“Did you finish painting the shop?”
I know she did because I’ve made it a point to look in the window when I walk past to see the progress.
Her mouth does something small, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Yeah, like three weeks ago.”
Somehow, I feel even dumber. Of course, she only had the two walls left that night.
“I’m sure it looks good.”
She continues mixing whatever’s in the bowl. “It came out the way I wanted.”
“Good.” I drag in a breath and feel it lodge somewhere tight. This is insane. The last time we were within an arm’s reach, there wasn’t any space left at all. I’ve told myself a hundred times since that I’d apologize the first chance I got. The words are right there, and if I don’t say them now, I don’t know when I will.
“Paige—”
“Ben—”
We speak at once and both stop. For a second, it almost feels like we’re about to laugh. We don’t.
“You first,” she says, and I hear the steel lining her voice. It punches something low in my gut because I’m the reason it’s there.
“I’m sorry,” I say. No preamble, no warm-up, just the thing I should have led with a week ago, slamming into the quiet foyer. “For that night. For what I said after. For…all of it.”
Her eyes go still. A dozen responses look like they want to try her mouth on. She chooses none of them.
She sets the bowl down with a solid click. “Okay. You apologized.”
I grip the edge of the counter beside me. The surface is worn smooth from years of use, but I hold it hard enough to feel it dig into my palms. “I mean it,” I start. “I was an ass. I panicked. It came out like—” I stop, the sentence tangling in my mouth. “It came out like you were a mistake. Like I regretted you. I don’t. Not for a second.”
The words leave my throat hot and clumsy. I’ve rehearsed them alone—over the sink, under the hiss of a shower, into the emptycab of my truck—none of those places pushed back. This one does. She does.
The spoon slows, stops. She rests it in the bowl and finally looks at me. There’s a flicker in her eyes—softening, maybe—but it’s gone before I can be sure. “You have a hell of a way of showing it.”
Her chin tips a fraction, not quite defiance, not quite a dare; more like a brace. I recognize it. I’ve lived in that posture for years.
It’s defensive, and I hate that I’m the one who forced her there.
“I know.” The words scrape my throat raw. “I know, Paige. I’ve been thinking about it every hour since. I don’t expect you to forgive me because I finally figured out how to say sorry without choking on it. But it’s the truth.”
She sets the spoon down on a folded towel, crossing her arms over her middle. “You hurt me.”
The simple words do more damage than any yelling or anger could. plainness of it does more damage than any accusation could.
“I know.”
“No.” Her gaze sharpens, pins me where I stand. “You don’t. I need you to hear it. You hurt me. Not because we slept together,but because you made me feel like I was nothing. A spot of dirt you had to wipe away before anyone noticed.”
I glance toward the window, the sun angling in low, throwing a glow across the flour dust in the air. The shame feels like that light—hot, unavoidable, too bright to hide in. “I was thinking about Jason,” I say.
Her laugh is short, not amused. “Nothing I love more than hearing a man was thinking of my brother while he wasinside me.”
“I know how that sounds,” I say quietly.
“Do you?” she snaps. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be swept under the rug like some shameful secret because the person I just slept with cares more about my brother’s feelings than mine?”
The words land like a slap I earned. My throat tightens, but I don’t look away. “I wasn’t trying to erase you, Paige. I swear to God, that’s not what it was.”
My voice comes out lower, rougher than I mean. “I was thinking about how it would blow up everything— me and Jason, you and Jason, the whole rhythm of our relationships— if he found out and thought I’d… crossed a line. I froze. I said the worst possible thing because I thought it would lessen the fallout.”
