Page 92 of American Beauty

“I’m not doing so great.”

“What’s wrong? Let me guess—having a hard time choosing between white and off-white for the bedding?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

My question isn’t for information. It’s a razor—and I’m aiming straight for the jugular. “What’s the latest on Alex?”

Ty is quiet for a second too long, and I can imagine the gears turning in his head. “Why do you ask about him?”

“Answer the question.”

“In case you forgot, I’m in Charleston. It’s impossible for me to keep tabs on Sebring from here. Not that I care enough to bother. Not interested in what he’s up to these days.”

I let the lie sit there, thick and rotting, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“How did you know he was getting married… since you’re in Charleston and don’t keep up with him?”

Another beat of silence.

“I don’t recall who told me.”

“You didn’t hear a damn thing. You invented it, played me.”

Another pause––stalling––because he’s trying to gather the pieces slipping through his fingers. “Just because I don’t remember who told me doesn’t mean I played you, Magnolia. You’re reading too much into this.”

“Lies and manipulation, all of it. And you’re still doing it now.”

“Mags—”

“Only my friends get to call me that. And you arenotmy friend.” My voice drops to a deadlier, quieter place. “Alex was right about you. You’re the parasite he always said you were.”

“Will you just listen to me for a minute?”

“And what—set myself up for more lies? No, thanks.”

I end the call with a single flick of my thumb. Quick. Final. No second-guessing. No regret. Just silence—and the pounding rush of fury in my veins.

The phone buzzes in my hand almost immediately—Tyson McRae. Incoming Call.

I hit decline without a second thought, my thumb moving faster than instinct.

The phone lands on the couch with a dull thud, like it burned my skin to touch it. My pulse hammers in my ears, my chest tightening under the realization.

How could I have been so blind?

Alex warned me––again and again––and I ignored everything he had told me.

I let Tyson McRae slither into my life, into my business, into my trust.

Almost into my bed.

Worse—I let him touch me. More than touch.

That conversation with Alex is coming. And it’s going to tear him apart.

A violent shudder rolls through me, nausea knotting in my throat as I think about it.

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