Page 168 of A Smile Full of Lies
He didn’t look at me. Just clicked to the next page, the next paragraph, and said again — quieter this time:
“You’re wrong. I didn’t ask you to write it just to stop Nina from getting someone else to do it.”
He let the words hang there for a beat, heavy as gravity.
“You’re the only one I ever wanted to write this story, Ros, because you’re the right person to tell it.”
My breath caught.
His finger hovered over the trackpad.
“I’ve known since the first time I saw your work. Since I watched you write circles around reporters twice your age. Since you dug up the truth about Coach Randal’s abuse case back in college, even after the entire district tried to bury it.”
Finally — finally — he looked at me, and his eyes were on fire.
“You don’t justtellstories. You exhume them. You dig until there’s nothing left but bones, and blood, and truth. And that’s what they deserved. That’s whatmy familydeserved.”
My throat locked up.
He kept going.
“You think I’ve been sleeping easy all these years? That I didn’t lie awake every night wondering what really happened? Why the cops stopped calling? Why the case went cold? Why no one but you gave a fuck after the funeral flowers died?”
He turned the laptop slightly toward me.
“They matter now. Becauseyoumade them matter again.”
Tears burned hot behind my eyes.
“I just wanted the world to see what you survived,” I whispered. “What youlost. I wanted them to understand who they were. What was taken from you.”
He stared at me. Then reached out and gently closed the laptop.
“I read every word,” he said. “And the only thing I’m pissed about…”
I braced myself.
“…is thatIdidn’t get to dedicate anything toyouin return for this gift you’ve given me.”
That broke me.
Tears slipped hot and silent down my cheeks. My knees gave a little under me, but he caught me before I could drop. Pulled me into his lap, my blanket falling away as he wrapped his arms around me like he was afraid the world would try to steal me again.
He kissed my temple.
“My mother would’ve loved you,” he murmured. “She would’ve read your book in one sitting, then bought ten more copies to shove at anyone who’d listen. She’d be proud of you.”
A sob cracked through me.
“And my sister?” His voice cracked. “She’d be obsessed with you. She’d tell everyone her brother’s girlfriend was a badass author who wrote therealversion of her story.”
I clung to him, my hands in his hair, my face pressed to his neck.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whispered. “For everything. For waiting. For doing it alone. For not letting you in.”
He didn’t scold me. Didn’t ask for more. Just held me tighter.
“I want you to move forward,” I said into his skin. “I want you to stop carrying this weight alone.”
