“Your wallet.” She holds out her hand, but I don’t look down, too locked onto her to focus on anything else. “I found it on the floor in my bathroom. Something fell out when I picked it up.” Her voice catches slightly. “It got a little wet, but I dried it off. I think it’s okay.”
My gaze drops to the tattered picture of Rory, and my heart nearly stops in my chest.
My feet shift backward before my brain can catch up, silently inviting her in.
It’s a mistake.
The first step down a road that only ends with Aspen seeing all the broken, ugly parts of me I keep buried. And when shefinally sees the man underneath all this, she’ll run, like the smart girl she is.
I can’t even blame her.
Cool mountain air follows her inside, carrying the sharp bite of mint tangled with tequila as she brushes past me. The combination hits like a warning I’m too weak to listen to.
I shut the door and lean against it while Aspen turns the photograph over in her hands.
She doesn’t give me space to figure out an excuse.
“This is Rory.”
Three words obliterate any hope I had of keeping my past out of her hands.
My throat locks tight. Air catches somewhere in my chest.
“Yes.”
The answer comes out rough and broken, but it’s still more than I’ve said about my best friend since the day she died.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
ASPEN
His choked yes doesn’t surprise me. He’s already told me enough to know the woman in the photograph is Rory.
Still, the regret twisting across his face at the sound of her name hits me like a punch to the gut.
“It felt too important to leave until morning,” I tell him softly, taking his palm and placing the photograph there.
He follows me into the kitchen, head bowed as he stares down at it.
“I keep it with me,” he says quietly. “But this is the first time I’ve actually looked at it in . . .” He squints like he’s trying to count backward through the years. A rough exhale leaves him. “Hell. It’s been a while.”
Guilt pricks at me instantly.
“If I’d known, I would’ve just slipped it back into your wallet and brought it up tomorrow.” I twist my fingers together. “It was still damp and I didn’t want it getting ruined.”
“No.Thank you for taking care of it.” He shakes his head once. “I just . . . I don’t talk about her. Not with anyone.”
Something about that confession feels perilous. Like he’s handing me something sharp enough to cut us both open.
“And pulling this out . . .” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I usually only do that when I need a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?” The question slips out before I can second-guess it.
He looks down at the picture one last time before turning it toward me.
“Take your pick. That I ruin everything. That Rory isn’t here because of me.”
