I had not realized my eyes had strayed from hers. Out of shame. Out of regret. Out of knowing that everything she is saying is right.
“I can forgive a lot of things,” she goes on. “I can forgive and forget. But what you did—what you tried to do—with Niklas, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past that.”
“Izabel—”
She leans forward a little, and begins to whisper harshly. “You tried to pass me off to your brother”—her hands squeeze into fists within her lap—“do you have any idea how that feels to me?”
“No,” I say. “I can never understand fully how you feel, but I do know how much I regret it, and if how much I regret it is any indication of how you might feel, then I know the intensity of the pain, at least. I cannot take it back, but I know I could never do anything like that again.”
“But you did it once,” she says, shaking her head. “You didn’t want me…”
I shake my head, too, more vigorously, in advance of hoping to get my point across. “That is the furthest thing from the truth,” I say. “Because I wanted you, because I love you, that is why I tried to push you away—it makes no sense, I know. It is why I tried to put you with the only person other than you in this world who I trust. It was a mistake, one I do not ever expect to be forgiven for, but one I hope you can at least understand.”
“I do understand,” she comes back. “I understand why you did it; I understand that what you did wasn’t bad—it was just wrong. So very wrong, Victor. But I’m right when I say you did it because you didn’t want me—please let me finish.”
I drop my hand and close my mouth.
“You were willing to give me up to somebody else,” she says. “That fact remains, and can’t be argued—no matter what your reasons were, you still wanted to give me up.”
“But I do not want that anymore,” I say quickly. “And in my heart…I never really did.”
I try to reach out and take her hands into mine, but she gets up from the chair, refusing me, and begins to pace. Then with her arms crossed and her back to me, she stops near the counter.
I stand as well. But I say nothing. I feel everything like a heavy weight in my chest but I say nothing because I cannot. I am afraid—no, I am terrified of losing her.
“I didn’t talk to you in the hospital, because I was afraid of saying things I’d regret.” She turns around. “I needed time to think, time to heal, not just my injury, but my heart as well—time to…decide.”
My heart drops.
“To decide what?” I ask in a quieter voice than I expected; my hands are sweating again.
Her eyes find mine and she answers, “I want to live on my own, Victor. I want my own house, my own address, my own…bed.”
“Why? What are you saying?” This cannot be happening—I will not let it.
Izabel leaves the counter, steps up closer, and looks into my eyes. “I’m saying that I love you,” she answers, “but I don’t want to live with you anymore. At least for a little while.”
I do not feel good or bad about her announcement; it confuses me more than anything.
“I need you to listen to me for a moment,” she says. “I need you to understand something that I realized during the time I’ve been away from you.”
I nod. “I am listening.”
She crosses her arms and walks back toward the counter, taking the weight on her shoulders with her, and preparing to release it.
“I’ve never had anything that was just mine—not even my own space and freedom. My thoughts and actions and decisions have always been dictated by someone else—even you. I’ve barely even slept alone.” She leans against the counter. “But that’s going to change. No matter what you want, or how you feel about it, I’m going to do what I want, Victor, and if you have a problem with it, then we can end this relationship right now.” (I blink, stunned, and my heart feels like it just took a punch.) “I’m going to live in a place of my choosing, pay for it with the money I’ve worked hard for, and I’m going to do what I want, when I want, how I want, and without eyes at my back, or babysitters in my driveway.”
She uncrosses her arms, pushes herself away from the counter.
“Victor,” she says, changing the tone of the conversation to something more nurturing, “you need time away from me as much as I need it from you. You’re as messed up as I am—more, or less, who knows, but what difference does it make?—and I think it’s better for both of us if we take some time apart to figure out what we really want.”
“I know what I want, Izabel; I have never been more sure of anything in my life—I want you.”
“And you have me,” she says quickly, and moves closer, placing a hand on my chest, just above my heart. “You have me…” she whispers. “But I want you to make sure you want me forever. I already know what I want; I’ve known for a long time—you’re just figuring yours out. But despite knowing what I want for a long time now, I’m not even ready for it yet. I need to be my own person, my own love affair, my own everything, before I can truly be any of that for you. I don’t want to depend on you, or anyone else; I want to…live life on my own terms for once.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, getting anxious; the more she talks, the further away from her overall point I feel like I am getting. “What exactly do you want to do, Izabel? Tell me. I will help you with anything.”