When I turn to lock the door behind me, Andrew is holding it open, just enough for my face to be square with his. His eyes hold mine hostage, drifting to my mouth then down my entire body. My scar burns on my chest even though he can’t see it, and I clutch my purse to me tightly to cover it up even more.

“I have to go,” I say.

“I’m telling Lindsey,” he says, his lips parted and open, his teeth holding his tongue. His breathing is deep, his chest rising with the pressure of everything. He’s not telling me this to tease me. He’s telling me because it’s what he plans to do, because he’s determined. Those words are the gate to a whole hell of a lot he has to say. I can tell. And I wish our time were different; I wish it were right for him to say it and me to hear it. But it’s not…it’s just…not.

“Don’t,” I say, a small shake of my head.

“I have to, Emma. You know I do,” he says, closing the door behind him. I place my hand on it and will myself to open it again, to come up with an excuse, to protest what he’s about to do—to stop him from hurting my friend. But I hurt her too. And carrying this on any longer, that’s not right either.

I back away slowly until I turn to the elevator, and I never look back again, washing away the thoughts of what Andrew could possibly be saying right now and reminding myself to be pleasant and not to screw up my relationship with Miranda Wheaton.

Chapter 17

Andrew

It seems that Lindsey was a high school all-star softball player. This would have been a good thing to know when she picked up the glass paperweight and hurled it at my face. I dodged it in time, but not fast enough for the follow-up of the metal photo frame. The sharp edge caught my chin, slicing it open deep enough that it bled huge droplets on her living room floor.

I deserved it.

I probably should have waited for Trent to show up at the bar, to help me work out my very loosely-planned plan. I also probably should have waited until I was really sober, not just the pretend I think I’m sober that I was when I told Lindsey “We need to talk.”

My buzz was good, and it felt like my mind was clear finally—like I had the courage to do the difficult thing, the thing that Emma couldn’t do. It was my fault that Lindsey was even involved in the first place.

However, she probably deserved a lucid version of me explaining things.

“I’m in love with Emma,” was the first thing I said. I didn’t open easy. No. I’d thought this through at the bar—again, probably not the best idea—and every time I played this out in my head, just stating the truth, and getting it out quickly, always felt right.

It was probably wrong.

Lindsey’s first reaction was to laugh. She thought this was a joke. But then she realized she was laughing, while I was leaning against the wall, my hands deep in my pockets, sweating, my heart throbbing, my head aching, my mind remembering the look on Emma’s face as the door closed behind her. My past would always be tangled with Emma Burke, and so would my heart.

Lindsey slapped me then. Hard. I nodded yes, almost wishing for more.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My face still somber—brutally honest. I was sorry. I am sorry.

She hit me again, this time her palm cupped as it came at me. The force jerked my head to the side, and I took a few steps back. As much as I like a good battle in the ring, I was always completely sober for it. And it wasn’t a woman whom I’d lied to kicking my ass. As much as my instincts balled my fists to fight back, my head knew better. I’d let her have this—she could take all she wanted.

“You…love her?” she’d asked. She didn’t understand. I knew there was no way to explain this simply. All that mattered was protecting Emma—protect her relationship with Lindsey.

I told her that I’d loved her since we were kids; something tragic had happened between us, her parents had kept us apart, but I didn’t know—so I had always blamed Emma. I tried to explain why Emma went along with my deception, that she wanted Lindsey to have me—but I belonged with Emma.

Have me. As if I’m a prize.

Lindsey’s mind clearly had the same thought, because that’s when she hurled the heavy glass globe at me, shattering it into thousands of pieces. She was a little manic—and my eyes went wide in surprise, my entire body flinching from it. I wasn’t ready for her next blow.

She was kind enough to stitch me up. She tugged hard, and I’m pretty sure I caught her lip curled in a devil’s smirk every time she stuck the needle through me. I think she gave me more stitches than necessary, and I can tell it’s a sloppy job—also sure she did that on purpose. It’s fine. I have plenty of scars. At least I provoked this one.