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He pours rosé and hands it to me. “Want to talk about it?”
“Yes.” I flash him a weak smile.
“Okay.” He nods, sitting up. I shake my head. “—But you can’t?”
I nod once. He nods back.
“Is it bad?”
I purse my mouth. “Very.”
“Are you okay? Like, are you hurt?” he clarifies.
“Indirectly.”
He sighs, reaches over and picks some lint off my Cashmere in Love cropped polo shirt I’ve got on underneath.
“I’m sorry.” He grimaces. He means it.
My eyes go teary again. “Me too.”
He rubs his chin. “Could you talk around it? How can I help? You look like shit.”
I sniff a tired laugh.
“You really do. It’s weird.” He shakes his head. “So unnatural. I hate it. Can I brush your hair? It looks like a squirrel’s tail—”
“August.” I smack him with a pillow and he laughs.
I reposition myself, hugging my knees. “You may not ask why when I say what I’m about to say—”
“Okay.” He nods cautiously.
“But I should have never broken up with him.” My voice chokes up a little.
He blinks a few times. “Even though he cheated on you?”
I nod back solemnly. “Even though he cheated on me.”
I think back to Clara England, what she said to me that night at dinner with Tom and his parents…
That there are worse things than cheating.
She was right.
