“So you’re what? Pushing me away because of something Amy and Eddie did?”

She looked away. When she caught sight of the shit show still out on the field, she had her answer. “Yeah. I’m pushing you away. Not because of Amy. I’m pushing you away because I never had you. I can take care of myself because those people—” She pointed to the group. “—don’t give a shit about me. I’ve known that for years. That’s why I left. Why I stayed away. I thought maybe things would be different this time. A wedding’s a happy occasion. Maybe they’d be different. If I brought a boyfriend, they’d see me differently. But no.”

“Screw them,” I said. “But not me.”

“I already did,” she countered, her words almost cruel. They made what we’d done the night before seem like I was a paid hooker. I was the Sandra for her. “We’re done, Thatcher. Obviously, I’m not going to the wedding tomorrow. Your services are no longer needed.”

“My services? I’m not talking about that. And you’ll remember you liked those services just as much as me,” I snapped right back. I ripped off the hat to run my hand over my head, realized it was the fucking ball cap and not my Stetson, and tossed it aside.

“Fine. I loved it. But it was a fling. Meaningless. You knew it. I knew it. It’s better to walk away now.”

“You don’t want to try, whatever this is between us?”

What was I saying? I couldn’t keep her, but I didn’t want to let her go.

“Do you? Because you were just as clear as me. I’m not the one leaving the country.”

She pointed to the dugouts where everyone was collecting their stuff. Softball wasn’t going to happen now. “Besides, I’m not turning into that. You saw it first-hand what love is like. It’s not real. It’s a lie. I’m sparing you—both of us—now.”

I thought of Claire’s words. How love was easy.

No way. But this was the closest I’d ever felt to a woman and it had all been pretend. If it was real, I’d be gutted. Exactly the reason I’d avoided it.

Still, someone like her deserved to be loved. To show up a guy with her killer softball skills. With her amazing baking. With her need for promptness. Hell, for her need for someone to make her first. Above everything and everyone else.

And I couldn’t give her that.

Because right now, it fucking hurt and we’d been faking it all along. If it were real, I wasn’t going to survive and I’d been in survival mode since I was twelve.

“What about last night?” I asked.

The question made me sound like a total girl.