Bash's arm tightens around me. "Are you okay?" His voice is low, just for me.
I look up at him, taking in the genuine concern in his eyes, the protective set of his jaw, the way his body has shifted to shield me. And I realize something that should probably terrify me but somehow doesn't.
"Yeah," I say, surprised to find it's true. "I really am."
"What did you say to her?" Emily demands. "She looked like she was about to cry or murder someone, possibly both."
I take a sip of my hot chocolate. "I just pointed out that if Ethan cheated on me, he'll probably cheat on her too. And that I felt sorry for her."
Emily's eyes widen. "Damn, Charlie."
"That was impressively cold-blooded," Sarah says with a hint of admiration.
"It wasn't meant to be cruel," I say. "I actually do feel sorry for her. She thinks she won, but she's marrying someone who's already proven he's capable of lying to someone he claimed to love."
Bash studies me. "And how do you feel about that? About Ethan?"
It's the million-dollar question. A month ago, this revelation would have devastated me all over again. But now?
"Honestly?" I look around at the three faces watching me—my sister, Bash's sister, and Bash himself. "I feel free."
Emily raises her mug. "To freedom from cheating assholes."
"I'll drink to that," Sarah agrees.
Bash doesn't raise his mug, though. He's still looking at me, his eyes searching mine as if making sure I'm really okay. There's something so tender in his gaze that my breath catches.
"To being exactly where you're meant to be," he says finally, his eyes never leaving mine as he clinks his mug against mine.
And sitting there, with the stars above and the fire crackling, his arm warm around my shoulders, I can't help but think he might be right. Maybe this is exactly where I'm meant to be.
Even if it started as a lie, what I'm feeling now, the comfort of his touch, the warmth in his eyes, the way my heart beats faster when he looks at me, that's real.
And it scares me how much I want it to stay that way.
Chapter twenty-eight
Charlie
I'm wrapped in a thick blanket on the back porch, hands curled around a steaming mug of coffee, watching the morning light as it breaks over the mountains, painting them gold and pink against the deep blue sky. This view will never get old.
Sarah sits across from me, while Bash leans against the porch railing, his profile outlined by the sunrise.
"And then," Sarah continues, her eyes dancing with mischief, "this genius right here decides the best way to impress Becky Miller is to snowboard off the roof of Dad's shed."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "You didn't."
Bash groans, dropping his head. "I was thirteen. Can we please not revisit every stupid thing I did as a teenager?"
"Thirteen going on brain-dead," Sarah corrects, winking at me. "Mom wasn't home, thankfully, but Dad was in the garage when he heard this almighty crash."
"How bad was it?" I ask, already grinning at the mental image of a teenage Bash trying to be cool.
"He broke his collarbone," Sarah says.
"And my snowboard," Bash adds mournfully. "That was the real tragedy."
"Dad comes running out to find Bash sprawled in the snow, trying not to cry—"
