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I hold up a hand.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. The pain I felt that day and in the weeks that followed is so easy to access, especially when my feelings for Noble are still so big.

“My dad told me you were gone,” I say, unraveling a little. “That you came by to tell him you were leaving, and you weren’t sure when you’d be back or if you’d be back.”

He draws in a deep breath but doesn’t speak.

“Turned out, you said goodbye to everyone else. Everyone else. Except me.” My voice breaks, and I’m desperately trying to stop myself from shivering.

I look at Noble. “Why did you do that?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I’d already disappointed you so much. I did you a favor by leaving.”

I turn and face him. “Is that what you think? We were friends,” I say. “Best friends. And you just . . . left. Worse, you left me sitting there, waiting for you.”

“I saw you,” he says, quietly. “You were sitting there on that downed tree, knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped around them.”

“Wait.” I squint over at him, confused. “You saw me?”

He nods. “I came to tell you I was leaving, but I saw you sitting there, and I⁠—”

“You what?”

“I couldn’t do it.” He blows out a breath. “I was a coward, and I couldn’t do it. I knew if I went and talked to you, if I actually looked into your eyes⁠—”

I’m quiet, watching the twitch in his jaw.

“I wouldn’t have gone.” His face shifts, and he shakes his head, then stands. For a moment, I wonder if he’s leaving for the second time—but he turns a circle and goes back to looking at the lake.

I stand up next to him, the blanket falling onto the dock, but I don’t move. Instinctively, I know that the best thing I can do right now is wait.

Finally, he says, “I could let down West, Quent, Finn, the rest of your family. I could even disappoint your parents, I mean, heck, I did that over and over . . . but you were the one person I couldn’t disappoint.”

“But why?” I say. “We were friends. We could’ve figured it out⁠—”

“I was a mess.” He cuts me off. He sounds embarrassed. Hurt. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it until I do,” I say. “Because until I understand, I’m going to keep waiting for you to leave again. Expecting it. We won’t work if I’m always worried you’ve got one foot out the door.”

“I don’t, Hattie, I swear—” He scrubs his hand down his face and turns away again, clearly struggling to say whatever he needs to say. Fear hits me square in the chest because I’m not sure we’ll come back from whatever it is.

“If I’d stayed, I would’ve screwed this up. Us. I would’ve kept disappointing you. And if you’d actually told me what you were going to tell me that day, I would’ve screwed that up too.”

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“I absolutely do,” he says. “I was broken. Then, and for a long time after. I’m running around, trying to make up for all he stupid things I did . . .” He pauses, and takes a deep breath.

I take his hand. “It’s not all on you. I wasn’t a good friend. I was selfish and caught up in my own feelings. You were hurting too, and I didn’t have an ounce of understanding for that. I wasn’t there for you. You left, and I wrote you off forever.”

“That’s what I wanted you to do.” He still looks tortured, and I see how much he’s beaten himself up over this.

“It’s not what I should’ve done,” I say, moving toward him. “I wasn’t a good friend, and I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize to me. You did nothing wrong.” He holds up a hand to stop me from getting any closer. “There’s something else.”

My hands fall to my sides, and I straighten, my apology still fresh on my tongue. I silently tell myself I can handle whatever he’s about to say, but there’s a pulse of doubt thrumming through me. “Tell me.”

“All of the things I did, the stupid, screwed up things I’ve had to apologize for? It wasn’t just about grief,” he says. “It was guilt.”