Page 90 of Hearts on the Line

“That we can just… pick up where we left off. That the last twelve years didn’t happen. That I didn’t ruin everything.”

“You didn’t ruin everything.”

“I didn’t? My scholarship, my future.” The laugh that rips out of me is low and ugly. “You were gone two days later. Didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”

And then it’s there, the flash—bright porch light, loud music spilling into the night, Sloane’s bare shoulders disappearing into the shadow of the car door, her brother’s voice slurred and mean. The crack of her head against the frame when he shoves her too hard. The way my body moved before my brain caught up. The taste of blood in my mouth after the first punch landed.

She stops walking, the surf rushing over her toes. “You think that was my choice?”

“You didn’t fight it,” I throw back before I can stop myself.

Her eyes flash. “Are you seriously blaming me?”

“You were the one person who could’ve made me believe I wasn’t a screw-up,” I say, my voice shaking. “And you left.”

Her mouth twists, like the words cut. “You think I wanted to leave you? You think I wanted to be three thousand miles away when you—” She breaks off. “You have no idea what that night was for me.”

“Then tell me,” I say, because my chest has been tight for twelve years and I need the truth. “All I know is I was shoved in the back of a cruiser with my hands cuffed behind me, and I couldn’t see you. Couldn’t hear you. And all I could think was maybe you were really hurt, and I couldn’t get to you.”

I can still feel the slam of the door as I was pushed inside, the beer-soaked stench of the seat. My shoulder throbbing from where Branden’s elbow caught me when I tried to pull him off her. The panic when I saw her stumble, her head connecting with the door of the car.

And then she was gone. Pulled out of my sight. The whole ride to the station, I kept trying to get one of the cops to tell me if she was okay. Not one of them answered.

“You think I didn’t try?” Her voice trembles. “My mom had me on a plane before I’d even washed the blood off my hands.”

My stomach drops. “Blood?”

She stares out at the water. “When I was trying to get the keys from Branden, he tripped and fell. Hit his head. Before you even got to us. My dad didn’t want the press to know his son was drunk and high. They couldn’t even admit to themselves he had a problem then. My mom didn’t want it to be all over the papers about Jimmy Arden’s boy. They wanted someone else to blame, and you—” Her voice cracks. “You were easy.”

“He was my best friend, Sun. Jesus.” The air squeezes from my lungs. “So you knew I didn’t put him in the hospital.”

“I knew.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you say it?”

“Because they took my phone. Told me they’d fix it if I stayed quiet. Promised it would be better for you that way.” She swallows hard. “And when I didn’t hear from you after, when I did get my phone back a month later in California, I thought…” She shakes her head. “I thought maybe I didn’t matter to you. We were a secret. And I think you liked it that way. Felt more dangerous, didn’t it?”

I want to tell her I couldn’t fight for myself. That I was eighteen and my life was already on fire. That my scholarship was gone before I’d even made it home from the station. That every door I thought was open slammed shut in my face. And after… well, I have no one to blame but myself for what happened after. I tried to numb myself anyway I could for a bit.

But the words stick.

“I loved you,” she says.

It’s not soft. She throws those words at me like she wants them to shatter something.

It works. “You… loved me?”

“I love you.” Her voice breaks on the word. “I never stopped. Not when I was seventeen. Not when I hated you for not calling. Not when I wanted to burn every memory just to breathe again. Not when I traveled around the world and lived my life like we dreamed of together. Not when I almost married another man so I could finally forget you. I loved you then, and I love you now, and it’s killing me that you can’t see past your own shame to believe it.”

I take a step back.

I’ve wanted to hear her say that for twelve years, and now that it’s here, it’s like being ripped open. I want to pull her in, bury my face in her neck, and tell her she’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.

But there’s another part of me—colder, meaner—that knows it doesn’t matter.

“You don’t get it,” I say, my voice wrecked. “It changes nothing.”

She flinches. “Why not?”