By midnight, I’m tired and sticky with crumbs, but the margins are alive with color. I don’t have any answers, but I have a theory: Maybe Talon wanted to be taught. Maybe the whole point was to make me see him, not as a fantasy, but as a guy who needs help expressing himself. He’s scared too, and is telling me through his story.
I check my phone again.
Simone: I’m up if you want to talk. Or if you want to come over and eat my emergency mac and cheese.
I hesitate, then type: I think I know what I’m going to do. But first I have to test him.
Simone: Yassss queen. Scorch him.
I smile, then, almost on impulse, open my messages and type a draft to Talon.
Do you want to meet? Botanical Gardens, Saturday at noon. Public place, neutral ground. Should be peaceful.
I hover over send for a long time, heart thudding in my ears.
I read the text again. I try to imagine how he’ll respond. If he’ll bring another contract, another apology, another version of himself. Or if, maybe, he’ll just show up as the man who wrote those last pages, the man who might be scared but who can’t lie anymore.
I press send.
The text bubbles away, and I toss the phone onto the coffee table, where it bounces once and lands next to the highlighter. I close the book, tuck it under my arm, and pad to the window to stare out at the street. The sky is low, full of clouds and maybe more rain, but there’s a weird, electric sense of promise in the air.
For the first time, I’m not waiting for someone else to write the ending.
I’m going to do it myself.
That weekend,I arrive at the Botanical Gardens early, legs jelly and stomach full of bees. I need time to scope the territory, to make sure it’s safe, to convince myself I’m not walking into my own demise. The front gates are busy—lots of strollers, retired couples, a bachelorette group already tipsy at 11:30 a.m. I breathe easier. Safety in numbers.
The koi pond is my target. It’s the most public spot, ringed by benches and usually swarmed with shrieking kids. I pick a bench near the water’s edge, where the sun paints rainbows on the surface and the biggest koi laze just beneath, plump and content.I plant myself there, clutching my messenger bag, the batteredAngel’s Shareinside like a talisman or a warning.
Talon arrives and there seems to be a hush because even in civilian clothes my alpha male can’t help but make an entrance. He’s huge and masculine in dark jeans and a pale blue button-down—no leather, no intimidation factor, unless you count the way he fills out the shoulders. His dark hair is roguishly ruffled, and his eyes gleam clear blue, slicing through the crowd until they lock on me.
He stops three feet away, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even move closer until I nod. “Hey, Kitten.”
I point to the far end of the bench. “You can sit, but if you try anything, I’ll scream and get us both banned for life.”
He grins, but it’s small and uncertain. He lowers his massive form, meeting my eyes.
For a minute, it’s just us and the sound of water and small children throwing breadcrumbs. I try to compose myself, but my hands won’t stop fidgeting. I realize he’s waiting for me to start, and the power shift makes me feel unexpectedly strong.
“So,” I say. “You’re here.”
He shrugs, slow. “I’m here. Ask me anything.”
My mouth is dry, but I force myself to look him in the eye. “Fine. I know some of this is going to be repeat, but I want to hear it again. When did you start using Sweet Lies? And how many women before me?”
He doesn’t even blink. “I can’t remember exactly, but I started using Sweet Lies maybe seven or eight years ago. I had really bad writer’s block, and was drunk off my ass most of the time.As for women, maybe a dozen? It could be more or less. I stopped counting because, honestly, it didn’t matter. I didn’t want relationships. I didn’t want any mess. Sweet Lies kept it neat and professional. Or that’s what I told myself.”
I nod, jaw tight. “But you made them act out all the scenarios. The roleplays. Why?”
He hesitates, and for the first time I see him wrestle with the answer. “Again, it gave structure to our interactions, and like Jonah suggested, saying that the roleplay was part of my “research” legitimized it a little. Maybe it helped me get a higher-caliber girl. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to be with someone unless I was pretending.”
I take that in, let it sting. “And with me? Was it different, or did I just play the role better?”
He’s silent, but his hands are flat on his knees, open, not clenched. “It was different. You didn’t just play along, Kat. You… I don’t know. You broke the fourth wall. You called me on my shit.”
“And yet you lied the whole time,” I say, trying not to sound like I care. “You let me think you were genuinely writing a romance.”
He looks at the pond, then back at me. “I know. There’s no excuse. It was cowardly. I thought I could keep it compartmentalized, like everything else. But when you left, it wrecked me.”
