I don’t answer.
“When was the first time she told you she loved you?”
My mind flickers back uninvited, our wedding reception. The café, the food. My ma walking in on us in bed.
“After the wedding,” I say quietly.
Bart tilts his head, studying me. “That must feel… complicated.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s one word for it.”
“Resentment is another,” he says.
I snap my head up, the word hitting harder than I want to admit.
“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Bart adds, still maddeningly calm. “It just means-”
“It means nothing,” I cut in, voice sharp. “I don’t resent Brooke. Okay?”
I feel like I’m suffocating in this stupid fucking shoebox. I push myself up off the couch, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
“I was wrong,” I bite out. “There’s a reason you’re giving free therapy at a community centre. Goodbye.”
I grab my jacket, and yank the door open.
Behind me, Bart’s voice follows, still calm. “No matter how much you ignore it, Matthew, it won’t go away.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, then slam the door behind me and storm out into the hallway.
What a crook. I came here to figure out how toshowmy wife I respect her, and this gumball somehow concludes Iresenther. Please.
I’ve seen her give birth. I’ve held her hand through it. Any resentment I could’ve felt would’ve died a long time ago.
Not that I ever did resent her.
I mean, sure. It sucked back then. Loving her while she only saw me as a friend. And yeah, she said that thing about liking me too, but let’s be real, that’s a load of horseshit.
There’s no way someone like her would’ve ever dated someone like me. Not the me I was back then.
Broke. Under my mom’s thumb. Short. And worst of all, fat.
I was basically the walking definition of the “nice guy best friend” she’d never actually pick.
The perfect guy she’dnever date.
Everyone thought so, including my friends.
God, I’d actually planned to ask her to graduation. As a date.
Thankfully, one of my buddies found out andtalked some sense into me.Told me to stop setting myself up to get humiliated.
So instead of wearing the suit to graduation, I wore it to a job interview.
I remember standing in front of the mirror, tightening the tie like it was some kind of lifeline, telling myself if I couldn’t get the girl, I could at least get out.
Get the hell away from New York.
Paris seemed far enough.
