Lynda Sandoval - You, And No Other

A boost of anger emboldened him. Now he was to blame? Frowning, he leaned closer and lowered his tone. “Why would I stay in touch after what happened? Go through with our so-called plans? Your feelings were abundantly clear.”

To her credit, she held her ground. “They weren’t. You never gave me the chance to discuss my feelings before you hightailed it out of here, forwarding address unknown.” She shook her head. “The going got a little tough, Jonas, and you ran. Without a single word.”

“That’s bull.”

“Why can’t you own up to it?”

Now he was pissed. “I have to go.”

“Going getting tough again?”

“Drop it. I’m not kidding.”

She reached out and grabbed his forearm, not cowed by his obvious anger. “I’m not done.”

“Then finish,” he snapped, pulling away from her grasp.

Those blue eyes of hers went round. “You never visited me in the hospital after the crash on prom night. Not once. Why?”

Jonas held her gaze, but not easily, and he didn’t say a word. Truth was, he hadn’t known. Not right away. He remembered every minute detail of the morning he’d read about the crash, more than two years after it happened. Some kind of exposé in the Sunday paper about teen driving dangers. He remembered gripping the newsprint so tightly that it had torn, and not being able to take a breath until he knew Cagney had survived. And then breaking down … and hating himself for it.

“Fine, don’t answer.” Her eyes shone, but she didn’t waver. “Doesn’t matter anyway, because I know the truth. I lived it. You just flat out vanished when I needed you more than ever. Our love was obviously a lie—”

“No kidding.”

That startled her, but she covered it quickly. “So, you see? It’s only logical. With all that evidence, why would I believe that you’d cater to a decade-old dream of mine now?”

Decade-old, huh? He supposed he should be happy about her dreams going to dust, but strangely, he wasn’t. She was born to be an artist, and artists created. Her abandoning that God-given gift felt like a death, and he’d stomached more than his share of that recently. But she didn’t deserve his compassion. He needed to remember that. “I got all the explanation I needed that night.”

“Explanation from whom? Chief?”

He hesitated, questioning his motivation for the first time ever. “From your actions,” he said, although, admittedly, Chief’s words had a lot to do with it.

“And that was enough for you? Chief? Assumptions? My so-called actions?” she asked, with a small, humorless laugh. “Without ever talking to me again? You said you would love me forever, Jonas.”

“I—” His gut twisted as the ugly night rushed back at him. In his blinding, teenage, lovesick anger, he’d truly never looked at the whole thing from all perspectives. He had loved her, more than life itself. But it hardly mattered now, and he wouldn’t stand here and let her manipulate him into looking like the bad guy. “Talking would’ve been a waste of time—” he took in her uniform and couldn’t hold back the derision “—obviously. Just let it go. It’s over, Cagney. It’s been over.”

“Okay, it’s over. But don’t you think we should talk? Get some closure at least?”

“Closure’s overrated.” Shaking his head in disgust, he got into the limo and tried to shut the door.

She held it open, but her blue eyes had lost some of their hopefulness. “Run away if you have to. But you’re wrong, Jonas. About me, about that night. About so many things, and it just makes me …”

“What?” he asked in a belligerent tone, daring her to say she was angry.

She seemed to consider her words, but finally, she shrugged. “It makes me sad.”

Unexpected. But he had to hold on to his purpose. Now he was in the wrong and she was sad? What about his pain? His own heartbreak? His body flashed over with that familiar, blinding bitterness that had ruled his world for so many years. “Wow, I’m sorry you feel sad, Cagney,” he snapped. “By the way, how was prom with Tad?”

She flinched visibly, looking at him as if she hadn’t a clue who he was anymore. “My God. Tad is dead, Jonas. And so are three of my best friends in the world. I can’t believe you’d throw that in my face.”

He clenched his fists, silently chastising himself. He’d known that, of course. His comment had been knee-jerk, heartless and unwarranted. Damn it. He should apologize—right then and there. He knew it, and yet his throat constricted until he couldn’t say the words.

“Look, I thought we could talk this out, but it’s obvious you’re not willing to listen to any of my explanations about the past. I will say this about the future, though,” Cagney said, softly. “If you donated that hospital wing in some inexplicable attempt to hurt me, you wasted your money.” A wistful half smile lifted the corners of her lips. “And, then again, you didn’t. There are a lot of needy kids in pain—a lot of people who will benefit from what you’re doing here. Sorry if that’s not what you intended.”

He scowled, completely off his game. How in the hell had his revenge plan backfired so monumentally? “You have no idea about my intentions. You might recall, I was one of those needy kids in pain, thanks to this town. To your father, in particular.” And you, he wanted to say. He settled for a snide tone as he added, “But I guess I shouldn’t speak ill of the old bastard now that you play on his team.”

A shadow of shame crossed her expression. Just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a look of penetrating recognition. “Okay, point taken. I’m a cop and you don’t approve. Take a number, get in line.” She paused. “So, how’s the writing going, Jonas?”

The jab hit home. He struggled for footing on his own slippery rock of pain, his own shame, his own purpose—if he had one anymore. Truth was, he hadn’t written a word in twelve years. Easier to point out her failings than face his own. “Tell me, Cagney, how long did it take him to browbeat you into submission? Into giving up everything you ever wanted for the almighty badge and gun?”

Her gaze went distant. “Stop it.”

He ignored her. “Unless everything we talked and dreamed about was just another elaborate set of Cagney Bishop lies, and you never wanted to be an artist in the first place. Maybe our whole so-called relationship was bull, beginning to end, and you were more your father’s daughter than I realized. What was I, then, other than the town fool?” he asked in a rough tone. “Your little wrong-side-of-the-tracks experiment? Every rich Gulch girl wants to get with a bad boy, right?”

Cagney yanked her hand from the doorjamb as though the metal had shocked her. Her eyes went round, filled with tears. “Oh, my God. I get it now. I can’t believe this.”

“Believe what,” he snapped, hating to see her cry.

“You … hate me,” she whispered, her voice quavering. “I never would’ve imagined it, but you actually hate me. ”

The anguish in her tone tore him up. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. The past twelve years zipped through his vision, like the view out of a bus window as he fought to slam on the brakes. He grappled for something familiar to get him through. Anger. Anger always worked, didn’t it?

“Jonas, say it,” she persisted, her voice wavering. “Be a man and say it if it’s true. You hate me. Right?”

Hate implied passion, and passion was way too close to love. Not going there. What he felt for Cagney wasn’t what he expected upon his return, but he didn’t dare examine it too closely. Not in front of her, at least. So, he did the only thing he knew to do anymore: he retreated. “Nope.” He grabbed the door handle and formulated the lie that felt like poison at the back of his throat. “It’s worse than that, Officer Bishop. I just don’t care.”