He never came over.
April watched him go.
“Well,” she said.
Eleanor stared down into her beer.
“It’s probably for the best.”
“For who?”
Eleanor didn’t answer.
April leaned an elbow on the table.
“You look miserable,” she said gently.
“I am miserable.”
The words came out before Eleanor could stop them.
April’s face softened.
“Oh, honey.”
Eleanor looked away.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly. “The trial. Him. Lila. Charleston showing up in every room I walk into.”
April was silent.
“And then Deck,” Eleanor said, the hurt breaking through at last. “He knew. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Since Charleston.”
April sat back.
“He told you?”
“Tonight.” Eleanor laughed once, bitter and exhausted. “Apparently, everyone’s been protecting me by keeping me in the dark.”
“That doesn’t sound like Deck.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “It sounds exactly like Deck.”
She wrapped both hands around her glass.
“In a room full of people waiting for me to fail, he was the one person I thought was looking at my back.”
April reached across the table and squeezed her wrist.
“He was,” she said. “Because he’s a stubborn old Irishman who thinks carrying pain for people counts as helping. You know—kind of like you. Walking away and calling it protection.”
Eleanor looked toward the far side of the room.
Reid sat with Luke, one hand around a beer bottle, his attention fixed firmly on whatever Luke was saying.
He looked over once.
Just once.
