Silence.
Then footsteps.
“Telling you that we aren’t talking until tomorrow is establishing a boundary. Are you going to respect that boundary or are you going to disappoint me again?”
Shit.
I press away from the door.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” I say in a rush, backing across the hall. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, as an afterthought: “Text me if you need anything.”
I step into my room and force myself to close the door so she won’t feel crowded or under a microscope.
It’s barely six o’clock, but I stretch out on my bed, if nothing else, to give myself a minute to get my head together.
I shut my eyes, hearing every one of the names Pop called me.
Idiot.
Horse’s ass.
Jackass.
He’s right. I am all three.
Hattie offered me everything—all the help I needed—and I rejected her in mere minutes.
Yet, if she’d asked me to marry her, I wouldn’t have dreamed of telling her no.
Why?
What’s the difference?
Is it money?
Do I think I’m worthy of her love, but not her wealth?
Because that’s fucked up.
But I shake my head.
That’s not it.
That’s not it.
My phone buzzes with a text. I dig it out of my pocket, hoping like hell it isn’t my twin messaging me with his own insults.
My heart leaps when I read the screen.
Hattie: HI…
I waste no time texting back.
Me: Hi, love.
I want to say more. A lot more, but I tread carefully.
