“Is he, though? We dove into this relationship headfirst, really, really fast. Between you never having dated anyone before and so much time passing since my last partner… Maybe we moved too fast.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“It means… It means I’m not sure you’re ready to be in an exclusive relationship. Especially if you don’t know why what happened tonight was wrong.”

“Emma. Honey.” I take a step toward her and she retreats, her back pressing against the front door.

“How can I go through life not 100% sure what I mean to you?”

“Baby, you mean so much to me. You’re the only one I want. What do I need to do to prove it to you?”

“I-I need some time to think about this. To think about us. I can’t spend months waiting for you to figure things out and deciding what you want. I can’t spend my nights watching you… watching you touch another woman.”

“Are… Are you breaking up with me?”

“No. I’m not. I promise. Can you just give me some space? Please? To process all of this? Between the jokes and comments about you finally settling down and knowing you used to sleep with her… It’s a lot. We’re finally out of our little bubble and I’m seeing so many things.”

“I’m so sorry. It meant nothing to me.”

She smiles sadly, hand on the doorknob. “That’s the problem, Henry. It might not have meant anything to you, but it meant a helluva lot to me. Go home. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

There’s no chance to beg for forgiveness or apologize profusely, because now she’s disappearing inside, closing the door behind her and shutting me out.

Like I fucking deserve.

I fist my hair in anger and sit on the steps, wanting to punch a hole in the brick facade because of my sheer stupidity.

Fuck.

What the hell was I thinking?

My eyes are filling with tears. My nose is running. My hands are shaking and all I want to do is drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness. Everything hurts. My head. My stomach. My chest. My goddamn heart.

You’re who I want, baby.

No one else.

You were made for me.

It didn’t mean anything.

I’m sorry.

So fucking sorry.

I stare at the space Emma vacated, feeling empty. Hollow. Broken. I linger outside her house, two minutes turning into twenty and stretching to thirty, too disappointed in myself to move and too cowardly to bang on her door until she’s sick of hearing from me.

A car pulls up, and a brunette marches across the grass. She’s on a warpath and I’m her target.

“Henry fucking Dawson,” she simmers, and I reel back.

“You must be Nicole,” I say, standing up. This is not how I hoped our first meeting would go.