She slid closer until our knees touched.
For a minute, she just stared at her glass.
Then—
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Simple.
No theatrics. No tears.
Just… sorry.
I looked at her.
“For what?” I asked, even though I knew.
She exhaled through her nose.
“New York messes with me,” she said. “The Hamptons mess with me more.”
Her voice was quieter than usual. Stripped down.
“I know I told you I was engaged once,” she continued. “But I didn’t really explain.”
I stayed still.
“We used to go out there all the time,” she said. “Summers. Weekends. It was… our place.”
She swallowed.
“And when everything blew up between us, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t mutual. It was ugly and humiliating and I didn’t handle it well.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.
“I drink too much when I’m there,” she admitted. “And the memories get loud. And then my brain starts telling me everyone leaves.”
She looked at me then. Not angry. Not sharp.
Just scared.
“The thought of you leaving too…” she said quietly, “it did something to me. I panicked. And I turn mean when I panic.”
It wasn’t an excuse.
It sounded like a confession.
“I don’t want to be that girl,” she said. “Not with you.”
Something in my chest softened against my will.
I reached over and covered her hand with mine.
“It’s okay,” I said.
And I meant it.
Which scared me more than anything.
