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“It was absolutely one-sided,” I say, sharply. “I didn’t even know about it until after you took off.”
She raises a brow. “If that’s true, then you were in some serious denial. She knew you better than anyone.” She turns away and takes a drink. “I would’ve killed to have you talk to me the way you talked to her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say. “Emmy and I were just friends.”
She smiles. “I really think you believed that. You might even still believe it.”
I feel like someone is telling me that this whole time I’ve had it wrong, and you go on red and stop on green.
“I think you wanted to be in love with me. But you weren’t. Not really. We had great physical chemistry—”
I bristle at that comment, and it stirs something in me that is both unwanted and familiar.
“—but Emmy was the one who had your heart.”
I turn toward her, realization coming over me. “Wait. Is that why you—”
“No.” She flicks her hand in the air. “I mean, that wasn’t the only reason. We just. . . wanted different things.”
I turn back and face forward again, not looking at her. “Yeah.” A pause. “You wanted me to work for your dad.”
I feel her wince at my side. “Sorry about that.”
I take a drink. “That never would’ve worked.”
“I know that now,” she says, amused. “I hadn’t figured out how to have my own opinion yet, about a lot of stuff. And my mother can be very. . .”
“Controlling?” I blurt.
She smiles. “Yeah. That.”
I go still. Are we actually having a conversation? Me and Lindsay, the woman I spent years loving and even more years loathing?
“I saw you that day, you know. In the gazebo,” she says, turning her glass around in her hand. “With her.”
I frown for a second and then realize she’s talking about Emmy.
“At the wedding?”
She nods. “I was standing in the church, watching you from the window, and the look on your face when you saw her, the way you hugged her, the way you spoke to her—that was how I wanted you to look at me.” She faces me. “But you never did.”
“Lindsay, I never had feelings for Emmy,” I say. “Ever.”
But even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true.
Was it possible that a part of me connected with Emmy in a way that I should’ve connected to my actual fiancée?
Emmy was so easy to talk to, but that’s what made us great friends.
But Lindsay was always the one I wanted.
Right?
She reaches over and squeezes my arm.
“I’m sorry for leaving the way I did,” she says. “I panicked, and I ran. It was wrong of me.”
My gaze falls to her hand on my arm, and I feel. . .nothing. No attraction. No spark.
