“Why do you have that?” she asked, her voice getting stronger and filled with anger and accusation. Spencer ignored her and bent to pick up the ring and gently place it back into the box. “You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want this.”
“I know,” he said placidly, trying not to show how much her words hurt him.
“So why do you have it?” she practically screeched. He lifted his face to the ceiling, fighting for control, trying to keep it together. “Why would you ignore my wishes like that? When you know this isn’t what I want.”
Always about her.
Finally, reaching the end of his tether, Spencer met her angry and confused eyes.
“Because I fucking love you, Daff!” He fought for control, but the words still flew out of his mouth at a louder volume than he intended. He brought it down to an angry whisper. “Because I want to marry you and spend the rest of my sorry life with you. Because this”—he waved the box angrily in her face—“this is what I want! It’s what I need.”
Finally running out of steam, he blinked rapidly, forcing the blurriness from his eyes.
“But I know it’s not what you want,” he continued, his voice softening and his heart breaking. “And that’s why it’s been lying at the bottom of my fucking sock drawer for weeks.”
“Spencer—”
“It’s okay. I’m not proposing, Daff,” he reassured quietly. “But I can’t do this anymore.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Her eyes were bright with tears, and it killed him to see them. He had never meant to make her cry.
“I’ve known, since I bought this ring, that I can’t do this. I love you, Daff. With everything in me. But you don’t want that love, and it’s breaking my heart—” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure and do this right. “It’s breaking my heart to be in this nonrelationship with you. I’ve tried to be what you want, do this your way . . . but that’s not the kind of man I am. I’m an all or nothing guy, Daff. I want the world to know that we belong to each other. I want to be able to show you how I feel, tell you how I feel. I want us to . . .” He shook his head and simply said, “I want us.”
“Spencer.”
“You’re wonderful,” he told her. “You’re beautiful, kind, sweet, amazing, smart, funny. You’re everything. Don’t forget that, Daff. Never let anyone make you feel like you’re less. Because you’re not. You’re everything.”
“Spencer, please, don’t.” She was sobbing now, doubled over, her arms folded protectively over her stomach.
“After the wedding—”
“No, Spencer,” she begged, but he had to remain resolute.
“After the wedding, I think it would be better if we saw each other only when absolutely necessary. For family events.”
She keened softly at his words, and Spencer found himself unable to resist dragging her into his arms and comforting her, despite what it cost him to touch her. He felt the dampness seep down his cheeks, and he choked back his own sobs.
“I love you so damned much,” he told her before kissing her one last time. He stepped back, looked into her beautiful, tear-drenched face for a long moment.
And let her go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Daff and Spencer still spoke over the next day and a half—they had to—stilted conversations about party plans, travel arrangements, and accommodation. Last-minute snags and fixes.
Daff felt far removed from everyone and everything. She made the right noises, smiled when she had to, and even cracked a few jokes. And never once looked like her heart was dying in her chest. But it was, she could feel it. It hurt at first, sharp and intense and overwhelming, but soon a welcome numbness set in and she was able to function with relative normalcy.
She had no other choice; her sister was getting married and she had promised that her thing with Spencer wouldn’t affect the wedding or their family dynamic. It had been an easy promise to make, because never in her wildest imaginings had she understood how very much the reality of being excluded from Spencer’s life would hurt.
Two days later, they set off for Plettenberg Bay. Daff and Spencer had rented a couple of minibuses, deciding that it was the most convenient transportation option. Daff was in one van with the women, and Spencer in the other with the men.
“So here’s the deal, ladies,” she called to the group as they set off. “My baby sister’s getting married next week—” She paused and allowed a few moments of rowdy catcalling and howls from the peanut gallery. “We’re having a full-on hen at a separate venue from the guys, but we’re meeting up with the sausage party later at a nightclub for some dancing and partying deep into the night. Transportation back to the hotel has been arranged, and there are rooms reserved for all your drunken asses. So there’s no need to worry about anything. Just make sure you have an awesome time. And remember to take a shot when somebody says ‘wedding,’ ‘bride,’ ‘bridesmaid,’ ‘groom,’ ‘hung like a horse,’ ‘crazy married sex,’ or ‘Mason loves Daisy.’ Oops, that’s seven shots to start you off!”