The Hating Season (Seasons #2) - K.A.Linde Page 0,97
in the entrance was Josh. He stared at me as if seeing a ghost.
“English?” he whispered hesitantly.
“Hi, Josh.”
“What are you doing in LA?”
“Well,” I said, leaning back against the railing, “my sister was shot in New York.”
His eyes bulged, and he stepped fully out onto the veranda. “Taylor? Holy shit! Is she okay?”
“Went through her thigh and one grazed her hip. Hit the femoral artery, and she had to have surgery to stop the blood. But… she’s lucky. She was discharged within a week, and we were able to bring her home. Her friend is still in the hospital. And apparently, the guy who did this… has killed most of his victims.”
“Jesus Christ,” Josh said. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
I shook my head. “No, there’s really nothing anyone can do. It’s been… horrible.”
He tentatively stepped forward, as if afraid I would throat-punch him again. He rested a hand on my arm. “I’m really, truly so sorry to hear that. Taylor is a good kid. She doesn’t deserve that. And I just… I hate that you’re going through it alone.”
I nodded. I hated that I was going through it alone, too. It was so much to carry on my shoulders. And suddenly, tears hit me fresh. Josh and I had been together so long. I’d always been able to be myself with him. To tell him everything. Now, I couldn’t stop the tears.
Without hesitating, he pulled me into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, English.”
I cried into his shoulder. My tears soaking through his rather expensive suit coat. Likely totally fucking my makeup. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t stop me. He just rubbed my back and held me.
After a few minutes, I hiccuped and pulled back. I wiped under my eyes with my fingers. “God, I probably look like such a mess.”
“No, you don’t,” he whispered softly. His eyes so wide and caring.
I pulled a compact out of my purse and adjusted my makeup. My cheeks were red and puffy, and my eyes looked like, well, like I’d been crying. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it’d be.
His hand was still on my shoulder, steadying me. “You know, I’ll always be here for you, English. If you need someone to talk to or just cry on, I can be there.”
“Thank you.” I swallowed back the last wave of tears and sniffed once. “I appreciate it.”
His hand was still on my shoulder. Rubbing slow circles into my skin. “Do you have a sense of déjà vu?”
“A little,” I whispered.
It did feel the same.
We’d met on a night just like this one. Except that I’d been so out of my element and he’d been pure confidence. I’d never thought that I could fall for someone like him. And within hours, I’d handed over my entire heart, hook, line, and sinker.
He stepped in closer. His arms came around my shoulders. “I want it to be like it was. I wish we could go back to that night and start over.”
I did, too. A small part of me really wanted that.
A part of me even wanted this right here. For my husband to have been here for me through all of it.
It would be so easy to just play the night over again. To get lost in conversation with him for hours on end. To let him call me after and woo me into a date. We’d go to a fancy restaurant. He’d insist on ordering, but I’d order for myself anyway because that was who I was. We’d dance in the lobby of the bar to no music, and he’d drive me home and kiss me at the door.
We’d make up. Go to counseling. Forget what had happened. And live happily ever after.
I could see the entire future in his eyes as he waited for my response. Waited for me to agree with him.
But as much as that would be wonderful, it wasn’t even what I wanted anymore. He wasn’t what I wanted.
So, I stepped back, away from his comforting arms. “But we can’t go back.”
He sighed heavily. “Maybe we can.”
“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “No, we can’t.”
“Is it still about what happened in London? It would never happen again.”
“I know,” I said. Because a part of me did know. Losing me had changed his mind. Made him realize his mistake. He wouldn’t do it again. Not to me. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not the same person I