Page 115 of Tell Me Something True

“This is where I tell you that I think you wanted to love me. And that you obviously convinced yourself that you did.”

“This insight into my own fucking mind is fascinating,” he drawled, low and silky. “Please, do go on.”

“I was a puzzle to you. Something to solve. Someone to save. But you can’t save someone from their past. Or from themselves. And I knew when you realized I was a lost cause, you’d walk away. So I walked away first. And you proved I was right when you didn’t try and get me to come back.”

He straightened so quickly, he smashed his elbow against the steering wheel, but while she winced at the hard blow, it didn’t even seem to register with him.

“Was that why you left?” His expression was all hard, furious lines, his nostrils flaring. “So I’d chase after you like a fucking lovesick puppy?”

“No.” But again that was one of those truths that had been brushed with gray. Because maybe, just maybe, that had been part of the reason.

Or at least, something she’d hoped for.

Even if she hadn’t let herself admit it.

“No,” she repeated, as if repetition along with her firmer tone would make it true. “But the fact that you didn’t even look for me—”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

She blinked rapidly, her heart rate picking up speed. “Did you?”

Lips smashed together, he dropped his gaze.

She exhaled, long and low, a painful lump forming in her throat.

Yeah. The truth hurt.

More often than not.

She shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?”

“This,” she said, gesturing between them before opening the door. “This push/pull thing we’ve been doing. I can’t keep trying to prove to you that I’ve changed. We both agree we can’t go back, and you keep saying you don’t want to go forward. There’s no point in us rehashing the past this way again and again. It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to make you feel better because I can’t tell you what you really want to hear.”

“All I’ve ever wanted was the truth.”

“You want your version of the truth. You want me to shoulder all the blame for how we ended, that’s fine. I accept that. Because you were right. I was the one who walked away. But you have your share of responsibility for why I did it.”

Furious, heartbroken, she stepped out into the rain. Turned back to look at him, one hand on the door, the other clutching her purse to her chest. “You want me to tell you I regret it. That it was a mistake.” She shook her head. Gave a helpless shrug. “It wasn’t.”

He cringed, his entire body recoiling from her words.

From the truth he’d claimed he wanted so badly.

But hating the truth didn’t take away it’s power.

And hiding from it could protect you for only so long.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” she repeated softly, not to hurt him more, but because maybe he was right. Maybe, this truth was exactly what they both needed to finally be set free. “It was the best thing I could have done. For both of us.”

Chapter 22

“What kind of chef doesn’t have any food in his house?” Miles grumbled as he stared at the meager contents of Toby’s refrigerator; a quart of milk; some eggs; a block of parmesan; two bottles of beer; maple syrup, two sticks of butter; a shit load of condiments, which seemed to include five—eyes narrowed, Miles did a quick count—no, seven kinds of mustard.

“The kind that works over sixty hours a week,” Toby said, mild as a fucking spring day from his spot on the other side of his kitchen—which amounted to less than ten feet. “Which means most kinds.”

He continued to pour a thin stream of steaming water in a circular motion over coffee grounds so slowly and with such precision, it took what little willpower Miles had left not to stomp over, yank that fancy teapot with its super skinny spout out of his brother’s hand and dump the water over the coffee.

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