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“I’d love to, but I can’t,” I said, bracing myself for the fact that we might have to have the conversation I’d been avoiding because I was pretty sure it was going to make him upset.
“Damn it, Steinbeck, how dare you schedule something in your life without my approval? The nerve,” he joked, sounding adorably teasing. “What are you doing? Ironman with old Lar Bear?”
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath before casually saying, “We’re doing the wedding in Lincoln—he’s going with me. But what time does Beerfest end? I’ll probably be back by seven o’clock.”
He didn’t say anything; the line went silent.
Fine.
I wasn’t going to say anything, I was just going to wait for him to speak, because I’d done nothing wrong. I was simply working a wedding, the same thing he’d done multiple times.
But... the silence just hung there.
And went on. Andon.
“Max,” I finally said, trying to keep things light, “we can still drink a lot of beer if it goes until eight. I’ve been known to shotgun—”
“Why?”
His voice was clipped and serious. My nerves were jittery as I spurted out a breathy “What?”
“Why are you so hell-bent on doing this, Sophie?”
It wasn’t angry or irritated, the way he said it. It was more... exhausted, or resigned, like he was too tired to deal with it.
Which irritatedme.Because he wasn’t wrong at all; Iwashell-bent on doing it. As soon as he’d said his ex was the cheating bride, I’d been out of my mind excited about doing it. I wanted to rescue her groom, yes, but I wanted to score a point for my friend whose heart she’d destroyed.
I wanted her to feel as bad as she’d made him feel.
Also, I wanted to see whatLilibeth—what a ridiculous name for someone who wasn’t a royal—looked like. She didn’t appear to have any public profiles on any platform that I could access, which was absurd. What kind of psychopath wasn’t on social media?
It bothered me a lot that he didn’t want me to do it. That he seemed to want to protect her from being hurt.
Did he still love her? Was he stillinlove with her?
I tried to come up with an answer to give him, but instead I blurted out, “Why are you so hell-bent on menotdoing this?”
He sighed, long and deep like it was coming from his very center, and he said, “Whatever, Sophie.”
“Whatever?” I asked. “You’re going towhateverme over this?”
“I have to go,” he said, sounding so cold that it hurt my heart.
“Why?” I asked, a heaviness settling into my chest.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait, no drinks tonight?” I asked, absolutely horrified by the overwhelming disappointment in my voice. Him backing out on celebrating with me because I was wronging his ex felt like a betrayal.
Please, please, please don’t skip out on me,I thought, desperately hoping he’d just momentarily forgotten.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice raspy and emotionless. “I’m sorry.”
A burning started in the center of my chest, and I blinked fast as tears threatened to form. “Seriously, Max?”
“I can’t, Soph. I have to go.”
He ended the call before I could say another word.
