Page 104 of Play the Game

I pause.

Ugh.

I flop onto my back and look over to his side of the bed. My eyes have adjusted to the dark room, and I stare at his strong profile.

“You never did tell me how you knew about that.”

He turns, and I know he’s looking at me.

“I followed you one night—before I asked you to marry me.”

My face burns with mortification. Seeing her in person makes me feel so incredibly vulnerable, and I loathe that he witnessed that.

“I needed to know more about you.”

“To see if you wanted to marry me?” I ask.

“No,” he answers with confidence. “I just…” I hear him turn away, and suddenly I’m watching his chest rise and fall in the dark. “I just wanted to know more.”

My teeth sink into my lip before I go back to staring at the ceiling. I haven’t been back there since that night. It’s a part of my life that I want to keep private, especially from the media. It wouldn’t do anything but make people ask questions, and that would lead to more speculation, and before I’d know it, everyone would be questioning our marriage.

Emory knows now, though.

But he doesn’t know about William, and that’s something I’d rather keep under lock and key. Otherwise, I'm afraid he’ll tell me exactly what everyone else has told me—that trying to get him out of prison on an appeal is a lost cause.

Several minutes of silence pass between us, but just when I think he’s asleep, his quiet, smooth voice fills the void. “I’m sorry, Biscotti.”

He sounds so genuine.

So believable.

“For what?” I ask with a blip of irritation to my tone. He’s being compassionate again, and I don’t know what to do with it. “You had nothing to do with her choosing the path she’s on.”

“And what path is that? Why is she homeless? Is that why you need money?”

“No,” I rush out. “I stopped giving her money a long time ago.”

Turning away, my stomach fills with dread. I hate talking about her because it brings up unwanted thoughts and feelings that I’d rather bury.

“She’s sick.”

“Sick?”

He doesn’t get it, and I can’t expect him to.

“She’s a drug addict.” The four words fly out of my mouth and into the open room so quickly I’m not even sure he heard me.

“Oh.”

He’s surprised, which is also understandable.

Not many people consider their loved ones to be sickwhen they’re addicted to drugs. There are many things that drug addicts are referred to, and being sick isn’t one of them. But it hits differently when you’re the one affected by it.

“If I don’t think about it as an illness, then I’ll hate her, and I just don’t have it in me to hate her anymore.” My heart starts tobeat a little faster the more I open up. “I used to,” I clarify. “But I guess that’s just a part of growing up. I don’t agree with her decisions or behavior, but I understand that she’s sick.”

Emory doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “I’m beginning to realize that you grew up a lot faster than you should have. It's no wonder you’re infuriatingly independent.”

I wonder what he’d think if I told him that I’ve been taking care of my mentally ill brother too.

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