Henry turned slowly to look at her, his brow furrowed, his eyes delving into her as if he might be able to find her motive for saying such a thing. The evidence of his ongoing struggle with anger sharpened the edge in his voice. “Don’t you dare give me hope, Amala, if you will only end up breaking my heart again.”

Amala was proud of herself for countering firmly, “And don’t presume that my admission to having made a mistake means that I have any idea how all of this will turn out. Still”—she took in a deep breath and looked away, unable to bear his gaze another second—“it’s a place to start, I suppose.” She then repeated her hope that he would take it as a challenge. “Trust cannot be rebuilt without some risk.”

He said nothing, and she stood, knowing she couldn’t bear any more of this right now and he’d likely reached his limits as well. She had enough sense to know when a conversation was already far too overloaded, and this one certainly was.

“Thank you for listening, Henry, and for your candor. I would very much like to get past this awkward silence between us.” She met his eyes firmly as she concluded, “I miss you.”

Still he said nothing, and she left the room, again overcome with that trembling inside. She hurried to her own room, where she locked the doors and went to her knees beside the bed, praying that she’d done the right thing, said the right words, to help move them both forward on this impossible path.

Chapter Fourteen

FILLED WITH COLOR

Henry watched Amala leave the room before he moved back to the sofa, suddenly weak. He pressed his head into his hands and groaned. He sat there for more than an hour, considering everything Amala had said—and his own words to her, some of them having come out far more brutally than he’d intended.