Page 92 of Dead Set on You
I release a shaky breath. “This entire time, you kept that to yourself?” My voice comes out even and hard, even though myheart is engaging in emotional acrobatics. I don’t let him answer. “It made me hate you.”
There’s an almost imperceptible sag to his shoulders. “You can keep hating me. I wouldn’t blame you for it. It shouldn’t have been my decision to make, but I couldn’t fathom the thought of you being in meetings or at dinners with him when I knew what he wanted. And I could have—should have—gone to Dana, but I thought I was making the right choice for Media Lab and for you. All I can say is … I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Lo siento.”
My chest aches and I can’t talk yet, not when I feel like roadkill all over again.
I spent so many years believing a lie and feeling betrayed. I invested so much of my energy in hating him when I could have spent it … not hating him, feeling more of what I’ve been feeling these last few days.
My throat closes up to the point where all I can say is, “We can go now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEELEVEN DAYS (AND A MAJOR REVELATION) AFTER
By the time we’re back in Rafael’s apartment, his phone has buzzed four more times, but he’s answered none of the calls.
I’ve processed a thousand thoughts, but I’ve voiced none of them.
It’s hard to chat when everything I thought to be real—the entire foundation of our rivalry—was shattered in the span of a few minutes and nothing looks the same.
I sense him wanting to say something, but he doesn’t fill the silence either. He simply watches me in a way that makes me question everything I know all over again, but mostly it makes me want to forgive him. It makes me want to admit that it was me who was an oblivious idiot, who should have been sharp enough to see Art Betton for who he was: a sleazy, entitled weasel.
It’s not that I didn’t notice his lingering gazes or too-lengthy handshakes. Sure, I wanted to shake it off and shower for hours afterward, but I let it go because I was naive and didn’t want tojeopardize a client who would bring Media Lab a good chunk of change … and me a commission that could help me put a down payment on an apartment. I also didn’t want to disappoint Rafael after we’d worked so hard researching the account and preparing our pitch. There were countless reasons I excused Art’s inappropriate-adjacent behaviors when I should have known to question them or talk to Dana about it.
In the end, we both messed up.
Rafael had me removed from the account, and I didn’t bother to question how it didn’t match up with the person who’d become my friend. Instead, I invited him to a one-on-one meeting, during which I called him a “backstabbing asshole with no moral compass or humanity” who would “perish alone and miserable like he deserved,” after which I swore to him that he would pay one day.
It wasn’t one of my finer moments. I was in an emotional and vulnerable place, because my plans fell apart right after, and I’d barely pieced myself together after losing Annie, running away from home, and trying to survive on my own. Every day those first couple of years I’d been in survival mode, trying to make ends meet, and Rafael had jeopardized that by taking the account from me and a huge chunk of my cut—and he didn’t even know if Media Lab was for him. It was unfathomable and unforgivable.
I held it against him for so long, and he let me.
I’m not sure which has been worse.
I haven’t been able to figure it out the entire ride back to his place, and he hasn’t spoken a word either.
Rafael is quietly unpacking the groceries from their paper bags and putting them into the fridge, stopping every now and then to throw furtive glances in my direction, across the kitchen, where I’ve paced an invisible track into his floor and gnawed on another fingernail (but fortunately for me, one of the very tiny, very few perks of my predicament is waking up with a new manicure each day).
We’ve let silence do the talking too many times—and look where a got us. So I break it. “Why are you putting the groceries away?”
His eyes snap to me, the fridge door partly closed. “I assumed you weren’t going to be in the mood for cooking lessons,” he says, somewhat sheepishly.
I’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise—and the way he looks like a pup getting the feel for his legs is enough to make me tell him I’ve forgiven him. Almost. I step from the dining space into the kitchen, allowing the island to remain a much-needed buffer between us. “I think that a lot could have been different if you didn’tassumewhat it was that I wanted or needed,” I say quietly.
He nods, letting the fridge door close, and tucks his hands beneath his elbows as he leans against the fridge. When he sighs, his shoulders sag. “I know.”
In all these years, I’ve never seen Rafael so … defeated—and I experience none of the joy I always imagined. Which only reaffirms what I’ve been wanting to say.
“I don’t think you should have made a decision about Art and his account for me.”
Rafael sags further, but he doesn’t look away.
“But I get why you did it, and I’m not mad … not that I haven’t spent the last two or so years being furious.” I huff out a mirthless chuckle, glancing down at my hands as if I can find the fortification I need there. “Only Iammad at you for letting me believe that you were a backstabber all this time.” I lift my gaze back up to his, knowing I’m holding nothing back, and say the last part in an almost-whisper. “For letting me hate you for so long.”
Rafael looks at me, shocked. He silences his buzzing phone. “Mierda.”
“Shitis all you have to say?” I aim for levity, but it comes out flat, almost angry, and his features contort in alarm.
“No! It’s just this damn—it doesn’t matter,” he says, tucking the phone into his pocket. Rafael pushes from the fridge, lays his palms flat on the counter, and levels a serious gaze at me. I try not to stare at the way his muscles bunch as he leans on his forearms. “Trust me, I regret letting you believe that, more than a lot of things. When I realized how much my decision hurt you, I wanted to fix it, but there was no going back, not without you thinking I was making up another lie.”
“You mean I wouldn’t listen when you wanted to talk?”
