“For what?” My gaze judders back.
“You know what,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say. “All I know is, I waited an hour for someone who didn’t show up. The rest—why you totally disappeared for twenty-four hours—that’s just a guess.”
A guess loosely drawn by Peter, in the most painful way conceivable.
“So if you want to apologize for something,” I say, trying to lean into the anger, away from the ache, “you’re going to have to explain what it is, exactly, that you did.”
“I panicked,” he says.
There it is.
I’m still the woman with too many expectations, and Miles is the guy who panics when they’re set on him.
“I didn’t tattoo my name on you while you were sleeping,” I say.
“I know that,” he replies.
“So, what?” I ask. “You changed your mind, and instead of just texting me, you left the state?”
“I didn’t leave the state,” he says. “I woke up and—something came up. A friend needed help, and I lost track of time.”
Something came up.
A friend.
Something better. Someone better.
He’s not admitting who it was.
And it shouldn’t matter, the same way whatever Dad wrote in that note doesn’t make a difference. Miles telling me he ditched me for Petra won’t change anything.
But I want him to say it. I want to push as hard as possible against all the bruises in my heart, until it changes me. Until I learn to stop fucking everything up.
“Who?” I ask.
He scrubs a hand up his forehead through his hair, shakes his head.
He’d be doing me a favor, putting me out of my misery, dropping a period at the end of this sentence. “Please,” I plead.
He breathes out. “Petra.”
Some part of me, I realize, was holding on to the possibility that Peter was misinformed, or outright lying. I didn’t know it was there, that ember of hope, and I hate myself for it.
My throat closes off, my chest tightening. I nod. And nod and nod, trying to think of even one thing to say.
“She just needed to borrow my truck to move some stuff,” Miles says, voice fraying. “And like I said, I got caught up.”
Caught up. There will always be a Petra. Someone more interesting, someone more fun, someone who needs less, or offers more.
“And then I snapped out of it,” he says. “And I realized how badly I’d fucked up, and I left. Traded cars with her so she could use the truck and booked it—and I had this big plan for how to make it up to you. A surprise. But I couldn’t make it happen. I tried and I couldn’t, so I came home with this stupid fucking box of fudge, and I know it’s pathetic, and it’s not enough—”
“Miles.” I close my eyes, rubbing my heels against the sockets as I organize my thoughts. “I don’t need a better apology present.” My hands fall to my lap. “This is my fault.”
He balks. “What? No, it’s definitely not.”
“You did exactly what I should’ve expected,” I say.
He jerks back, as if I slapped him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not trying to be hurtful,” I say quickly. “I’m saying you’re off the hook.”
“Off what hook, Daphne?” he demands.
“You told me you don’t do expectations or obligations,” I say.
“I said they make me panic,” Miles replies, sounding vaguely panicked now too.
I turn in my seat, the windshield wipers still squeaking against the glass, rain pattering the roof. “And you did panic. Even though you didn’t want to. And I did expect something, even though I tried not to.”
“Good!” he half shouts. “Expect something! You want to put me on a hook? Put me on the hook. I freaked out, Daphne, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
My stomach lurches, heart clenching like a fist. My skin goes from fiery hot to clammy and cold, and that word lodges itself between my ribs like a poison-tipped arrow.
I need it out, know the wound will gush when it’s gone, but don’t care.
“No,” I stammer.
