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She bites her lip, worrying the napkin between her fingers as she stares at me. “Thank you.”
My heart jumps in my chest. But I keep my expression blank. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” she whispers, biting her lip harder.
“Stop.” I nudge my chin toward her lip pinned between her teeth. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
She lets her lip go, but arches an eyebrow, planting her elbows on the table and leaning in. “Says the guy who’s been on a self-harm bender for…how long?”
I arch an eyebrow back, my heart pounding. Who the fuck does she think she is, calling me out like that? “Careful.”
“Of what?” she asks, tipping her head. “Touching a nerve? Saying something to your face everyone else is too scared to say?”
“They’re not scared,” I tell her, leaning in as well, my expression still cool and smooth, even though there’s something hot and jagged tearing its way through me. “They’re resigned. They’ve given up.”
Her eyes hold mine. She leans in a little closer. “Then you need to find yourself some new people, Sebastian Gauthier. Everyone deserves to have someone in their corner who believes the best in them even when they’re at their worst.”
“I could find a hundred people if I wanted, Ziggy, but everyone gives up eventually. As they should. Too many vices, too many mistakes, too many unforgiveable sins.”
She’s quiet, searching my eyes. “What have you done that’s so terrible?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because, friend,” she says without missing a beat, “I just lost it in front of you during angry yoga and got all vulnerable. One good turn deserves another.”
I drop my menu, then fold my hands on the table, warring with myself. Part of me wants to tell her to fuck right off, that I owe her nothing.
But another part of me wants to tell her everything, both aches and fears to pour it out, only to watch disappointment tighten her face, to watch her realize, like everyone else has, that once you know the real me, I’m not someone you want to know anymore.
I should tell her, knowing that’s how it’ll go, to scare her off and get myself out of this ridiculous situation, spending this much time with someone I swore I’d never let myself want, who, with every minute I spend with her, I just want more.
“I have stolen,” I tell her.
“Stolen what?” she asks evenly.
“Money.”
She frowns. “But you have tons of it.”
“I didn’t always, not when I was a teen.”
My mom and stepfather didn’t trust me with any more money than I could make on my own, and with hockey dominating my life every waking minute outside school, there was never time to work. So of course, to spite them, and in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I took matters into my own reckless hands.
“Teenager shenanigans.” She waves her hand. “You paid them back, though, once you were an adult.”
I glare at her. What is she, some mind reader? “Doesn’t matter. I took money from people who counted on my honesty. I betrayed their trust. I’ve betrayed lots of people’s trust.” Gritting my teeth—why is this so hard? I’ve never batted an eye before, stating plainly who I am, what I’ve done—I tell her, “I’ve done more than that, too. I’ve slept with people who were with other people. I’ve ruined relationships.”
“That took two people; you didn’t ruin those relationships on your own.”
“It was still wrong.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “It was. You just don’t get to take all the responsibility.”
“I’ve punished those who got on my bad side, fucked with the people who mattered to them, reeled them in, seduced them, then ghosted them. I’ve lied, cheated—”
“Sebastian.”
I stare at her, jaw hard, furious. Why is she still here? Why is she still looking at me, that beautiful, striking face still calm, still…gentle?
