“The widower with the broken heart,” she supplied. “That image?”

“Yeah,” he said, with the shame that the title brought surely evident in his features. “That image.”

“That’s not true,” she said in a calm, comforting voice. He suspected it was her work voice, and that she’d segued into it. He only hoped she didn’t start viewing him as a project, as someone who needed fixing. He didn’t want to be that person with her. He wanted to be so much more, but he hardly knew how.

“I cared about Aubrey deeply. I loved her as a friend. But I didn’t love her as a man loves a woman,” he said in a low voice, one he barely recognized as his own. Because he’d only said these words out loud to his sister, and to Nate. “I wasn’t in love with her.”

“Oh,” she said on a long, loud sigh of understanding. It was all out in the open. She could see him for who he truly was. “But everyone believes you’re the person the media portrays you as. The grieving widower.” She crossed her arms, protecting herself from the man before her.

A calloused jerk.

He nodded. “Yes. Because that was the least I could do for her.”

She tilted her head to the side. “How so?”

“She died,” he said, practically shouting as the guilt charged back up through him, rearing its ugly head. “She fucking died, and it was my fault because I didn’t love her. I couldn’t be anything publicly but the grieving widower. I couldn’t go tell the world I didn’t love her. I couldn’t do that to a dead woman.”

“I get that part,” she said, nodding several times, taking in what he was saying. Then she was quiet as she stood up, walked over to her purse and rooted around in it until she found a band for her hair. She twisted her wet hair up on her head and moved over to the couch near to him. A dangerous thing called hope dared to make an appearance. Maybe she’d forgive him. “But you think it was your fault she died?” she asked, continuing her questions. He couldn’t read her.

“Well, yeah. I told her how I felt. She went for a run down the mountain. She was always incredibly safe, and that was the one time she was out of control. How could it be anything but my fault?”

She didn’t speak at first. She steepled her hands together, and there was something about this side of Michelle that scared him. She’d retreated into her work mode, and she was excellent at it, but it wasn’t how he knew her and experienced her. She was methodical; she was assessing him. Even though he knew she didn’t judge her clients, he felt judged. He felt small. He felt stupid. He was all of those things and more. He deserved to feel this way.

“Jack,” she began, her voice distant. “Why did you stay with her for so long if you didn’t love her?”