Taking a step back, I run my eyes over Rogan’s broad back, his shoulder blades tenting his finely tailored black dress shirt tucked into his black dress pants, cinched with a leather belt. Barefoot, he stands in front of the mirror, struggling with his tie. I can’t help but glance down at his prosthetic.

I’ll never forget the look on Griffin’s face when he told me, when the doctors confirmed the fourth-degree burns were too damaging to his foot and shin and there was nothing they could do but amputate. I cried for hours in Griffin’s arms, because in that moment, I knew that all Rogan’s dreams had come to a crashing halt.

“Fuck!” he shouts, tossing the tie to the side and running his hand through his hair. He walks over toward the dresser and grips the edge, head bent forward. There is still a little bit of a hitch in his walk, but it’s not nearly as noticeable as a few months ago.

The athletic department has been kind to him, allowing him to continue his second phase of physical therapy in their facilities, but with each passing day, I can see him growing more bitter. Snapping at me, missing weight training, disappearing for long stretches of time. He’s slipping away, and I don’t know how to stop it.

“I’m not going to this fucking thing.” He starts to undo his shirt, tearing at the buttons.

“Rogan.” I walk up to him and place my hand on his back. He shrugs away from my touch. “All the guys are looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

“Like I give a fuck. I see them around campus all the goddamn time, and do you think they say a damn word to me?” He sneers. “They don’t. So what makes you think they really want to see me tonight? Fuck that, I’m not going.”

“Just because you couldn’t knot your tie?” The words slip out of me before I can stop them. All my pent-up frustration and anger is getting the best of me. I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You sure as fuck did.” He tears his shirt off, revealing his toned chest. To the right of his ribcage, there’s a small, crescent-shaped scar from where the fire caught a part of his shirt when the alcohol spilled over him. It’s the same spot I rub at night when he’s fast asleep, wishing and praying I could heal it, heal him.

“Rogan, I don’t want to fight right now.” Like every other night. “Let’s just put your shirt back on, forget the tie, and go.”

“I’m not fucking going. Why would I want to go to some banquet with a team I’m not on anymore?”

“You’re on the team, Rogan.”

“As a fucking honorary member. Might as well just rip my balls off and toss them in the dumpster.” He waves his hand to the side, that dark anger simmering beneath his surface starting to show. His eyes darken, his brows furrow, and every muscle in his body tightens. Whatever is going to happen tonight, I know it’s not going to be good. “Save yourself the trouble, Harper, and just leave.”

“I don’t want to leave. I want to be with you.”

He scoffs. “No you don’t. You just feel fucking sorry for me.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, and every time it still feels like a slap in the face.

“Will you stop saying that? It’s insulting. You act like I don’t love you. Like I’m here out of pure obligation. You should know by now that you mean everything to me.”

“Stop with that shit.” He leans back on the bed, his hands propping him up. “Are you really saying you still love me? When was the last time we had sex? The last time you felt my dick between your legs.”

“You don’t have to be so crass.”

“When was it?” he growls.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“I do.” His chest flexes with anger. “Before the accident. Before I lost my goddamn leg. Trust me, I get it; you don’t want to fuck a cripple. I see the way you look at me when I’m putting on my prosthetic. There isn’t love in your eyes; there’s fucking pity.”

“That’s not true, Rogan.”

“Isn’t it? Ever since I came back to school, you haven’t looked at me the same.”

“Because I feel guilty, not because I’m repulsed by you,” I shout, my stomach turning in knots. “Honestly, Rogan, I feel guilty every time I see you, because all I can think about is that I should have listened to you that night. If we’d stayed home, none of this would have happened.”

A sinister look passes over his face as he runs his fingers through his hair, now grown down past his ears. “So you’re finally admitting you had a part in this.”

“What?” I ask, caught off guard.

“It’s about damn time you realize you were in the wrong that night.” He blows out a loud breath. “I spent every fucking minute trying to make sure you felt comfortable here, that you were taken care of, that you didn’t feel threatened by other girls, and when I asked you to stay home, you pushed me, wanting more. Always wanting more.” He shakes his head. “I should have listened to my gut a long time ago.”

Hands shaking, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

He stands and walks over to the door, leaning against it, arms crossed. “I knew you were trouble, Harper, I just didn’t think you were going to ruin me, ruin my life.”

Wait . . . is he blaming me for what happened? I mean, I know I feel guilty, but blaming me for the whole thing? That crosses a line.

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

He looks me square in the eyes for the first time in what seems like months. “I do. What am I even doing with you? I repulse you, and you’re a reminder of what I could have had, of where I was going. I’ve realized something over the past weeks: even though I say I love you, I don’t really fucking mean it. Not anymore.”

My breath catches in my throat as my knees start to wobble. “Rogan, you don’t mean that. You’re having a bad night—”

“No, I’m having a clear-as-fucking-day night.” His eyes are wild as they scan his room. “All of this is a joke. What we have, it’s just a farce, so why carry it on any longer?”

“Because I love you, Rogan.” I step forward, tears springing to my eyes. “Don’t do this. Don’t push me away. Remember what the doctor said? You were going to go through this stage of anger and—”

“I know what the doctor said, Harper. I understand I’m fucking angry. I feel that anger pump through my veins every day of my miserable life. It’s the only reason I can get out of bed in the morning.”

“It’s going to take time for things to feel normal again, and yes, things might be rocky between us right now, but we’ll get through this like we’ve gotten through everything else. This is a minor speed bump.”

“I don’t count losing a fucking leg a minor speed bump. Every time I look down at my prosthetic, I remember that I lost everything. And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you.” He gestures at me, slicing my heart in half. “I’m sick of your doting, your annoying questions, your constant hovering. If I wanted you around, I would tell you, and right now I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“Rogan, please,” I say, my lip trembling as more tears fall from my eyes.

“Save the tears for someone who actually cares, Harper.” He holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Why is he being so cruel? This is not the man I fell in love with.

I wipe away a tear. “Give you what?”

He nods at my hand. “The ring.”

Instinctively my other hand guards the ring he gave to me as the blood drains from my face. I can feel it pool in my feet, my head spinning. “You . . . you want the ring back?”

“Did you not hear me? I’m not in love with you. I don’t want to fucking marry you.”

“But . . .” His vicious words paralyze me.

“Just give me the ring and fucking leave. Don’t make this any more uncomfortable than it is.”

Tears streaming down my cheeks, my entire body shaking, I slowly start to pull the white-gold ring off my finger. The ring that meant the world to me.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this to us.” I hold it out to him. Grimly, he takes it and shoves it in his pocket, then opens his bedroom door and steps aside. I take a step forward. “Why are you doing this?”

He stares down at the ground. “Because sometimes people fall out of love. I don’t want to be in a loveless marriage. I deserve more than that.”

“Are you saying you deserve more than me? More than what I can give you?”

He looks up now, a lock of his mussed-up hair falling over his furrowed brow. His eyes meet mine. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

The rest of the night is a blur. I can barely remember how I got back to my dorm, let alone how I ended up in my bed, but after hours of crying, I finally passed out, only to wake up at seven in the morning with swollen eyes, a broken heart, and one thing on my mind: getting to Rogan.

I don’t care about what happened the night before, what he said. He’s in a bad place, and instead of walking away, I need to be there for him. As fast as I can, I get dressed, brush my teeth, throw my wild hair up into a bun, and head over to Rogan’s house. I consider stopping for coffee for the both of us but think better of it; I need to be with him, need him to know that no matter what he says, I’m not going anywhere.