“Jack—” I reached out for him, and he shook his head, pulling the thread through my skin with a tug.
I sat back down and watched him string another piece of thread. I couldn’t help but think about the first time he’d done something like this, when we’d practically just met, and I’d been stabbed at Prada. I let myself look at him like I had then: this boy who was almost intimidatingly gorgeous, but also quiet and kind. Who, for some reason, had taken an interest in me. Now he was just as handsome as ever, his dark hair still damp from the tunnels, the same intensity burning in his gray eyes, his drying T-shirt clinging to him.
Jack looked up to find me watching him. His eyes searched mine. I had the sudden feeling that this was supposed to be the part of the story where I realized I was wrong, and everything was forgiven. Where, after detours, Jack and I found our way back into each other’s arms, where we realized we were meant to be all along.
“Can I tell you something?” He finished the stitch and set the needle down on the tray. When he turned back to me, there was a calm on his face I’d never seen. “I feel better about Fitz, and about Oliver. I still feel terribly guilty about what I did to you.”
“Jack—”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. We both know it was bad. We both know you haven’t entirely forgiven me, and I understand why. I’d like to try to explain just a little. I wasn’t lying when I said that it was all for you. I thought going to the Saxons like that was the best way to keep you safe.”
“I know—”
“But it was also because I thought it was the right thing to do. What Stellan said wasn’t wrong. I had never done anything as terribly wrong as wanting you like I did, and giving in to it, and I thought I was making up for it in some way by doing the right thing then. I’ve thought about it a thousand times since—what the right thing really means. Stellan was wrong about that. I’m not a daft child. I know I don’t actually have to ask their permission to think.”
“I know. He knows, too. We were just all in a mood.”
He picked up the needle again. “The point is that I do care about doing what’s right by you. I care about you very much.”
“I know,” I whispered, and the feelings I’d been suppressing for so long rushed back in even stronger. How much Jack had done for me. How much I’d cared about him, as a friend and as a lot more. That version of us was simple. It was naive. It was sweet. I missed it. And I had forgiven him.
So why wasn’t I jumping on this perfect moment to tell him so? To tell him that I wanted us to get back together?
The moment I posed the question, the answer hit me so clearly I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it earlier.
I thought Jack and I had broken up because of his spying for the Saxons. I thought if I forgave him for that, things would change between us. But well before then, I’d been annoyed with his making my decisions for me, protecting me when I didn’t want protecting. That was really what had driven me away from him. I’d thought he’d started acting differently. But I was wrong. Jack hadn’t changed.
I had.
When we’d first met, his looking out for me had been exactly what I needed. He was safe. Caring about him didn’t feel like throwing myself off a cliff like so much of this new life did.
That’s why I’d fallen for Jack so hard, so fast. He was exactly what I’d wanted, back when I was a different person. And now he wasn’t. Not in that way.
It seemed so obvious. What we used to have was sweet and happy and nice. And we would never be back there.
I knew he wouldn’t push me on it. If I changed the subject, he’d let it go. But I couldn’t keep doing that.
“I care about you, too.” I paused, looking up at the open cabinet of medical supplies, steeling myself. “Can we talk about something? About us. I know we haven’t really had time to think about it—”
He was leaning close enough to my shoulder that I felt him tense. “Oh, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”
I bit my lip. He was right. I’d been avoiding this conversation because I hadn’t wanted to deal with clarifying my own feelings, and that was cruel of me. “I guess I just mean that don’t know about you but clarity in something sounds good right now. So, um. I really do care about you a lot. But I don’t think we’re going to get back together.”
He froze, like he was surprised I’d said it so bluntly. I was a bit surprised myself. “Right. Of course. I’m your Keeper. And even if I wasn’t, I did something unforgivable.”
“That’s not why.” If that was the only problem, we’d be back together already. I still did care about him. Part of me even still wanted to be coddled and looked after. But a bigger part of me didn’t.
“The truth is,” I said, studying the scrapes on my hands, “I’m not the same person you asked to prom in Minnesota. I really do care about you so much, and what we had for a while was—I’ll never forget it. But I don’t think we’d work like that anymore.”
As much as I was sure this was the right thing to do, I braced for his reaction. He’d get over it eventually, but right now, I expected him to mumble something noncommittal and finish my stitches in awkward silence. But he said, “Have you really just given me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”
There was a lightness to the words I wasn’t expecting at all. He looked up and smiled a little, bringing out that adorable dimple that had always seemed out of place on someone so serious. Since when did Jack make jokes?
He really was the perfect guy. He just wasn’t perfect for me in the way I used to think he was. I was weaker around him. And softer, and probably nicer. But that wasn’t who I was anymore, for better or worse. Sometimes, the story didn’t turn out how you thought it would.