Page 38 of The Games We Play
Mac groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. What Imeantis, if I knew she was going to show back up, if I thought she was still tied to my life inanyway, I would have warned you.”
I shoved past him, my shoulder brushing against his chest as I made my way to the little hall closet where my washer and dryer were tucked away.
“I was stupid for not saying something,” he admitted, his voice following me. “But I genuinely thought it was done. That it was handled years ago.”
I stayed silent, methodically tossing in clothes, focusing on the task instead of the ache creeping into my chest.
Of course, if he’d known, he would have told me. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that he hadn’t told me when it mattered, when it counted.
I poured in detergent, added fabric softener, then shut the lid harder than necessary. Without a word, I walked away, my feet tapping against the wooden floors as I moved toward my hobby basket in the living room. If I was going to be bothered, I might as well make use of the time.
Settling at the dining table, I pulled out my crochet hook and yarn.
Mac followed. Of course, he did.
He dragged a chair out and sat across from me, silent, watching.
The minutes stretched, his stare pressing into me, but I refused to meet it. Instead, I focused on the rhythm of my hands, on the simple, mindless motion of creating something out of nothing.
Crochet over. Into the loop. Pull through—probably a bit too hard.
Repeat.
I swallowed, the weight of something unspoken pressing into my ribs.
“Your pitcher is empty,” he said finally.
“Yup.”
That ceramic pitcher I’d always kept filled with fresh roses sat empty on my table.
The day it all went down, I swore I’d never put another rose in it again.
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” Mac’s voice was raw, edged with a sincerity that made my chest tighten. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I know I fucked up because the words don’t exist.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers threading together like he was holding himself together. “I know I can’t take back what I did. I can’t go back in time and make it all go away.”
My jaw clenched. My heart wavered. Damn it.
“You and I…” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “We had something special.You’respecial. I was a lucky bastard that you even gave me the time of day.”
“If that’s true,” I whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the room, “why didn’t you come find me? Why didn’t you say something sooner? It’s been two months, Mac.”
I finally looked up, letting him see the hurt still carved into me, the wound he’d left behind. The crochet hook slipped from my hand, landing on the table with a soft clatter.
Mac’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I panicked.” His voice cracked. I saw it—regret, tangled with something heavier. “I’ve never had something like this before. Never felt so desperate to make something work.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I hid. I was scared. I was unsure how to handle emotions. I knew you were upset, but I didn’t know what to say, so I avoided it.” His eyes met mine, pleading. “I’m not saying it was right. I know it wasn’t. I just—I handled it wrong.”
“And now?”
His chest rose and fell in a slow, measured breath. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking. Preparing. Reevaluating every stepI took.” He let out a humorless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve done so much fucking thinking.”
I picked up my crochet project, my fingers wrapping around the yarn like it could tether me to something steady. “I hope you learned your fucking lesson.”
Mac groaned, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers he couldn’t find in me.
He wasn’t going to walk in here, say a few sweet words, admit he’d screwed up, and expect me to just get over it. It would take so much more than that because I knew what one omission of the truth after another did.
I lived it.
