Page 144 of A Little Broken

“Yeah.” She sniffs. “And I know there is nothing in this world I can say to convince you otherwise, but I wasn’t happy when I found out, Tate. I promise you I wasn’t. I was heartbroken. I didn’t look at Archer’s death as a solution to a problem, and neither did Mav. It wasn’t fair. It’ll never be fair.Ever.”

“And that’s it?” I bite the edge of my thumb as a tear slides down my cheek. “Learning to accept that life isn’t fair, and it is what it is?”

“Honestly?” Her pause settles into my bones, siphoning the last of my hope that one day, with enough time, I’ll stop missing him, and it won’t hurt so much. “Kind of, yeah.” The defeat in her voice pulls at me, strumming an ounce of grace I’ve refused to give her before now. Before this moment. This conversation. This confession. “I know it isn’t the answer you want to hear,” she adds, “but…but there is no answer in the universe that’ll bring him back. That’ll make everything okay. That’ll take away the sting of fate’s twisted idea of balance. Mav and I have spent years working through it. Processing the guilt we carry every single day for Mav surviving when Archer didn’t. It wasn’t fair. It still isn’t fair. And if we could go back and have a say in how things went down, I know Mav would change places with his brother in a heartbeat. But do you want to know something, Tate?”

My grief grows and grows until I swear I can’t breathe, but I force out, “What?”

I can’t fucking breathe.

“I think the real reason you’ve hated me for years is because we both know I can’t say the same,” she whispers. “I can’t say I would go back and choose to bury Maverick instead of Archer, and that brings a whole other messed-up wave of guilt I have to carry.” Her voice cracks, and my head falls forward, knowing this is the crux of my frustration and pain and feelings whenit comes to my big sister. The person I’ve always looked up to. Always envied. Until the truth came out that proved she wasn’t the person I thought she was, and I can’t even blame her for it. “Now, if I could put myself in that casket so Mav and Arch could walk away together, I would, but that isn’t an option either, you know?”

She sniffles again, and I want to tell her to stop talking. To stop saying things like this. But I don’t. Instead, I sit silent, memorizing her words as if they have the power to heal everything we’ve been through, even when it feels impossible.

“But what I’m most sorry for?” she continues. “Is how I was too self-absorbed at the time to recognize the pain you were going through. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. That I didn’t know…”

We’ve never talked about it. Even dancing around the subject made me want to bite Ophelia’s head off over the years. The fact that I loved Archer and am now stuck with living in Ophelia’s shadow for the rest of my existence. Or at least, it’s what I thought until…until Pax showed me I don’t have to live in the darkness of her shadow. That I can let go and move on. That I have more power than I’ve given myself credit. I should remember that.

“You’re not the only one who screwed up,” I murmur. “I was hurting, and I took it out on you. It isn’t fair, and I’m sorry it took me so long to reach out and to…”Breathe.“To forgive you.”

“Dammit, Tatum,” she cries. “You couldn’t let me fly out so we could finally have this talk in person and I could give you a hug?” A pathetic laugh filters from my speaker. “I’m a mess over here.”

“Me, too,” I admit with a laugh that’s just as pathetic as hers. “I love you, Lia.”

“Love you, too. More than you will ever know.”

And for the first time in…forever, I honestly believe her.

“Thanks for calling,” she whispers.

“I’m trying,” I admit.

“I know you are.” She sniffs again, and so do I.

I’m trying.

41

TATUM

I’m still not entirely sure how going on a shopping spree is taking the power back from the stupid paparazzi who think they have me pegged. But Pax is right about one thing. Okay, he’s right about a lot of things, but he’s also right about this. They’re going to write whatever they want. Make up whatever lies they feel like creating. And it has nothing to do with me. Not really.

Thanks to my dad’s time in the NHL, the drama behind my Uncle Colt’s relationship with Jaxon’s mom before he settled down with my Aunt Ash, and Uncle Henry “slumming” it with my Aunt Mia, I’ve heard all about the bullshit the paparazzi like to throw at the wall, hoping the drama will stick long enough for them to cash in on their photos or articles or…whatever they can sell while the story’s hot.

It happened with Archer, too. After his death. Most of the memorials were pretty on point…if you didn’t care about Archer. They focused on the positive. On Maverick’s life-saving surgery. On his adorable relationship with his sweetheart, aka my sister, now that he had a heart again. They always managed to skim over the whole unexpected death of his twin brother, but hey. What can you do?

I push the thought aside and grab another dress from the rack. Paxton hired a private jet to fly us somewhere tonight, telling me it would be the perfect cherry on top of an updated article. Honestly, it’s such a bold move, I’m impressed. Even though he’s keeping me in the dark about where he’s taking me, I know I need to be ready by seven with a new dress, shoes, purse, hair, the whole nine yards.

Not going to lie. It is a little hilarious. Playing right into the paparazzi’s fake-ass story. Pretending like I’m the star inPretty Womanor any other rom-com with a solid butterfly moment where she comes out a different person, complete with highlights, a new handbag, and main character energy.

Ridiculous.

But the really crazy part? It’s that I have no idea if I have an audience for this little act. How can you tell if someone’s following you when you got caught with your pants down, literally, two days ago? And if I didn’t notice then, when I was alone with Pax on the beach, how am I supposed to notice now?

Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the other customers scattered around the boutique before attempting to focus on the clothing in front of me.

“What do you think of this one?” I ask.

Rory stops her perusal, taking in the dress I’m holding. It’s silky and short and red, just like the dress that stained my bra not so long ago. Paxton will love it.

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