“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means we’ve been dancing around some issues we need to deal with.”

When he says nothing, I feel the blood leave my head. A physical reaction that takes me a moment to identify. I’m scared, I realize. I’m afraid I’m not handling this the right way. That I’m going to say something wrong. That we’re going to somehow blow what we have and he’s going to walk away.

“Tomasetti, there’s a part of you that you refuse to share with me. A part you keep tucked away, unavailable. That’s not honest.”

“I told you about my past. I told you what I did. I told you I wasn’t going to be easy.”

“I don’t care about easy.”

He shrugs. “That’s the best I can do right now.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want all of you. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“I’m not sure what we’re talking about here.”

“I don’t want to share you with them anymore.” Taking a step closer, I press my hand to my chest. “I’ll never rate and I’m not sure I’ll ever garner the kind of love you had for them.”

“That’s not true,” he says with some heat.

“I’m sorry you lost them. I’m sorry they were hurt and your life was devastated. But they’re gone now, and I’m here. I’m alive and I want to build a life with you. You have to choose.”

At first I think he’s going to turn around and walk away. Instead, he rounds the table and starts toward me. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t give me a clue as to what he’s thinking or feeling. His eyes are level on mine, but I don’t know if he’s going to rail against the words I’ve just thrown at him—or admit they’re true. My heart is like a drum against my ribs. My head feels light, a head rush from standing too fast. Sweat slicks the back of my neck and palms. For a crazy instant, I consider turning around and running out the door and into the night. But the intellectual side of my brain reminds me of what’s at stake. However it turns out, I need to finish it.

He touches my arms first, his fingers wrapping around my biceps. Then he’s pushing me backwards, one step, two. My back hits the doorframe, the knob bumping my hip with so much force that the picture on the wall rattles.