I wonder why, though it's pretty obvious. Finding out your fiancé is a lying, cheating prick tends to require alcohol.
"Apparently she and Camilla got into the Sangria at the shower. Mia's worried about her driving."
"I'll get her," I say immediately, already standing.
"Hey." Ollie grabs my arm, stopping me.
His eyes are serious now, the alcohol-induced haze clearing slightly.
"You know, everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am."
"You are," I reply.
He laughs softly. "Yeah. I know. But luck only gets you so far. The rest? That's about choices."
He releases my arm, leans back.
"Choosing to show up. Choosing to stay. Choosing to fight for what matters instead of letting it slip away because you're scared or proud or convinced you don't deserve it."
I grip my keys a little tighter, understanding exactly what he's not saying.
"You should tell her the truth. Especially now."
I don't respond. Because the truth is complicated and messy and wrapped up in his choices as much as mine.
"Nate," he presses, leaning forward. "She deserves to know."
"Drop it, Ollie." My voice is flat, final.
"But—"
"I said drop it."
The edge in my tone makes him pull back.
He studies me for a long moment, the humor gone from his eyes now, replaced by something that looks like guilt.
"I'm sorry, man. For everything. For what I did. For what you lost. For what you never got to have because I thought I was protecting you both."
"You've apologized countless times. It's in the past," I say quietly, even though we both know it's not.
Not really.
The past has a way of bleeding into the present, especially when secrets are involved.
He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. The past."
But as I turn to leave, he adds one more thing:
"Just... don't let it stay there if it doesn't have to."
The driveto the lake house takes fifteen minutes but I get there in seven, and I spend every one of them trying to calm down.
Trying to push away the images I'd seen online. Because I stupidly looked it up.
After Ollie told me—after he dropped the bomb casually like he was mentioning the weather, I'd excused myself to the bathroom at Sonder and pulled up the article on my phone.
It took every ounce of restraint I had not to put my fist through the bathroom mirror. The rage was immediate. White-hot. Blinding. Not just because he cheated—though that alonewas enough to make me want to drive to LA and have a very unpleasant conversation with his face.
