Continuation 1

My chest tightens, my skin rushes with heat, and a stream of tears immediately rush down my cheeks. I cover my mouth in an attempt to contain my cries then rush down the sidewalk away from him.

All I can see is the poorly doodled picture of a rose Rhett left me on my nightstand after our first weekend together, remembering his sweet good morning message.

A rose for my rose. One morning soon, I'll have to have the real thing. Hoping to see you again tonight. Sorry I won't be there to kiss you good morning.

"Ainsley," he calls after me, catching me by my elbow. "Are you alrigth.....?

The flower," I choke out.

He glances at it then tosses it to the ground. "Sorry, your last name is Rose. I thought it would be cute to . . ."

"I'm sorry," I say. "Obviously, I'm not ready for this."

"Skye warned me that you just got out of something pretty serious," he says.

"She warned you?" I ask.

"She didn't give me details," he smirks. "More like she told me she'd have my balls in a vice if I hurt you."

That makes me relax slightly. "Aren't you her boss?"

On paper," he jokes.

Wiping my tears, I say, "I'm sorry."

"You said that already," he says. "It wasn't necessary either time."

I feel my lips start to curve into a smile, but stop myself. I don't want to smile at another man. All my smiles belong to Rhett. Even after all this time, all the pain, all of me still belongs to Rhett. I think I always will. Most woman have one—the man you wonder about. The man you can't get over. Either because you aren't sure why it ended, or because you wonder what could've been.

"I should go."

"I'll see you to your car," he says.

Giving him a little nod, I turn around, realizing in my fit, I'd gone the wrong way. Before turning back towards my car, I stare down at the cracks in the sidewalk, the old kids' rhyme echoing in my head.

Step on a crack, break your mother's back.

"What's this other guy's name?" my date asks.

I know he's trying to be nice, but it's none of his business. "I try not to talk about him, or really think about him," I lie.

"Maybe that's the problem," he says.

I stop at my car door. "What do you mean?"

Maybe you can't move on until you talk about him. Holding everything in is holding you to him," he says. "Let yourself talk about it."

He makes a good argument, but maybe he also has his own agenda. Most men do.

I shrug, and he continues, "What's the point in fighting it? You're the one losing." He flashes me a grin, opening my car door for me. "I hope someday you can enjoy roses again."

"Me, too," I whisper.