that you were the only one who could ever scratch the scabs that cover me. You made me bleed when I didn’t want to.
And now I’ve made you bleed too much. Why does it feel like it’s my wound too?
Doesn’t matter. I bought you this because it reminded me of stars. I figure you can wear these stars around your neck and always remain hopeful. I understand if they remind you of me instead and you don’t want my gift. In that case, sell the damn thing and use the money for whatever pleases you.
—Macon Saint
P.S. This is my last piece of dignity and you are welcome to it. Your face is familiar to me as my own. Now that I know I won’t ever see yours again, it feels as though a part of me has died. Do you really think it is because you are my enemy?
My breath is caught somewhere between my heart and my throat. I can’t seem to set it free. Blinking rapidly, I clutch the letter in my hands and finally face him. There is too much in his eyes: wariness, yearning, sorrow, regret, but no hope. His walls are up, though it’s clear he’s fighting through them.
Hearing Macon’s voice from the past has opened both of us wide. He’s so still he might as well be frozen. When he speaks, the words crackle like fragile glass. “Are you going to open the box?”
I haven’t yet touched the box. I’m afraid to. The letter implies he gave me a necklace, but I fear seeing it might break my bruised heart. His letter nearly did me in. I want to tell him things, hold him close, and cry for both of us. He, the proud and messed-up boy whom I hated so much, and me, the proud and defensive girl who always seemed to seek him out whenever she wanted a fight.
I’d long forgotten what I said about the stars. They were words tossed out in the moment. But they clearly imprinted upon Macon and meant something to him. Strange how the knowledge now makes the stars more meaningful to me as well.
I smooth a hand over the slightly textured surface of the blue box. “Macon . . .”
“Open it, Tot.” His voice is old velvet. I cannot refuse the request.
“Oh. Oh, my.” With trembling hands, I lift the necklace free. The chain is a delicate thread of gold that holds a well-spaced row of tiny diamonds glinting in the sunlight. He got me Diamonds by the Yard. “Macon . . .” My breath hitches. “It’s beautiful.”
His brows knit together as he looks at the necklace. “I thought rose gold would complement your skin well.”
A small helpless laugh escapes me. “I’d love this even if it didn’t.”
He nods as if satisfied. “Okay, then. Good.”
Unable to stop myself, I lift the necklace to the light, admiring the sparkle of the diamonds and the mellow luster of the gold. “It’s absolutely beautiful. But why did you keep it? You could have returned it, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly, still frowning. “But it wasn’t mine to return. It was yours.”
My mouth falls open. “But . . . you thought I’d sent it back. It’s been a decade, Macon.”
“I am aware.” His expression is dry. “Doesn’t change the fact that it is still yours. Whether you accept it or not.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my fingers curling around the thin chain in protest, even though my mind says I have to let it go.
His lips form a determined line. “Then back in the safe it goes.”
“Macon . . .”
“Delilah.” He leans closer, his big shoulders bunching. “You’re not hearing me. The necklace belongs to you or no one.” Coffee-black eyes peer at me from under the sweep of thick lashes. “You’re under no obligation to wear it, but don’t expect me to return the thing either. It’s a decade too late for that.”
“Stubborn.”
His grin is quick but fond. “Says the most stubborn woman I know.” The easy expression fades, and he takes a breath. “I meant every word I wrote. And I know it isn’t enough . . .”
“Words never feel like enough,” I say. He winces, and I continue in a soft rush. “When you’re the one saying them. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t. You opened a window to your heart. You gave me your trust. You didn’t have to do any of that, but you did. And it means something.”