His eyes widened as if he had frightened himself.
His breathing became quick and shallow. He pushed away from the table, ran upstairs, and slammed his bedroom door.
I started after him, but Zane reached out and caught my wrist.
“Give him a moment,” he said. “He needs to calm down.”
I looked at Zane’s hand, then lifted my eyes to his face.
For eight years, I had seen sorrow there. Guilt, perhaps. Regret.
But what I saw that night was unmistakable.
Fear.
I pulled my wrist away.
“What did Jeremy mean?”
Zane shook his head too quickly. “This date is difficult for him. He’s overwhelmed.”
“Don’t dismiss this,” I warned him. “Not after eight years.”
