Page 114 of The Truth of Us

27

HARPER

The night wound down slowly; people lingered, conversations stretched longer than needed, promises were made to have lunch, discuss investments, revisit charitable initiatives, and reconnect soon. Staff moved quietly through the ballroom, collecting empty champagne glasses while the string quartet played something soft in the corner.

I stood beside my father most of the night, smiling for photographs, shaking hands, and pretending that seeing Elliot hadn't cracked something open inside me that I had been trying to bury. I don’t know if it was seeing him as much as how wrecked he looked, or hearing the rawness in his voice when he said what we had was better than what Julian and Lucy had…

For a moment, I wanted to cave; I wanted to walk into his arms as if nothing had happened. But it had happened. He had intentionally hurt me, tried to put me in my place.

I knew enough from his birthday, from the little Caleb had shared, that beneath all the bravado and practised charm was a sad, broken boy. I know the term ‘hurt people hurt people’, but that just sounds like a load of crap. It sounds like not taking accountability for avoiding your own pain and instead passing that burden on to someone else. But he didn't make excuses; he admitted he messed up, wanted to talk… maybe I needed to do that. Talk to him, get closure, so I can move on. The thought sent my stomach into a tailspin.

"My angel."

I blinked and looked up at my father. The ballroom had thinned considerably. Oliver was speaking with his parents near the entrance, his hand wrapped around a glass of scotch while Margot talked animatedly to one of the board members. My father was watching me with an almost sad look on his face.

"You disappeared for a moment."

I forced a smile. "I promise, I'm right here."

He didn't smile back.

"No," his voice softened. "You aren’t."

I looked away because I couldn't explain where I'd gone.

To that month that felt like so much more but was reduced to nothing in a choice Elliot made.

"I saw the way he looked at you," my father said quietly.

The words settled between us. I swallowed and avoided his gaze by pretending to be interested in something that was happening on the other side of the ballroom.

"And?" I asked in what I hoped was a neutral voice, but worried it came out sounding shaky.

He stepped closer. "How did it feel?"

There it was, the question I'd been avoiding asking myself.

How did it feel?

Like someone had reached into my chest and reminded me that I still had a heart. It somehow felt like grief, and yet relief, maybe anger, but also like coming home.

"I don't know." The lie came automatically.

My father waited.

I sighed. "It hurt."

His expression changed. Not because he was surprised, but because he hated that he couldn't fix it. "Did he hurt you again tonight?"

I looked up so quickly that my neck protested. "No," the answer came immediately. Because ‌Elliot hadn't hurt me tonight. He'd stood there and looked at me like he finally understood what he'd done. And somehow that had hurt more.

My father nodded slowly. "He looked..." He paused, searching for the right word.

I finished his sentence for him, in a whispered breath, "Broken?"

A sad smile crossed his face. "Yes."

We studied each other for a few moments before he said, “I also saw how you looked at him, even though you tried so hard to hide it.”