Page 10 of My Best Years

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see him again. I’ve practiced what I would say at least a thousand times.

I would tell him how angry I am at him for leaving me. I would ask him why he never called. I would scream at him, showing him the shattered humanhecreated. I would curse him for stealing my heart, robbing it so I could never give it to another man.

Then, I would ask him if he missed me. And most importantly, I would tell him how much I fucking missed him.

And if he had a good enough reason, I would forgive him. I know I would.

But now that he’s here, standing directly before me, I’m completely speechless. I seem to have forgotten every word in the English language.

I knew I would be angry if I ever saw him again, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for how absolutely guttedI feel right now. I had spent so many nights wondering what could have happened to him, coming up with explanations—ranging from simple to outlandish to sometimes even dark—because anything was better than considering he might have went away for no reason at all. I even convinced myself that maybe he was sick, that perhaps he left because he didn’t want me to see him that way.

But he’s here.

And he’s beautiful. Healthier than ever.

And I’m so fucking mad.

“Birdie,” he repeats, running a shaky hand through his curls. “Oh my God.”

His eyes dart between mine. They scan down my body, taking in every inch of me. Remembering the old me while memorizing the new me.

He steps toward me, and I take a giant step back.

“No,” I croak, shaking my head. “Don’t.”

I can’t do this.

I don’t owe him anything.

He abandoned me. How dare he leave me like that? I never changed my number. He’s had a decade to at least send me a text.

I walk backward, leaving my cart and spilled noodles in the middle of the aisle. My vision blurs with unshed tears.

I’m still facing him. For some reason, I can’t turn away.

“Birdie, please,” he begs, striding toward me. “Please, just give me five minutes.”

Five minutes.

Those two words cause my blood to boil.

He can kiss my ass.

I halt my steps and stare at him, right in his gorgeous blue eyes. A tear slips down my cheek as I reply through clenched teeth.

“You’ve had ten fucking years, Callum,” I clip. “Eleven, to be exact.”

His body flinches as if I’ve stabbed him.

Good.Because he wounded me years ago, and my cut is still bleeding.

“Goodbye,” I whisper before he has a chance to reply.

I turn on my heels and quickly head for the exit.

“Dammit, Birdie. Wait!” I hear him shout as I all but sprint out the door. I think he’s following me, but I’m unsure because I refuse to turn around.

If I look at him again, I’m afraid I’ll never leave.