Page 143 of Merry Me
I let out a bitter laugh, sharp and small. “Yeah. Or maybe he just doesn’tfeelanything. Maybe he never did.”
I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have done it.” My voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of seeing how much he still gets to me.”
He turned his head. “No, Nat. You gaveyourselfthe satisfaction. Of not staying quiet. Of not swallowing it down again. You were the one with power back there. You stood there, told the truth, and let him fucking choke on it.”
I wiped at my cheek, annoyed to find it damp. “I hate that he made me feel like I was a kid again. Like I was the one being dramatic. Like I was just too emotional to be loved.”
“You’re not too emotional,” he said, voice low and even. “You’re not dramatic. You’re not difficult.”
I side-eyed him. Hard.
He exhaled a short breath through his nose. “Okay, I mean, youcanbe dramatic.”
My brow arched higher.
“But not about this,” he amended quickly, holding up a hand like a man begging for mercy. “This was righteous fury. Very noble. Would’ve looked great in slow motion.”
Despite myself, my lips twitched.
“Slow motion, huh?”
“Yep. Black and white. Epic swelling music. Maybe a wind machine.”
I scoffed and then waggled my eyebrows. “It was kind of epic.”
He grinned, looking a little relieved that I wasn’t falling to the ground in hysterics at the moment—even though the situation really did call for it.
“It was definitely epic,” he told me proudly.
We sat for a beat longer, the silence between us softening around the edges. The snow kept falling. The air stayed cold.
But something inside me had unclenched.
I let my head fall against his shoulder.
“I used to imagine him showing up,” I said, quieter now. “Not like this. Not with lies and manipulation and…her. But the version I needed when I was a kid. I used to make up conversations in my head. I’d sit at the window and picture him getting out of the car with flowers, or a letter, or just anapology. Something real.”
“I’d even rehearse what I’d say back. Like it was a scene I could control. Like if I got the lines right, it would fix something. Make him stay.”
I pulled in a breath that stung all the way down, the kind of inhale that scraped through your chest like glass.
“But after a while, I stopped. I told myself he was gone. That I’d never see him again. That it was safer to grieve someone alive than keep hoping for something that would never happen.”
My voice thinned, raw at the edges. “I never thought he’d actually come back. And now that he did…” My throat burned. “I wish he fucking hadn’t.”
Easton didn’t try to fill the silence. He didn’t try to fix it. He just reached for my hand and found it easily, his fingers threading through mine. His thumb grazed over my knuckles—lingering on the one that still throbbed from the punch, like he knew exactly where it hurt.
“You could hit him again if you want. I’ll hold him down.”
That made me laugh, breathless and teary. “Tempting.”
“I’m just saying, I have no moral objections to vigilante justice. Especially when the guy deserves it.”
“He does deserve it,” I whispered back.
The wind shifted, blowing snow across the patio like confetti meant for some other kind of celebration. One I hadn’t been invited to. One I wasn’t going to miss.
And for a while, we sat like that.
