“I didn’t mean —”
“You’re right,” I say, my voice cold and emotionless. “I wouldn’t understand.”
This time, she doesn’t protest when I turn around and leave.
34
CONNIE
The chill crawling through my veins as I watch Huxley walk away has nothing to do with the cold wind blowing through the flimsy fabric of my dress.
My eyes sting with the threat of tears, and I bite down on my quivering lip to make it stop. I never meant for this to happen. I would have never brought Huxley here if I knew there was any chance Oliver would show up.
InMarsford Bay,of all places?
I’ve never been good with words—scripted words, yes—but those that come from the heart? It feels like any time I try to explain myself to Huxley, I just end up making it worse.
The more I linger on the feeling of failing Huxley once again, the more it turns into an acute sense of loneliness. A soul-deep pattern of always feeling misunderstood. People see what they want to see, but do they ever reallyseeme? My vision turns blurry, and I groan out loud, looking up as I try to blink back the tears. This is not the time nor the place for a meltdown. There might not be any paparazzi here, but influencers are just as rapacious.
If not worse.
I feel Oliver approach from the back as if my body still recognizes his energy. That feeling is just as confusing as having the familiar notes of his cologne waft around me when he places his coat around my shoulders.
“Who was that kid, anyway?” Oliver says, as if he still has rightful access to my personal life.
“He’s not a kid,” I say numbly, then swivel around, remembering who I’m talking to. “And it’s none of your fucking business!” I spit. “Why are you even here in the first place?”
He slides his hands in his trouser pockets, the street light outlining the profile of his face. Even outside in the cold winter night, this asshole can easily find his light. He’s the picture of glossy perfection. And I can’t believe I once fell for it.
“I told you. I needed to see you,” he drawls.
I stare at him in disbelief as his words pluck at my bruised heart. I repress the feeling and choose anger instead, a Hail Mary effort to protect myself against him. I rip his coat off my shoulders and throw it back to him.
“Too little, too late.”
I try to storm back inside, but Oliver catches my wrist with his hand. I look down at where we connect, then slowly back up to his face. His brown eyes are full of an unsung plea, and a battle of contradicting emotions wages inside of me.
“Let me explain myself,” he says quietly. “Please.”
I bringOliver to an empty diner that Jamie and I frequented often when we were still in school. It’s run by a couple who are well into their seventies. Most importantly, I knew they’d have no clue who orhowfamous Oliver was.
That includes the handful of senior regulars frequentingthis spot on a Friday night. It’s the closest thing to anonymity I could think of without bringing Oliver back to my hotel.
And that wasnotgoing to happen.
Oliver pretends to peruse the sticky menu as if he’ll find something that works with his keto diet. Even here, his demeanor is poised and practiced, always at the ready for an unexpected photo-op. Ruth, who’s been working here for as long as I can remember, waddles her way to our table.
“Ready, doll?” she says, directing her question to me.
I smile and hand her my menu. “Can I please have the key lime pie and a coffee?”
She smiles and nods, jotting down my order.
“And you?” she asks, turning her attention to Oliver.
“What kind of herbal tea do you have?
Oliver’s dazzling smile falls flat with Ruth.
