That clearly doesn’t sit well with him. His chest lifts on a breath, and he makes a fist as though he’s trying not to reach for me. But then he shakes his head once and cups my cheek. “Let me in, Delilah. Please. I want in so badly.”

Tell him your piece. Get it out, or it will continue to fester.

But the truth hurts and makes me ashamed that I’m not able to let my past go. Words work like broken glass against my throat. “I want to be with you. I do. But there are things . . . my mind . . . sometimes it gets stuck on repeat.”

“Repeat?” A furrow appears between his brows. “What does that mean?”

I can’t tell him about what Sam said without telling him about Sam’s call.

My fingers curl into the folds of his soft cotton shirt. “I woke up today . . .” Excited. Until Sam. Now I’m . . . “It’s not logical, okay? And that’s the most frustrating thing about this. But like it or not, we spent a decade lashing out at each other, and I still have those scars. For years, whenever I looked in a mirror and saw flaws, whenever I heard that voice in my head that said I wasn’t good enough . . . Macon, it was your voice I heard.”

A sound leaves him, small and pained. He looks utterly wrecked. “Shit.” His jaw bunches tight as he ducks his head. “Delilah . . . shit.” He slams his fist against the counter.

“Don’t do that. You’ll hurt your wrist again.” I reach for him, but he brushes me off.

“You think I care?” He doesn’t yell; his voice is a ghost of itself, which somehow makes it more horrible. “When you’ve just torn me wide open? It fucking guts me that I’ve done this to you.” He lifts his hands in supplication. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.”

With another curse, he turns away and glares at the floor as if it might hold some answers.

“Maybe you can’t. Maybe it’s too late for us.” Clearing the air hasn’t made anything better. It’s worse. So much worse.

Macon’s head snaps up. “No.” He moves as though he wants to hold me but halts a few inches away. He doesn’t touch me but lowers his head until we share the same air. “No, don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry, Macon. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll get over it.” I will. I will. “It just hits me sometimes.”

“I don’t want it to hit you.” His voice is sharp and rough. “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”

“I want that too. Without hesitation or reservation.” A lump clogs my throat, and my voice comes out in a rasp. “But sometimes what we want isn’t what we get.”