Page 92 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Don’t worry about me. I’ll get home and find a way to pay you back everything I owe you.

-A

My jaw clenches as I read it a second time, understanding washing over me. Amelia read her dad’s text and assumed his words were true.

That I came here on her father’s orders to win back my spot on the line with Eli and Logan.

Bitterness rises like a stench in my nostrils. Shouldn’t she have woken me up to ask if it’s true?

Would you have?a voice retorts in my head.Or would you have believed the words of a man you’ve known your whole life, trusted him over a man you spent a few days with?

I’m hurt and angry, but I also don’t blame Amelia. Only myself. I should have told her father no. Told him I was already coming with Amelia, even if that risked his ire.

Then I should have told Amelia he asked. Whatever impact it would have had on the two of them, that’s their issue to work out.

I don’t regret any of my other actions. Not even last night.

But she called it amistake.

My fist crumples the paper before I read it a third time. I hurl it toward the balcony, but even balled up, the paper is lightand barely clears the end of the table, rolling unevenly to a stop somewhere underneath the sofa.

I work to unclench my fists, then breathe deeply, slowly, placing my hands on the table and spreading my fingertips wide.

She’s gone. Amelia’s gone, leaving me behind like a skin she’s shed.

Deep breaths, I remind myself, but they’re ragged. Unsteady. A stitch forms in my side as though I’ve been sprinting with no warmup.You can fix this when you get back.

But it doesn’t feel very fixable. Maybe because it was so delicate to begin with. I scrub a hand down my face.

What can I expect after only a few days together? Especially considering the way those days started.

But I’m not ready to give up.

I always said if I found the right woman, I’d make it work. I won’t give up.

I can come up with a plan.

I can …

I can …

My mind is blank. Because I’m not a planner. And I have no idea how to fix the mess I made. The messwemade, Mills and I.

My hands clench again. I need something else to throw. Something more substantial than a little ball of paper.

This moment feels like thegotchaat the end of a prank. TheI told you soafter not listening to good advice.

It’s the worst case ofI should have known betterof my life—and there have been a lot of those.

My stomach sours, a bitter taste coating my tongue as I work to swallow.

This shouldn’t matter so much, I tell myself. But it does. It’sallthat matters.

And just how much it matters hits me as I slide the ring off my left hand, narrowing my eyes at the cheap gold band, like it’s somehow to blame.

I won’t be needing this anymore.

Only, I can’t set the ring down. I don’t want to.

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