’ve stayed, you know,” she whispers, meeting my gaze with tears so heavy, she doesn’t bother erasing them. “I would’ve stayed forever. But you never said it. Not once. Not when I was sick. Not when I crawled into your bed. Not when I was holding your daughter. Not even when I told you I wanted to stay.”
She laughs bitterly, breath hitching.
“All this time, I thought I was the one too scared to love. But it was you. It’s always been you because you’ve—” Her voice catches on a sob I feel right down to my fucking bones. “Because you’ve always beenhers.”
“No,” I grunt, body trembling, head shaking rapidly. “No, baby. I’m not. Never was. Not like this. Not like you.”
But she’s already turning, dragging the suitcase, climbing into her car and panic turns to something cold and sharp and burning all at once. I throw myself forward, legs damn near buckling beneath me.
“I do love you,” I choke out, blinking through tears. “God, Georgia, I’ve loved you since the moment you stole my fuckin’ hat and rode into the sunset. Baby, I’ve loved you this whole damn time. I was just... scared you'd run the second I said it. But I love you. I do. I love you.I love you.”
She’s sobbing, yanking on her hair, but her Jeep starts anyway. She looks fuckin’ terrified and broken and so small in big SUV and my panic about her leaving me bleeds into something else.
“Darlin’, stop!” I shout. “Stop! Stay! Don’t you dare drive right now!”
Georgia pauses for a minute, hands tight around the wheel, and for a few breaths, I think she might stay. Think she might choose me. Us.
But then she exhales roughly and glances at me through the window, eyes soaked with tears, expression so cold, it guts me.
The mask is back. The one I painstakingly disassembled, brick by fucking brick. It’s back, and she’s running. Just like I knew she would.
“Day by day, Kade. That’s what you said…” Her brows tighten in pain. “That’s all you said.”
I stagger.
She swallows hard, her eyes locked on our daughter.
“The days are up. And the dream?” She closes her eyes and puts the Jeep in drive. “It was never meant to be mine.”
And then she’s gone.
