Page 83 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

She frowns a little and shakes her head, but finishes packing up her stuff. I grab her laptop bag and swing it over my shoulder because she packs this thing like a brick.

“Hey, I can get that!” She smacks at my shoulder.

“And limp all the way down to the truck because it’s half your weight?” I scoff. “Or you could just let your boyfriend carry it.”

I think both of us tense as the word accidentally slips out of my mouth.

Lennon suddenly goes silent beside me, her face unreadable as we walk down the street.

Goddamnit. Why do I have to be such an idiot all the time?

“Fuck, sorry, Lennon. I didn’t mean to say that. I know we haven’t really talked about any labels or anything?—”

“It’s not—” she interrupts me, sounding frustrated, and then she just stops on the sidewalk, lifting her hands to her temples in a way that covers her face from me, before finally dropping them.

When she does, she looks pissed and also totally overwhelmed.

“I can’t have a boyfriend, August! I’m stillmarried. I barely left my husband a month ago and I have no money and none of my shit together. I thought you got that!”

Then she starts walking again. More like stomping, and muttering to herself. “Oh my god, this was such a bad idea. Mom was right.”

At which point, my entire pumping heart falls out through my ass.

She talked to her mom about me. And just like with Priscilla, her parent saw me for exactly what I am.

Of course Linda did.

A parent’s job is to protect their child. A good parent, anyway.

And Linda can see clearly what Lennon herself has been too caught up in the whirlwind to realize.

I’m no good for her.

I’ll only end up causing her more pain, in the end.

I met her when she was in a vulnerable state, and it was selfish of me to ever let things go as far as they have.

Fuck.Fuck, what have I done?

I thought I’d changed, but here I am, reenacting the same old damn playbook.

And to think, I really believed I’d changed. What a goddamn sucker to think a few years of therapy could really fix a soul-dark fuck-up like me.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my words frantic. “Of course. Ofcourse, Lennon. That was fucked up of me to say. You’ve got way too much on your plate to?—”

Lennon spins around, hand flying to her mouth like nowshefeels sorry. “No. August, I’m sorry. I think Mom just got in my head, I?—”

“No, no. Oh God, Lennon, please don’t apologize.”

I stop on the sidewalk, heaving for breath, and turn my back to her. Because now thatshe’sapologizing tomewhen I was the one who overstepped what should have been an obvious boundary, I see how my manic back-tracking could be a form of manipulation. I don’t mean it that way, but isn’t that the kind of shit Jake did to her all the time?

Lennon touches my arm. “August, let’s just talk about this.”

But inside, I can feel it happening.

The bubble haspopped.

It’s not her fault. Anything can trigger it. Usually it’s my own stupid goddamn bravado pushing things too far. Sometimes it can be as little as an emotional commercial on TV.