Page 113 of My Sweetest Agony
But it’s so much more complicated than that.
The fact that he lied, that he pretended to be Drew and didn’t correct me when I made that assumption doesn’t bother me as much as the aftermath does.
I was a very willing participant in what happened on that bench, and I don’t have any way of knowing how things would have been different if he had sat next to me and introduced himself.
Would there still have been that spark?
Would attraction still have sizzled red hot between us?
Would I have slipped under his spell and completely forgotten that I came to the party with his brother and given into it?
I want to believe the answer is no to every single one of those questions.
I want to believe that I am too good a person and far too loyal to have ever acted that way when I had already started developing feelings for Drew at that point.
I want to believe I would have shaken his hand, chatted for a few minutes, then gone inside with him to help surprise Drew and Nancy.
But deep down, I’m not that confident.
A dark little voice that sounds like the one Cam used as he pounded into me last night whispers that I wouldn’t have cared about all the reasons it was wrong, that I would have kept going, that Drew’s fear of losing me to his brother was very valid.
Nausea roils my stomach, and I gulp in air, trying to prevent myself from throwing up the more that little voice talks to me.
The more it insists the reason I’m not more angry with Cam about what he did was because of how fucking much I liked it and him that I’m willing to forgive something so utterly unforgivable.
“Ivy?”
I jerk my gaze back to hers.
“I just want to make sure I’m following all of this. So, you hooked up with Camden and then that night, went home and slept with Drew…”
Hell.
Why is it so much worse when someone else says it?
It isn’t as if that fact hasn’t been slamming around in my mind since last night, hasn’t blown holes in those beautiful memories and turned them into something completely different—ones that will torment me.
Nodding, I squeeze my eyes together. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“Hmmm.” The scrape of Marlo snagging her wine from the table fills my ears, and I can feel her watching me, my skin flushing under the assessment. “So, what did you do after he told you? Did you smack him?”
My lids snap open, and I glare at her. “No, I did not resort to physical violence.”
She snorts. “I probably would have.”
Of that, I have absolutely zero doubt.
Marlo has always been the stronger of us. She stood her ground, refused to back down to anyone, even in school when we were still finding out who we would be as people, she knew she wasn’t the type to allow anyone to dampen her light, step on her toes, or do anything to hurt anyone she cared about.
She defended everyone in our circle with a vicious ferocity I could never find.
Maybe because Nonni and Mom were true pacifists and believed in free love, beauty, and that nature had the answer for everything.
If only it were that simple…
While I’d give anything to have them here, to feel their warm, comforting hugs again during a time when I need them the most, Marlo’s presence brings a tough-love, smack-in-the-face reality check that I so often need.
And he probably did deserve to be smacked for what he did.
