all over our bodies. We were still tangled as one, a storm of intensity rippling between our shared gaze.
“Sometimes…” I started. Gathered my courage. “Sometimes I’m still angry with you because you left. You left me.”
Her lips parted. “Angry? About Quantico, you mean?”
I nodded, running my nose along her skin. She smelled so good.
“Oh, Sam,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d care. We were competitors. We fought constantly. I thought you’d be happy not to have me in the way of the number one spot anymore.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Competitors can still be friends. Friends tell each other things.”
She assessed me for a minute, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. If our electric attraction to each other was the third rail of our relationship, the concept of friendship was truly taboo.
“You’re right,” she finally said. “Friends do tell each other things.”
“You were set to graduate with top honors,” I said. “My father told me you were the most promising new recruit they’d seen in years. That’s high praise, coming from him.”
Freya closed her eyes, like what I’d said was hurtful. “I couldn’t do it.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t handle it,” she said, eyes opening. Shining with tears. “From the first day I arrived until I officially left, I suffered from severe anxiety and panic attacks. Racing thoughts, night terrors that led to insomnia. I spent every second nervous, upset, and so tightly wound I couldn’t think straight.”
I thought about that feeling I had in my chest all the time at the FBI—like my sternum was being crushed by a herd of elephants. And I’d never, ever withstand the weight. Freya felt that way too?
“You were in pain?” I asked.
“A lot of pain. All the time,” she said. “I hid it very well.”
My arms tightened around her back, pulling her even closer. I couldn’t stop staring at her, as if the act alone could undo her suffering.
“You and I shared a similar dream,” she said. “I knew I’d be an extraordinary agent. I was too smart and too analytical and too focused not to be. But even if you’re good at something, and even if you might have wanted it before, it doesn’t always mean it’s the right fit. The right fit or the healthy fit.”
That sentiment short-circuited my brain waves. It went against every aspect of my father’s strict perfectionism.
“You could have told me,” I said, wrestling the emotion from my voice.
Freya’s thumbs stroked across my cheeks. She seemed as surprised at the anguish in my tone as I was.
“I hid it from everyone, Sam. Except my mother, who came for a weekend visit and could tell right away I wasn’t feeling like myself. Special Agents have extremely high-pressure jobs, as you well know. If I felt like I was panicking every single second while training, imagine what it would have felt like throughout a thirty-year career?”
“It would have felt like a responsibility,” I said firmly. “It’s the highest duty to serve as a federal agent. There’s a lot of honor in the Bureau.”
“Honor had nothing to do with it,” she said sadly. “I prioritized my health over the needs of the Bureau, as much as it hurt. As much as it still—” She stopped. Shook her head. “It was a tough decision, but it was a failure of the best kind. I quit for the right reasons.”
That nervousness was coming back into her gaze though. Was this the source of her anxiety on this case? Did Freya feel like not enough?
“Did I make it worse?” I asked, brow furrowing. “Always pushing you and competing? Always making you feel—”
“No,” she said. “No, not at all. I’ve been a competitive overachiever since the day I got my first A. If I wasn’t competing against you, it would have been another student. And I was always, always competing against myself.”
Freya settled more firmly on my lap, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead.
“I’m sorry. You told me at the library, and I didn’t expect to feel…” I thought back to that day, the feelings that had compelled me to put a pen to paper and write my first—and only—love letter. “Sad. I’d gotten used to kicking your butt in class.”
Her smile lit up the dark car.
“I was so sad,” I repeated—seriously this time. “I never, ever let myself admit it. But I missed you so much, Evandale. And I’m very sorry that the last thing I said to you was that you were making a mistake.”