Page 97 of When I Come Home

Myself included.

Because, while I didn't leak the photo myself, it's my fault India was even able to in the first place. I shouldn't have left her alone with access to my phone, knowing that she knows the passcode from back when we were together. I never should have even let her into the house. I should have thrown her out the moment I saw her.

Mostly, I never should have taken the photo in the first place.

“Why did you do this to me?” Her voice is cracked and smaller than I've ever heard it. Her suffering seeps through every syllable, splintering the only pieces of my heart I have left.

“I didn't.”

The statement is a simple one, gentle and without defense. But my head sags heavy and sad between my shoulders, my phone held to my ear in a hand weak with disappointment.

She still believes I was capable of doing this.

“You've destroyed me,” she cries like she didn't even hear me. “I loved you, Cole. I loved you so much. I always have. You've been my whole world since we were kids. Even those years we were apart, I used to imagine you were holding me just so I could fall asleep. I used to dream of that night you told me you loved me, when we skipped prom to stargaze in the park instead. There's never been a moment in my life that I have regretted loving you, even when the hurt of it felt like it was going to tear me apart. But now…now I think I do.”

I don't think I've ever truly known pain until this very moment.

To hear that the woman who has owned me so implicitly since we were teenagers regrets loving me? It's a torture I can't even describe.

“I didn't do it,” I tell her again, though I'm barely able to speak through my grief.

“You did!” she yells, her voice breaking. “You took the picture. It was on your phone. Who else could have done it but you? Don't insult me by denying it, Cole.”

I almost laugh at that last bit. The irony of it is so damn tragic it's comical. Because her obscene lack of trust in me or willingness to hear me out, partnered with the soul-splintering words she's said today, goes far beyond the realms of insulting.

It's a betrayal within itself.

Pulling in as deep a breath as my weak lungs can muster, I say, “Listen to me now. It was India. She showed up again the night before you were supposed to come home. That's who was at the door.”

I pause, my body shaking. I tear at my hair and scrunch my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down enough to get through this. Thea isn't interrupting me. She's actually listening. This is my one chance to explain to her what really happened without my overworked emotions getting in the way.

“She let herself in again, naked underneath that fucking stripper coat. I didn't see anything though, Thea. I promise. Soon as she stripped, I covered my eyes and refused to talk to her until she'd put the coat back on. Fuck, I should have thrown her ass out straight away. I know that now. But she was sad and I can't fucking deal with girls being sad. And it was my fault, ya know? I thought I owed it to her to hear her out because I knew I didn't treat her right while we were together, since I was still hung the fuck up on you, even if it had been six years since the first fucking time you broke my heart.”

Another pause as I suck in a breath, some of the shock I was feeling before ebbing away. In its place, though, lingers something almost worse. The knowledge that even if Thea does believe me, we are too broken now to be fixed.

“I left her alone for a couple minutes to get some water from the garage. She wanted wine, but there was no way that was gonna happen. Imagine if the night before you came home, I was sitting on my sofa, drinking wine with my ex? Fuck that. But I said she could have a bottle of water if she was thirsty, thinking that she'd just say what she wanted to say and then leave. But when I came back, she was already by the front door, acting really fucking weird. Didn't think anything of it, ya know? Just wanted to get back on the phone to you. Didn't even notice my phone wasn't where I'd left it. Turns out, while I was in the garage, she'd gotten curious and started going through my phone. She knew the passcode. It's been the same since I was eighteen.”

I laugh humorlessly and shake my head. “Your fucking birthday. How pathetic is that? Not sure she ever put two and two together, though, but it's another example of how much of an asshole I was to her. Anyway, I guess she found that photo of you and sent it to herself. Leaked it to the press as soon as she got home. I haven't spoken to her since. Pretty sure she's been hiding from me, to be honest. Don't think I've ever been so angry at anyone in my whole fuckin’ life. But please, hear me when I say this. I'm so fucking sorry this happened to you, that I played a part in it, that I even took the photo at all. God, Thea, I'm so so sorry.”

Silence.

It's a long, anxiety-inducing, ambiguous sort of silence.

I don't know how to handle it.

I don't know if I should try to fill it somehow. But I don't know what I would say, and I have no energy left to get the words out anyway.

I'm exhausted. This week has sucked the life out of me, draining my soul and leaving me boneless.

When Thea finally breaks through the quietude, I'm barely sentient enough to hear her.

“You didn't do it?” she asks, her voice tiny and fragile and lacking the accusations it was loaded with before.

“I didn't do it.”

“Oh my god,” she breathes on a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh my god, you didn't do it.”

I say nothing.

---