“I just wanted to give you the chance to like me for me.” His words fall quickly, like a train speeding up. “But then you said all that shit about wealth, so, well, I didn’t say.”
What the hell? “As if that’s a valid excuse, or even the most hurtful thing you’ve done.”
“No, but it’s where it all started.”
“Yeah, your line of fuckups is pretty long.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t treat you the way you deserved. I really loved—”
“No.”I point my finger in his face, and it takes everything within me not to poke it right in his eye. “I don’t want your apology. We were getting married, Mitch! Making promises, all the while you were lying, screwing women behind my back.”
“But you weren’t living in London when it started.”
I actually laugh. “Are you for real?”
“That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”
“No shit. Maybe you should’ve written it down. It might’ve helped to stick to a script.”
“What?”
“This is all such bullshit. But I really don’t care anymore.” All things considered, I think I’m being quite restrained. I haven’t once mentioned peanut butter, his EpiPen, or the wooden onesie I sometimes dream of putting him in. “What you did was lowest of the low.”
“No, not the lowest.” The words are expelled on a burst of ugly laughter. “Not by a fucking mile. I know I was wrong. I screwed up—didn’t tell you the truth.”
“Stop. I don’t care!”
“Evie, fucking Deubel?” He shoves his hand violently through his hair. “I’m nowhere near as bad ashim.”
What is it with this pair?
“I’m leaving.” Done with this. I push past him—properly this time, hating how my bare shoulder brushes against him.
“What did he tell you about me and Lucy?”
“Urgh.” With a harsh shake of my head, I keep moving. It always comes back to frickin’ Lucy!
“But I bet he didn’t tell you his part—I know he didn’t say who she was.”
Every atom of my being revolts at his words. I know I should push on, that no good can come from hearing this, yet my steps begin to slow, like I can’t help myself.
“Spit it out,” I demand, canting my head over my shoulder. “What are you trying to tell me? Did she die?” Could this be why Oliver is so cut up?
In the darkness, Mitchell shakes his head. “No, she didn’t. Not that she didn’t try.”
“How do youtryto die?” I throw my arm out in a careless gesture as I turn, my brain catching up a split second too late. “You’re full of shit,” I say, my blood turning icy cold as I pivot away.
“I fucked her, and I shouldn’t have. I lied to her. Pretended I was into her more than I was. I got her to tell me about his business, then I screwed him over, snatched the land out from under him. It was just business.”
“Unbelievable,” I whisper, horrified anew.I almost married this man.
“I was wrong, and I own up to that, but don’t tell me he’s done the same. I don’t know how he can sleep at night.”
“Go away, Mitch,” I yell, but the gravel behind me crunches anyway.
“He told her he’d never forgive her.” His hand grips my shoulder, and he spins me to face him. “He said things he couldn’t take back. I made her cry, but his rejection made her want to die.”
But that’s not how a mental break works. Besides: “You can’t even admit your own part in it.”
