Page 72 of End Game
“You already have.”
He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, clearly perturbed. “No, I haven’t.”
“This will be easier for both of us if we find a middle ground to be friendly,” I say. “It’ll be good to have a rapport, but our chilling out has made this a little awkward.”
“No, me being an asshole did. I’ve given you a bunch of half-assed apologies that haven’t meant jack shit. You know it and I know it.”
This is not what I was expecting. I drop my utensil too and place my hands in my lap. Something tells me this one is different, but I want him to have to say it.
“What are you sorry for, Branch? Why is this half-assed apology any different than the others you’ve half-assed?”
Although my questions are legitimate and I don’t feel sorry for asking, I do have a kink in my throat at the look of sorrow etched on his face.
I hate it. I’d give anything in the world to have him sitting across from me laughing, telling me some cocky story or some filthy thing he wants to do to me. Hell, I’d even take teasing about the sex therapy card.
“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” he says, his tone clear. “I’m sorry for not being more careful. I’m sorry for betraying your brother. I’m sorry for being such a fuck-up in the first place that Finn would rather kill me than see you end up tied to me.”
My mouth opens, words primed on my lips, but he stops me with a single look.
“This black eye came from Finn,” he says. “And I’m lucky he didn’t pop the other one too.”
“Finn did that?”
“Yeah. He did. And I can’t blame him. If you were my sister, I’d hate to think you were fucking around with me.”
“He shouldn’t have done that. It’s not going to help anything,” I gulp. “I’m sorry, Branch.”
His laugh catches me off-guard. “Would it be weird to say that it felt good?”
“Um, yeah. That would be very weird.”
“Well, it did. It kind of snapped me back to reality a little. Or a lot,” he says, looking around the room. “I did pull a complete dick move on him.”
“No, you pulled the dick on me and then turned into one.”
He half-grins. “That’s what caused this situation.”
“That you turned into a dick? Or that you dicked me? Either way, and regardless how complicit I was in the second dicking, I’m still blaming it on you.”
“I wasn’t referring to either, actually,” he chuckles. “I was referring to your sense of humor.”
Searching for a comeback, I find nothing.
“That’s a lie. I think it was your ass first, then the sense of humor,” he cracks.
“Branch, shut up,” I say, not able to hide a laugh of my own.
“You know what I’m really sorry for?” he asks, undeterred. “I’m sorry for acting like a bitch.”
There’s no chance I have a response for that, and I’m not sure he expects one. Over our plates of sausage and eggs that are growing colder by the minute, the chill that settled between us since I told him I was pregnant begins to warm.
“I can’t blame you if you want me to hit the road and just send child support payments, Layla. I don’t know how to be a dad or even be responsible for myself sometimes. I just keep seeing you hating me down the line and this situation turning ugly.” His eyes darken, his lips forming a thin line. “Listening to you cry last night made me feel like a complete and utter piece of shit.”
My breathing halts, my body unable to process functions necessary for life and Branch’s words at the same time. A bubble swells in my stomach, the one that usually predicates tears or a nervous giggle or some other reaction to whatever stimuli is in front of me.
“Branch, you aren’t a piece of shit,” I gulp, relieved that I actually believe that.
“I am. I was. And forthat, I’m sorry. You deserve better than what I’ve been.”
