Page 75 of Every Broken Promise
“Yeah. Rachel needs me. I have to go. Thank you so much for having me, Mark… The food was good,” I mumbled toward Tyler, still refusing to make eye contact with him.
Waving goodbye to Adam and Ezekiel, I began to walk away from their house. I had just gotten the gate open and was making my way through the side of the house when I felt someone grab my arm.
I didn’t have to turn to see who that someone was.
“What’s the rush, beautiful?”
“I have to run some errands. I wish I could stay, but I can’t.” The lie dripped from my lips rather easily.
“Then let me come with you. That way we can also talk.”
I finally allowed myself to look at him. In honesty, I was a bit taken aback with his forward approach.
“Talk about what?” My question came out even despite the unease I was feeling.
Tyler glared at me.
“Don’t you dare run away from this, beautiful,” he warned.
“There’s nothing to run from,” I bit back instantly.
He let out a humorless laugh.
“Don’t you get tired of running? I’m so fucking sorry I fucked up, and I hurt your feelings, Astrid, but you up and left, then ripped me out of your life. You didn’t even give me a chance to make up for it.”
His words hurt. They proved every single horrid thought I had ever had about that night. I wasn’t overreacting, though. My feelings were valid, but maybe so were his.
“I’m not having this conversation,” I said sternly.
“Four years wasn’t enough time for you?” he spat back at me, and I knew he was frustrated with me.
“No,” I spat back, because clearly this new me was a bitch.
Something flashed in his eyes, something I couldn’t decipher. He shook his head, letting it go.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
Fuck.
I had forgotten I didn’t have my car with me. Fucking Adam. He was going straight to my S-H-I-T list.
“Rachel needs me to help her with something,” I told him as I got in the car.
Don’t ask me why I was trying to explain things to him. Maybe it was years of conditioning that made me feel ill when we fought. Neither of us could ever stand to stay mad at the other for long.
“I’m sure she does,” he mumbled, clearly being done trying to get me to see reason.
The drive back to my house was awkward and tense. I’d done such a good job in blocking prom night out of my memory. It still hurt, and maybe that was my fault for never allowing myself time to process the damage.
I couldn’t heal because I refused to look at the wound that made me grieve.
When we got to my house, I opened the door and whispered a thank-you to him.
Life had a way of making enemies out of two friends. Making strangers out of people who had love for one another. Or maybe it wasn’t life at all—but our own decisions that made it easy for a wedge to come in and tear everything down.
“Bring your car in. It needs an oil change,” he told me as I closed the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
