“Neither were you! You were here, hiding behind your unlocked door, waiting for her to come to you. You never went to her. Never took the risk. You just waited.”
His eyes flash. “I was protecting her from a distance.”
“You were protecting yourself from rejection.” I lean closer. “You’re so fucking scared of wanting something you can’t control that you let her slip through your fingers. And now you want to blame me?”
We stare at each other. Both of us broken by losing her. Both of us looking for someone to blame.
“Let go of me,” Dario says quietly.
I don’t.
“Enzo. Let go.”
Something in his voice cuts through the rage. Not fear. Not anger. Exhaustion.
I release his shirt. Step back.
He straightens his collar. Adjusts his sleeves. Puts himself back together piece by piece.
But his hands are shaking.
“We both fucked up,” he says finally. “Both of us. We were so careful, so cautious, so afraid of putting her in danger that we pushed her toward the one person who could actually be with her.”
“The Marshal.”
“The Marshal.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The safest man she could have chosen. The one who won’t get her killed. The one who can give her a normal life.”
“She doesn’t want normal. She never wanted normal.”
“Maybe she learned to want it.” He meets my eyes. “Maybe disappearing twice taught her that safe is better than seen.”
“So what do we do?” I ask. “Just let her go? Pretend we don’t know where she is? Move on?”
“Can you move on?”
No. The answer is immediate. Absolute.
I can’t move on. I can’t forget her. I can’t pretend that what we had was nothing, that she’s just some woman I used to know, that my heart isn’t still in that apartment with her.
“No,” I say out loud.
“Neither can I.” Dario walks to the bar. Pours two drinks. Hands me one. “So we figure out what to do about it.”
“What is there to do? She’s happy. She’s with someone. We’re the dangerous past she left behind.”
“She left because she had to. Not because she wanted to.” He downs his drink. Pours another. “She left us notes. Cookies. She didn’t choose to go.”
“That was six weeks ago. A lot can change in six weeks.”
“Yes. It can.” He looks at me. “Or it can’t. We don’t know what she wants. What she feels. You’re making assumptions based on a kiss you weren’t supposed to see.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we don’t know enough.” He sets down his glass. “I’m saying before we decide to walk away, we should at least ask her. Give her the choice.”
“And if she chooses him?”
“Then we have our answer.” His jaw tightens. “But at least she’ll know. At least she won’t spend the rest of her life wondering if we forgot about her. If we stopped looking. If we didn’t care enough to find her.”
