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I can tell Cash is grasping at straws. At anything that might get me to move. But I don't. I stay rooted in place, protecting Wilder. After all the people who have stepped to the side and knocked Wilder down when he didn't deserve it, I'm not moving.
"Blondie," Wilder mutters behind me as his fingers tighten around mine.
"I'm not moving," I say to Wilder as I glare at Cash.
"You know what?" Cash throws his arms up. "You two can have each other. I'm done. I gave up everything for you, Ingrid. And Wild? All those years I helped you when no one else would. What a waste. You've both been the biggest waste of my time."
Cash angrily walks away as I let out the breath I was holding.
"I... I..." Wilder stumbles over his words.
I turn to face him, our fingers still interlocked. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have handed him my phone. I forgot the video was on there."
The color slowly returns to Wilder's face. "He's never going to forgive me."
"He will," I try. "In time, he will forgive you."
"You don't know Cash then," Wilder pulls his hand out of mine. "He's not forgiving. Not like you."
"I love you," I say as I feel tears filling my eyes. "And so does Cash. When you love someone, you forgive them."
Wilder hangs his dark head. "I don't think you understand what we've done, Ingrid."
"I love you," I repeat. "I haven't done anything wrong. We haven't done anything wrong."
His strong hands cup my face. "You're right. You haven't done anything wrong. But I have. I betrayed my best friend."
"He left you," I mumble.
"Everyone leaves me," he sighs with resignation. "But Cash, he came back."
"Did he?" I furrow my brow.
"He did." He chews on his lower lip.
Cash came back, but it was only after he realized what he lost.
I know what I might lose, and I'm not willing to lose him. I'm not willing to lose Wilder.
"I'll call my mom and have her pick us up," I suggest.
Wilder shakes his head. "I think I should find my own way home."
"You live three doors down," I remind him. "It's not like Jill will be going out of her way."
Mom arrives twenty minutes later to pick us up with a large German Shepherd in her front seat. Wilder and I pile in the back as classical music echoes through the car.
"Gerardo likes instrumental tunes," Mom informs us.
"Who's Gerardo?" I ask.
Mom motions to the dog. "The big fella sitting beside me, Ingrid. Duh."
Oh. I don't respond as I glance over at Wilder. He has his forehead pressed to the glass window, his eyes closed.
Hesitantly, I reach out to touch him. He doesn't recoil or react when my fingers run along his arm. But it still feels like rejection.
"Don't let Cash ruin this," I whisper.
