Page 56 of Wild for the Knight

I grab my bag, pulling my keys from the pocket in the front, before nodding. “Okay, but we can order in. I want to have this conversation at home. And I only have two hours. I actually do have to be back here later, the junior team is coming in.” She nods, giving me a victorious smile. We’ll see how long that joy lasts.

The second we get inside, she plops down on the couch and says, “Spill.” I shake my head and head for my room. If we’re going to have this conversation, I’m going to need some form of comfort, and the picture in my room has been the anchor holding me steady for weeks now. She follows me, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees it.

It’s not small, it takes up almost a whole wall, and those mountains are unmistakable. “Where did you get this?” She runs her hand across it, taking in the blues and purples, the soft grays of the mountains, the streaks of morning light breaking through the clouds. Her hand stops when she gets to Tate and I. She turns toward me, confusion causing her brows to pull together.

“Tate painted it.” I swallow hard as I watch her gaze flick back toward the painting, something unreadable moving through her expression.

“When? Why? I didn’t even know he painted.” I hesitate.

She shifts slightly, turning to face me, her voice quieter this time. “Abby, when did he make this?”

My palms are suddenly sweaty, and I purposely look at every part of the painting to avoid looking at her. “While you were on your honeymoon.” The silence that follows is deafening.

She exhales, stepping closer to me, her hazel eyes searching mine as her hands meet my shoulder. “How long?” I don’t even attempt to hide the fact that I know what she’s asking. There’d be no point, there is no point prolonging the inevitable.

My tongue drags across my bottom lip, my voice coming out soft like the scorned child I feel I am. “Since we were there.” I point to the painting, “In Georgia.” I watch her heart shatter in real time. My chest hurts, not only for her, but for me. This is why I didn’t want to do this. Hurting her is the last thing I ever want to do. Yet, here we are.

“Good Lord, Abby!” she mutters, dropping her arms and sitting down on the edge of my bed. Her head shakes like she’s trying so hard to piece it all together. “Since spring?!” Her arms fly out wide. “It’s almost Thanksgiving!”

I nod, shame coiling tight in my stomach. “I wanted to tell you, but...”

“Why? Why didn’t you?” She whines.

Because I was scared, because I didn’t want to see how disappointed in me she’d be. The worry, the betrayal. Because I knew she’d be all for it, but she’d tell me to be careful. That Tate was a wild card that I could get caught up in, one that I wouldn’t make it out of in one piece. She would’ve been right.

“To answer that, I need to go back about twelve years.” Her jaw drops as she nods slowly. She starts to pick at her nails as she watches me start to pace the length of my room. “Remember Nick and his henchmen?”

Her head tilts to the side, “Kyle’s idiot friends who drugged women at parties all the time?”

I point my finger in her direction, “Those ones.” I clear my throat, needing to get all of it out. “Our sophomore year, remember when I came back to our dorm with cuts and bruises everywhere?”

She hesitates. I know she knows where this is going, the second her head starts to shake. “No, they didn’t. Abby, tell me they didn’t hurt you.” I can’t do that. Because they did, enough to change the entire way I lived my life.

I look down at the floor, crossing one ankle over the other as I put my hands on my hips. The first tear falls, hitting the hardwood with a quiet splat. Her arms are around my shoulders. Seconds later, her body shakes as her tears fall, too. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispers, the hurt in her voice has me wrapping my arms around her waist.

This is my other half, the one person I should have confided in. The one person who would have held me all the nights I cried myself to sleep, thinking I was the problem. The one person who wouldn’t have let me clam up and become a controlling mess, who now has absolutely nothing but pain to show for years of being what I thought I had to be. “I didn’t want to drag you into it. You were dealing with so much with your dad and stupid Kyle, I didn’t want to add anything else to your plate.” I cry into the crook of her neck.

She pulls back, eyes full of tears, yet painfully angry at the same time. “That’s not how this works,” she snaps, “You’re my best friend.” I press my lips together, rolling them between my teeth, my eyes burning as I look at her. Her chest rises and falls. And for a minute, we just stare at each other. Like we’re two strangers meeting on the street for the first time. When she finally breaks the silence, there’s no missing the angst in her voice. “Did anyone know?”

I drop my forehead to her shoulder, then whisper, “Tatum.” Her breath catches, and she steps back from me, causing my head to drop forward. It takes everything in me to lift it. I watch her process what I just said. How Tate, the guy I couldn’t stand for more than two years, knew before she did. How I told her nothing, and he knew it all.

She nods slowly. “Right, okay.” There’s more to this story, but the way she’s looking at me right now stops me. The painful silence stretching between us creates more distance than I’d ever want with her.

I step forward, my voice raw as I rush to explain. “We ran into them outside a gas station while we were running errands for your party.” Man, recounting this is worse than I thought it’d be. Remembering all he did for me, how he saved me. The heated glances, the soft touches, the way my body always begs for his.

I clear my throat, I can’t afford to take a jog down memory lane right now. “They had me pushed up against my car. He came out of the store and pushed his way through them, then he...” I can’t take it, my heart can’t take it. I throw myself stomach-first onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow, and cry until I have no tears left.

I miss him. I miss him so much, and I know it’s my fault he isn’t here. I said I needed time, and he respected it because he’s a damn good man. But right now, I’d do anything for him to be here, holding my hand while we’re having this conversation. A hand falls between my shoulder blades and moves in soft strokes across my upper back. “Do you love him?” she asks, barely audible enough over my crying.

I nod, there is nothing I’m more sure of than the fact that I love that man. I’m hurt, partially by my own hand, but that doesn’t make me love him any less. That loyalty disappeared the second he lumped me in with her, the second he accused me of things I wasn’t doing. The second he made up his mind without letting me talk, it disappeared. But I still love him. I still want him. I just don’t want to be hurt again. Call it being stubborn, or maybe it’s my pride. I’ll talk to him, eventually.

“Abs,” she says as she brushes my hair out of my face. “What happened? Why are you hiding? Why have you missed every book club for the past few weeks?” She lies down beside me, and the anger that was there before has been replaced with worry.

I take a deep, shuddering breath as I force the rest of the story out. How he kissed me, and my body didn’t riot. How we made that stupid let-go deal in Georgia, then we decided when we got back, we didn’t want it to end. I fold in the texts, the letter that was left on my car, the picture we got while she was in the tropics somewhere, and finally, my car explosion. Oh, and how Maria was really Nikki, and I was keeping that from him, too. Which caused us to land where we are now.

She sits up, pulling me into a hug. I feel the breath she takes in my soul, it's deep, cleansing. The only thing keeping her from snapping. “I’m gonna kick his ass,” she whispers. I can’t help it, my head tilts back behind me, hitting my headboard as I laugh. She joins in, and the tension dissipates. I feel like I can have the rest of this talk with a clearer head. Not that it isn’t pounding because, goodness gracious, it feels like there’s a knife in my temples.

“No, please don’t,” I say as I stare at the painting, “I’m just as much at fault here. I just need some time to sort my feelings out.”