Page 72 of I Know You

He bolts up, hands clenched and jaw so tense I worry it will shatter under any more pressure. “So you can tell me that at some point, hopefully you’ll forget him? That someday maybe you won’t be kissing me and thinking about him? Sorry, Miss Granville, second place is really starting to wear on me.”

My own anger flares because he’s right, and he has every reason to shout at me the way he is. “Stop calling me that.”

“I thought you liked all this proper gentleman stuff, that everything about being in the past felt natural.” He sneers that last word, and I gasp at the way he mocks me. He takes a few steps toward me but not really coming close. So he’s talking, but I don’t think his sarcastic words are productive in any way.

I take a deep breath, keeping calm. “You’re using it to keep me out, to keep on your mask, the way you always have with me.”

He runs a hand roughly through his hair. “Of all the people in this world, Clara, you know everything about me.”

“I know more than most,” I correct him with a shake of my head. “But your mom said something to me the other day, that she could tell you loved me, and I realized I didn’t even know that.”

“Because your head is too full of Quint Allen,” Ben snaps. “I’ve had a long day shivering and thinking about the way you still look at him and how he looks at you—and the way he really did look at you downstairs just now? Worse than my imagination.”

Guilt makes his words sting worse, and my words get away from me. “I wish I could say that there were women in your past too, Ben, and throw that in your face, but I don’t even know. Except for maybe Miss Swanson, and I only discovered the bare minimum of what happened with her because you told William in front of me.”

“What do you want from me?” he cries. “Every sordid detail of those lonely two years? How I thought I had found happiness, only to have my reputation nearly ruined—to have to spend months away on supposed recovery to salvage it? Do you want me to say that I loved Miss Swanson? I thought I did.” With every word his voice rises, filled with anger and distrust. “What do you want from me?” he repeats. His gaze is heated and hard, his jaw rigid. “You want me to prove my love? To prove I deserve you more than Quint?” His expression is condescending and scornful as he grabs my wrist, pulling me toward him so that I slam against his chest.

My own hurt boils in my stomach and spits up into my throat, stinging my eyes with tears. I don’t want to give up on him, but this talk is better left to the morning when we can both calm down. I put my hands on his chest to move away, but he crushes his lips to mine.

He presses a hand into my back, forcing me closer to him. His lips move over mine with passion and intensity, trying to prove, in the desperate way he holds me, his supposed love. His other hand slides down my side, over my hip, and then grips me there.

“Stop, Ben,” I whisper, when his lips move to my chin, my neck. I shake my head, my voice wobbly. This is passion from anger, not love. Tears bloom in my eyes as I try to push away from him, but he holds on tighter and moans my name.

“No. Stop,” I beg in a betrayed whisper. I push again and finally break away.

He stares at me with the heat of anger and hunger still in his eyes. I stumble back from him and hold a hand tight against my mouth, driving back the pain threatening to tear me apart inside. I hate him in this moment, but it feels like a double-edged sword. There’s a thrill to Ben wanting me so much, but my disgust at his methods, our anger at each other, my fear of him—those things override any of it. I shake my head at him.

Then I flee.

“Clara…” The anger drops from his voice, replaced by remorse. I ignore him, escaping into my room, pushing the door firmly closed. I hiccup with a suppressed sob.

I push my fist into my mouth to hold back the emotion. I refuse to break down over this. Everything feels impossible. I love Ben, but it’s not enough. I love Quint, but it doesn’t matter. And everything I do is only hurting them.

It doesn’t mean I deserve the disrespect Ben just threw at me—his pain turned on me in derision like a weapon. It makes me want to stomp back into his room and shout at him, shake some sense into him. Anything to release the frustration shaking through me.

A tangle of hurt, anger, and regret threatens to shatter inside me if I don’t let it out. Sobs beg for release, burning my chest with intensity. I pick up a vase near the door, forgetting for a moment I don’t own the furnishings in the house. I hurl it across the room, relishing the ring of shattering glass, and drop to my knees.

Before I can liberate my aching emotions, the door bangs open. Quint bursts inside. He grabs me by the arm, yanking me behind him. He swings the point of his presumably RAF-issued pistol into all the corners as he backs me out into the hall.

Drained, I drop to the floor outside my door and laugh. I laugh because if I don’t, the shaking in my shoulders will turn to sobs.

Quint straightens, spinning around to face me. “Why are you laughing, Miss Granville?” he demands, his voice accusatory and hurt.

My laughter pitches high, bordering on hysterical. “Miss Granville?” I question, pushing myself to stand up and move back inside my room. “If you call me that one more time, I might scream. We were friends—more than that. A lot more.”

He reddens, marching into the room behind me. “Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know.” I close my eyes and let out the last burst of dry hilarity, taking care to breathe deeply so tears don’t follow. “There is no one here to attack me. I threw your vase. I’m sorry.” I wave my hand in the corner of the room toward the culprit of the noise I suspect brought Quint barging in.

He furrows his brows, then takes a step back. “I’m surprised Ben hasn’t rushed in,” he says, scrutinizing the floor instead of me.

“I don’t know if he even cares,” I say. I rub at my temple. Quint and I both swivel our gazes to the door when footsteps snap away from my door. Sighing, I turn away, expecting Quint to retreat, as he seems to so often from my presence, just like Ben has. But in that quiet moment, I hear no more footsteps retreating, not even the sound of Quint’s breathing.

After holding my own breath, I look up and see Quint’s disappointed gaze on the nightstand. The open box that holds Ben’s ring. “You’re engaged to Ben?” he asks in a rough voice.

I swallow. “I don’t know—I hadn’t told him yes yet. I couldn’t until—” I take a deep breath. “Until I’d forgotten you.”

Quint holds up his hands, as if defending himself, and shakes his head. “Don’t. Please don’t, Clara… Let’s not dredge all that up.”