Page 91 of Designed for Disaster

“What is it?” he asked.

I swallowed hard, struggling to gain control of my emotions as the frustration threatened to burn a hole through my gut. “You accused me of selling you out. And now you’re trying tobuymy forgiveness with this place. After everything that’s happened, you get how messed up that is, don’t you?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” he said, scowling in that way he did when he begrudgingly conceded someone else’s point. “I guess I do. I just…” He reached for my hand. I didn’t pull away, but I also didn’t tangle our fingers the way I once would have. “Okay, ignore all of this because this is just stuff. Though you should know, I wasn’t trying to buy you with stuff. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Yes, it sucks when your intentions are misconstrued, doesn’t it?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Please, Natasha. You have to know how sorry I am. I never should have said those things to you. I let my mother get into my head, but that’s not a mistake I’m ever going to make again.”

I shook my head, smiling softly at him—sadly. “You say that you’re sorry, and part of me believes you mean it.”

“I do!” he insisted.

“But I also believe that you meant what you said before—about me selling you out just to line my own pockets. It was awful and cruel and untrue, but you believed it when you said it. You weren’t just spouting off. No, you were actually convinced that I’d stabbed you in the back. You were so quick to mistrust me—and so rigid in your refusal to hear me out or let me even try to explain.”

He squeezed my hand. “I was wrong. I know that now.”

“You were, but just because you’ll admit that now doesn’t mean you won’t make the same mistake again, later on down the road. How can I trust that you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt? Or that you’ll have enough respect for me to hear me out? To listen to my side of the story before making assumptions? How can I trust that you’ll believeI’ma good person?”

“I’ve changed,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “I’m not going back to the person I was—the one who didn’t trust anyone. How can I show you that?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m not sure you can. I thought you were someone I could rely on once. Someone sturdy.Someone who would be there to catch me when I fell. But I did fall, Trent. And you weren’t there. Instead, you were the one cutting the safety nets out from under my feet.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I wish…” He looked down at our joined hands. “I wish I could take it all back.”

“That’s the thing about life. You don’t get to go back. Only forward. And I don’t think I can make the same mistake twice.”

He looked stricken, and I fought to keep myself from being moved by it. “What are you saying?” he asked, his voice choked.

“I can’t take the chance that you’ll let me down again.” I pulled the key to the warehouse from my pocket, handing it to him. “I’m sorry, Trent. But I have to protect myself.”

29

NATASHA

“Your teeth are chattering,” Stacy said into the phone.

“Because it’s friggin’ freezing down here!” I went across the room to crank up the space heater. The basement workshop was frigid in December, the cold seeping in despite how well I insulated the cracks around the door.

And on days like this, I paid for it. When I got into the zone of working on a piece, I’d forget about the cold…but a phone call was enough to wake me up to it again.

“So, I was talking to one of my coworkers,” Stacy said. She’d called me the moment her shift at the temp agency had ended. “From the props department…for that new show I told you about. The little one. Not the secret Broadway one.”

“Uh-huh?” I said, only half listening as I warmed my hands by the heater.

“And, anyway, he sprained his wrist.”

“That’s…not good.”

“I know! But anyway, they need some set pieces made, and they’re kind of in a bind, and I sort of tossed out your name. I know it’s not your usual level and probably doesn’t pay well?—”

“Money is money,” I said. I wasn’t really in any position to be picky with odd jobs. And hey, I could whip up some sturdy, stage-worthy props in no time. “Thanks for thinking of me, Stace.”

“Of course. Thank Benjy for spraining his wrist. I mean, not really…but you know what I’m saying.”

“I do.” I shuffled across the workshop and huddled at my desk.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

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