I stand and turn, looking around as if I’ll find an answer in the dark that surrounds us. The knife slides in without resistance, straight to the heart of who I am, deflating any hope I carried of reigniting our flame.

With my hands on my head, I pace away from the car, wishing I could make her see how much I care. Money never impressed Lark Summerlin. Character does, and she believes I lack integrity. Would she feel differently if she knew the truth? Standing ten feet away or so to give her all the space she needs to see me, all of me, I ask, “Are you open to the possibility?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know better than I ever did. I know who I am, even if you can’t see it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I see. You’re still asking me to throw caution to the wind and trust you again.” She rubs her forehead, seemingly troubled by raising her voice. When she looks up again, her eyes are focused on me. “I did that once, and it didn’t end well for me.”

“You’re a doctor. It ended exactly how it should have.”

“I would have chosen you if I had been given a choice.” Tears roll down her cheeks, and she reaches for the door. I stand, knowing I’m not changing her mind, at least not tonight. “I realized years ago that you weren’t the knight in shining armor, but my story’s villain.” Her gaze crawls back to mine, and through a shaky breath, she says, “I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through, for the evil that forced you into a corner. I’m glad you’ve fought to live your life to the fullest again. But maybe . . . maybe that’s the only happy ending we can hope for us.”

When she holds the door even tighter, I stand so she closes it. But then she reopens it, and says, “I forgot my shoes.”

I look at the park bench and see the glass, the wine bottle, and her shoes still there. “I’ll get them.”

The door closes as soon as I walk away. I don’t take offense. Pushing me away and blocking me out are her defense mechanisms. What I think or feel doesn’t matter. I care too much to push her beyond her comfort level. I pick up the shoes and the glass, dumping the remaining drops to the ground, then grab the bottle.

I felt the beginning not the end. My mind is reeling as much as my heart. This isn’t our end. I would feel it.

After I load the stuff in the trunk, I get in the car and hand her the shoes. “Thank you,” she says quietly as if she’s being intrusive. It’s bullshit that she sounds small. She should never be anything less than the incredible person she is.

“A year ago,” I say, starting the engine. “I asked for another chance. You gave that to me without question tonight. I want to thank you for this opportunity.”