“Oh, baby.” Ransom sits next to me. I feel it. I don’t look up.
“Sweetheart. No. Don’t cry.” His voice is rough.
I cry some more. I can’t help it.
He tries to pull me into a hug, but I resist. “No. Don’t touch me. And go away. You shouldn’t be here. I want to be alone.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry. Let me explain?—"
“You don’t have to.” My voice is a croak. “Least of all”—harsh sob—”explain yourself to the girl you humiliated.”
I feel his hand stroking my hair. I raise my head, jerking away from his touch.
“God!” he gasps.
I know how I look. I’m not a pretty crier. I’m a blotchy-faced crier.
“Is that what you really think of me? That I’m dull and mousy?” Tears stream down my face. He tries to wipe them, but I shake him off.
“No. I don’t. I think you’re generous, beautiful, and?—”
“But that’s not what you said.”
“I was blathering nonsense.”
I draw in an unsteady breath. “Why? Why would you do that? If someone said anything bad about you, I’d defend you.”
The pain and remorse on his face only makes me feel worse.
“I....” His features soften with tenderness. “I was not thinking. I wanted to talk to her about lying to you, saying that I told her about us, and about telling Margot I was going to propose. I just wanted to get past talking about you so I could talk about….”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “You said what you did because that’s how you feel about me. And you’re allowed to say whatever you want,andI’m allowed to feel bad.”
“I think you’re amazing.”
Sob. Sob. Sob. “Amazingly inexperienced, you mean? I heard everything, Ransom. You didn’t know I was there. That makes it worse. Because you werehonest.”
“I wasn’t—Ember, I wasn’t. I was stupid and?—”
“Oh, so I imagined what you said?” I raise my voice. “That I’m too young. That you didn’t take me seriously. That I’m boring.”
He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “No. I was trying to push Calypso away?—”
“By pushing me under the bus?”
That stops him. For a second, neither of us speaks. I finally look at him, and God, he looks wrecked. Hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders hunched like the guilt is physically weighing him down.
“I waited for you,” I whisper, wiping my tears that seem to be easing. “I tried to move on. I tried to forgetyou. But I couldn’t. I kept thinking maybe you’d come back. I didn’t want to be pathetic, but I was. Because I loved you.”
“Baby—”
“Loved! Past tense. I’m over you.”
“No.” It’s a cry that comes from deep within him. “No. Don’t say that. Give us a chance. Don’t?—”
“You hurt me…then and now. And, if I’m immature, what the fuck is Calypso? Theepitome of maturity.”
Anger replaces grief. I ride it.
