“Don’t you want to?” she asks.
No—she begs.
She says it like someone who’s spent thirteen years dreaming of the chance to ask that question without ever believing she’d get to do it.
She never imagined it playing out like this, though.
Neither did I.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Things are complicated.”
That’s all I manage to get out before she pushes me off her. She’s gentle, but I can sense her hurt.
“Saoirse—”
“It’s okay,” she interrupts, gathering up her dress and holding it in front of her like a shield. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I reach for my boxers and put them back on.
By the time I do, she’s gone.