She fucking wouldn’t.
Even so, the idea that she’d come sniffing around for more about those times leaves me unsettled.
This isn’t what I expected.
Hattie didn’t think twice before running off to her best friend and telling her we’ve been hooking up.
“I thought you were just being your normal asshole self,” Margot continues. “But after seeing you today and hearing about the books, I know that’s not the problem. Youlikeher.”
My blood cools, but my fingers are still clenched around the glass too tightly.
Calm the hell down. You’re reading too much into it.
Hattie didn’t tell Margot anything about that summer. She wouldn’t when she knows what a massive deal it was.
Fuck.
“She mentioned the letter,” Margot says. Panic slams through my bones until I realize this isn’t about Taylor. “The weird old letter you found in our pirate ship?”
Shit. I’d almost forgotten.
“Come on, you’re old enough to know it’s not a pirate ship, Margot.” I take a moment to find some of that steely calm I’m famous for.
No one does coldhearted like Ethan Blackthorn.
“I don’t care about the ship. That’s not the point,” she says impatiently. “What about the letter? What did it say?”
“Gramps wrote it to Mom,” I tell her. “But it didn’t make much sense.”
“What did it say?”
“Don’t know exactly. I’ll have to look again.” I frown, trying to remember.
At the time, it was odd, but I’d just tucked it away and forgotten about it. There were more important things to deal with.
Like fucking Hattie boneless, for one.
She’s slid into my life and restructured my priorities too seamlessly.
“It seemed conflicted. Gramps feeling like he did something to drive her away,” I say eventually. “I don’t know what happened, but he sounded guilty as hell.”
“Guilty? Weird.” She paces the room, then grabs a bottle of water from the beverage fridge under the bar. “But is everything okay, Ethan? You and Hattie aren’t fighting, are you?”
Before I can tell her to fuck off for the hundredth time, Margot looks past me.
“Hey, Mom,” she says. “Come tell us about leaving Portland. Did Gramps used to write you a lot?”
“Why do you ask?” Mom stops halfway toward us, her mouth pressed in a thin line. “What are you talking about, Margot?”
“We found a letter,” I say.
Her face turns the shade of lumpy oatmeal.
“Letter? What letter?” Her voice is urgent, nearly a shriek, and she puts the water on the side with so much force, thebangmakes Margot jump. “What letter are you talking about?”
I exchange a glance with Margot, but there’s uncertainty written on her face.
This isn’t the mother we know.
