She drops her hand and looks me in the eye. The warmth that’s usually there, the hint of a smile, is gone.

I step toward her. She moves backward as if she has to maintain some distance between us. Tears pool in my eyes.

Please don’t hate me.

I don’t want to do this. I want you—in every way.

I love you, Palmer.

She smiles sadly. “I just thought that you . . .” Loved me.

Her unfinished sentence rips through me, leaving a jagged edge behind it. I’m never going to recover from this.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, blinking back tears. “Be angry with me. Make this my fault. This has nothing to do with you, and you did nothing wrong.”

“This sure feels like I’ve done something wrong.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. I reach to brush them away, and she pulls farther back.

“Go,” she says again.

“Fine. But can I talk to Ethan at some point?”

Her features soften, but she shakes her head. “No. I’ll figure out something to tell him . . . like I always do . . . but he’s going to be . . . devastated. Please just go.”

I can’t argue with her because she’s protecting her son, and that’s one of the qualities about her that I love most.

“If you guys ever need anything . . .”

She turns away from me and huffs. “As if I’m ever going to ask a man for anything again. I’ve learned my lesson. Finally,” she whispers.

I did this to her. I didn’t just break her heart, but I also destroyed her dreams. All she wanted was a loving man and a family, and now, because of me, she’s given up hope.

And that’s the worst part of it all. I want to be her everything. And I hate that she’ll never ask me for anything ever again.

I head up the stairs and let myself out before I break down in tears in my dad’s truck.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE PALMER

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

PALMER

I jump as a hand presses against my shoulder blade.

Lifting my head from the pillow, I spot Val standing next to my bed. I can barely see her through the fog in my eyes.

“Oh, Palmer,” she says, sitting beside me.

My face is crusty from the tears and snot, and my hair is a matted mess. “You couldn’t look like a disaster if you tried.”

Cole’s words ring through my mind like a ghost of perfection past.

“Are you okay?” Val asks.

“Do I look okay?”

She considers this. “No, you look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

She gets up and heads into the master bathroom. The faucet turns on, and various doors open and close. When she returns, she hands me a washrag and a hairbrush.

“Here,” she says, handing them to me.

I scramble to sit up. “Why? What’s it matter?”