"Tell me what you want." His voice dropped low. "Just tell me. I'll give it to you."
I looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A film of condensation clung to the glass.
"You've always known what I want," I said. "But after ten years, you never gave me any of it."
He went quiet.
"Valentine. Do you love me?"
Silence.
Rain. Breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of a car plowing through standing water.
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Just answer the question."
More silence.
Then he said, "I love you."
Quiet. Quick. Like the words had been pried out of him.
I heard those three words and realized I felt nothing.
"Then why didn't you ever say it?" I asked. "Ten years. Why couldn't you say it to me?"
"I... couldn't get the words out."
"What about someone else?"
"What?"
"Rosalie," I said. "Could you get the words out for her?"
He panicked. "What does she have to do with this? I already told you, she's just—"
"Think carefully before you answer." I cut him off. "Valentine, think very carefully. Have you ever told her you loved her?"
He went silent.
"Even if it wasn't love," I said. "That you liked her. That you felt sorry for her. That you wanted to protect her. Did you ever say any of that?"
Rain.