“It feels like a coincidence,” I say, slipping my hand out from under his.
“Awildcoincidence. I wonder if it’s a cosmic sign telling us there’s a chance for repair.”
Repair?
What would that mean, exactly? Are we going to be friends? Gallivant around at book parties and run into each other in the Hamptons?
Unlikely.
“If by repair you mean in the sense that we can talk civilly over a drink, sure,” I say. “Beyond that, I’ve moved on.”
His eyes crinkle with disappointment.
“You mean to someone else?” he asks.
“I mean with my life.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you.”
He holds up his hands. “Oh, right. Of course. I’m sorry for asking. It’s only—” He closes his eyes tightly, then rubs his temple. “I made a big mistake, Hope.”
My heart clenches.
I don’t want it to, but I havelongedfor these words.
“I’d never been so in love with someone before. It terrified me, and I shut down. It was childish and shortsighted, and I’m so ashamed of what I did—how I left you in the lurch. And regretful. Because the thing is—Ididwant it. Everything we dreamed about, everything we planned.”
I will my heart not to beat faster at this pronouncement.
“You say that,” I say, “but it’s only because you can’t have it anymore. You romanticized the idea of it. You hated the reality.”
“No,” he says. “That’s not true. I’ve done extensive therapy since we broke up—”
“Since you left me,” I interrupt.
He winces. “Yeah. And what I’ve realized is that I have a block around giving and receiving real love. You know how cold my family is. I want something better for myself, something like you have with your parents. Like I had with you. I was just too frightened to take it.”
I’m trying so hard not to be drawn in.Sohard. But when someone who has shattered your heart comes and lies down at your feet, it’s very difficult to be entirely unmoved.
“I’m not sure why we’re having this conversation,” I say, straining not to reveal that this is softening me. “Or whyyou’rehaving it.”
“Youknowwhy I’m saying this to you, Hope,” Gabe says softly. “Of course you know.”
“I honestly don’t.”
He leans forward and traces his thumb over the line of my jaw.
“Because—” he begins to say.
But he’s interrupted by a posh British woman saying, “Is that Hope?”
I dart my eyes toward the voice to see Pear and Prue Segrave looking straight at us. Behind them is Felix. And his eyes are trained on Gabe’s hand cradling my face.
Felix
I would not describe myself as a possessive person. But I physically recoil when I see Hope being touched—tenderly caressed, more accurately—by some strange man.
