He doesn't know what to say to that either, so he glances at her once then keeps his eyes forward for the rest of the drive. Looking at her means everything and nothing at all, and he doesn't know what to make of it when he's spent the last four years very much moving on from the thought of her. He doesn't think about her every morning anymore, isn't reminded of her by every little thing throughout his day. He can go weeks without thinking of her sometimes, though when he does, it's to remind himself not to get too close to any of the people he's sleeping with. She'd done that to him, she'd broken him so terribly that he doesn't even want to let put as much trust as he'd put in her for fear that his feelings might be trashed again. There's a part of him--a very small part, pretty much minuscule--that can acknowledge that it isn't right or fair to put that all on her, but it's easier to do that than to admit that maybe that damage has been a part of him all along. He'd dated a few people in high school, throughout college, but none of the relationships had ever really stuck. His relationship with Owen is probably the closest thing after what he'd had with Sylvie to be something he'd have been willingly and readily committed to, but that clearly hadn't worked out either.
He knows better than to convince himself there must be something wrong with him, that he's incapable of loving because he knows love, the reason why he does is sitting right next to him right now, and he can allow people to get close, to become his friends; he just can't bear the thought of being left the way she'd left him again. There are some who have called him a commitment-phobe, others have accused him of being a slut or a player or disregarding of people's feelings, but Coop doesn't think he's any of those things, not really. The way he lives now is a choice he makes not because he's afraid of commitment but because he's afraid of losing it.
It's not far from the store to his house, and he knows that home in Siren Cove is a far cry from the apartment they'd shared in Paris but it is home now. He pulls into the driveway, noting that Genevieve's car isn't there right now, and he selfishly hopes that his cousin stays out late night because he has no idea what's going to happen in the next few seconds, minutes, hours, and he'd rather Genevieve not witness a complete meltdown if that's what this ends up amounting to.
"This is it," he says, stating the absolute most obvious thing before climbing out of the car. She's out, too, by the time he gathers the grocery bags, and he's both surprised and maddened by how easily he hands her a bag to free up a hand so he can unlock the front door. It's like they're back in Paris, except here there's no laughter or light teasing or kisses being exchanged before they can even make it over the threshold. The only thing that manages to make him smile is the whimpering of the dogs on the other side of the door, and he pushes it open, only to find Sunny and Lucy bounding outside to jump at his feet. Both dogs pause to stare curiously at Sylvie, momentarily distracted by the stranger before they run back inside.
"The living room's right through there. Or you can head out to the deck, if you want." He's already heading toward the kitchen, plucking the bag he'd handed to her out of her hands on the way. "Close the door behind you, would ya? I'll grab a couple glasses and find you when I'm doing putting this away."
no subject
He knows better than to convince himself there must be something wrong with him, that he's incapable of loving because he knows love, the reason why he does is sitting right next to him right now, and he can allow people to get close, to become his friends; he just can't bear the thought of being left the way she'd left him again. There are some who have called him a commitment-phobe, others have accused him of being a slut or a player or disregarding of people's feelings, but Coop doesn't think he's any of those things, not really. The way he lives now is a choice he makes not because he's afraid of commitment but because he's afraid of losing it.
It's not far from the store to his house, and he knows that home in Siren Cove is a far cry from the apartment they'd shared in Paris but it is home now. He pulls into the driveway, noting that Genevieve's car isn't there right now, and he selfishly hopes that his cousin stays out late night because he has no idea what's going to happen in the next few seconds, minutes, hours, and he'd rather Genevieve not witness a complete meltdown if that's what this ends up amounting to.
"This is it," he says, stating the absolute most obvious thing before climbing out of the car. She's out, too, by the time he gathers the grocery bags, and he's both surprised and maddened by how easily he hands her a bag to free up a hand so he can unlock the front door. It's like they're back in Paris, except here there's no laughter or light teasing or kisses being exchanged before they can even make it over the threshold. The only thing that manages to make him smile is the whimpering of the dogs on the other side of the door, and he pushes it open, only to find Sunny and Lucy bounding outside to jump at his feet. Both dogs pause to stare curiously at Sylvie, momentarily distracted by the stranger before they run back inside.
"The living room's right through there. Or you can head out to the deck, if you want." He's already heading toward the kitchen, plucking the bag he'd handed to her out of her hands on the way. "Close the door behind you, would ya? I'll grab a couple glasses and find you when I'm doing putting this away."