“Judith,”he said, “I asked you to marry me once. You sent me one letter after eight years and I appeared on your doorstep within four hours. Yes, I want Anthony’s journals. But let us not be foolish; we both know that is not all I think about. You know precisely how you can hurt me. Please. Don’t.”
Do, his eyes suggested. Turn your hand over. Take mine. Let it all go, and hurt me. The thing about admitting to herself that he wasn’t entirely at fault was discovering that she must have hurt him. He’d wanted to marry her. He’d said he loved her, and likely he had. He had said he would never forget her, and he hadn’t. She couldn’t apologize. Not now. Not with his hand on hers. Not with her heart still so raw.