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“Are you coming home when you’re done?”
I nodded. “I might take a couple of days to relax a bit, but yeah, I’ll be back after.”
“Good. I miss you.” She tilted her head to the side, staring at the screen for a moment. “El, are you all right?”
I was going to say that I was totally fine, but no words came out.
Evidently, I’d been silent for a little too long, because she said, “What’s wrong?”
There were words for that.
They fell out of me—starting with dinner and the tension between Max and Esme, followed by our conversation yesterday and how it had all happened.
“Wow.” Meg snapped a piece off the large chocolate bar. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly, dropping my gaze to my freshly painted toes.
“Wait. Windermere? Windermere. Of course.”
I glanced up in time to see her look away with a deep frown.
“I knew that was familiar.”
“What?” I asked, leaning forwards. “How?”
“I watched a show a few months ago. It was a list of, um, British tragedies, I guess. Notable public figures, like Amy Winehouse, and others who died before their time or in really tragic circumstances.” She turned back to the camera. “And it was, oh, God. Two weeks ago? I was watchingGreat British Murdersand there was a story about a duke and duchess who were recovered from a lake in their car, and it was deemed a murder-suicide.”
My stomach churned.
It wasn’t bad enough knowing the truth, but Max had to live with people making documentaries about how his parents died?
“That was Max’s parents,” Meg said softly, casting her gaze downwards. “I can’t believe I didn’t make that connection.”
“It’s not really a connection one wants to make.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s… difficult. I’m not sure he’s spoken to anyone other than me about it for a long time.”
“Did you know his parents were dead? Of course you did, he can only be a duke if his dad isn’t alive,” she said, somewhat rambling. “Did it really take you this long to ask?”
I nodded.
“Wow. Okay. That’s new for you. Get a load of that restraint.”
“Meg.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She broke off a square of chocolate. “That’s heavy, man. He’s not over it, huh?”
“I’m not sure anyone is supposed to get over that,” I admitted. “Especially not if people are making documentaries about how your dad murdered your mum.”
Meg grimaced. “Yeah. That’ll hamper the healing process.”
I sighed and buried my face in my hands. “God, I feel awful.”
“Why?”
“Because I made him tell him, Meg.” I peered through my fingers. “I just kept going on and on and on about it instead of just accepting it.”
“Whoa, okay, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “Well, yes, you probably did if I know you, but you didn’t force him to tell you, El. He could have just walked away and left without telling you everything—oranything, actually. He obviously trusts you enough to open up like that.” She snapped the piece of chocolate into each individual square then held one out to me. “Want one?”
I stared at her.
