“This sickness?” I go on. “Counseling didn’t fix it. Therapy didn’t fix it. Medication didn’t fix it. He told me everything.”
That lands.
“You have real problems, Sage,” I say. “And I am two seconds from having you committed. The locked-door kind. You hear me?”
Something in her face shifts then. Calculation drains out. What’s left is naked fear.
That’s when I know she understands.
She tried to defend herself.
Of course she did.
“Tony,” she said quickly, voice shaking but sharp at the edges, like she’d rehearsed this. “You practically flew a banner in the sky inviting me. It was everywhere. TheGlobe. TheHerald. TheNotes. Your registry was on Tiffany’s. Nordstrom’s. It was like the wedding of the year. What was I supposed to think?”
I stared at her.
She kept going, words tumbling out faster now, panic bleeding through the bravado. “I—I even brought you a gift.”
That did it.
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. A harsh, disbelieving sound that echoed off the brick wall and the dumpsters behind us.
“Sage,” I said slowly, carefully, like you talk to someone holding a knife the wrong way, “a wedding announcement is not an invitation.”
She flinched.
“See, this is the problem with you,” I continued, lowering my voice. “Even when you’re being completely fucking crazy, you still somehow manage to have a good heart underneath it. You brought us a gift?”
She nodded, eyes glossy. “I left it on the table.”
“Christ,” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face.
For a split second—just a split second—I saw it clearly. The girl she might’ve been if things had gone differently. The version of her that loved too hard because no one ever stayed long enough. The version that thought showing up meant you still mattered.
But sympathy doesn’t cancel damage.
I stepped back, creating space. Final space.
“Get out of here,” I said.
She opened her mouth again.
“I’d say it was good seeing you,” I added flatly, “but… you know.”
Some doors don’t close gently.
Some have to be slammed.
Before she can say another word, I reach out and snatch the camera from her hands.
“No—please,” she gasps. “I just wanted the pictures. Just to look at them. Sometimes. I swear.”
“Like a junkie,” I snap. “Late at night. Pouring over them. Driving past his place a million times.”
Her head jerks up.
“You already figure out where he lives now?” I ask sharply. “No? Didn’t think so. But you would’ve. You’d tail him tonight if you could.”
