A long silence followed. The door eventually opened enough for her to stand in the gap, one hand still on the doorknob, ready to slam it in my face. “Say what you need to say, then.”
I glanced over my shoulder, toward the staircase. “Not here. I don’t want everyone listening.”
Her jaw tightened, but she stepped back. The bedroom was neat, with Scarlett’s things on one side and Brooke’s on the other. Brooke moved to the partially open balcony doors, putting an ocean of space between us. She stared out at the remarkable view, so similar to the one we’d taken in last night when we’d shared… what? Something? Nothing?
A chilly breeze drifted through the room. I took a few steps toward her until she turned to face me, fixing me with a gaze so full of pain that it glued my feet to the floor.
“I’m sorry.” Those two words were supposed to be powerful, but they were weak on my tongue. Pathetic. Not nearly enough for everything we’d been through.
“Sorry?” Her eyes were hard, challenging. “For what exactly?”
I was exposed, so I shifted my weight as though readying for an attack. “For everything?”
“If that’s all you’ve got to say”—she pointed at the door—“then leave, because I don’t give a shit.”
“For everything that happened at Barin Kala.”
“Which part?” Her mouth gaped open, and she tilted her head as though I were speaking a different language. “The part where you took bullets for me, or the part where you disappeared afterward?”
I looked away, unable to face her. “I should have contacted you.”
“Six years of radio silence, Rav.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but the tremor in it was unmistakable. “Not a word. Not even after I called you.”
Needing movement, I paced to the wall. “I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t?” She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “You mean wouldn’t. Or also didn’t give a shit?”
“No, I—” I stopped, struggling to find words that wouldn’t sound like excuses. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then explain it to me.” She threw her arms open wide, her control slipping. “Because I think our story is pretty damn simple. We were together, the mission ended, and you walked away.”
“I didn’t walk away. I was carried out on a stretcher.”
“And after? What about when you recovered? What about when I called you? When I told you?—”
I stared at the floor, the wall, anywhere but at her. My chest seized, as though the bullets were still on the move, digging their way deeper inside me. “I couldn’t face you.”
“Faceme?” Her eyebrows rose. “Or face what happened?”
I couldn’t face anything back then. I’d been looking for an escape. “Both.”
She waited, clearly expecting more. When I didn’t continue, she shook her head. “That’s it? That’s your explanation for everything?”
Despite my efforts to keep this private, my voice rose to meet hers. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth! I deserve that much.”
“Fine.” I turned to face her fully. “I failed you, all right? Is that what you want to hear?”
“Failed me?” Her brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw the gunman too late.” The admission ripped a hole in my chest, laying my heart bare in front of her. I’d never confessed to anyone, not even my doctor. As much as I’d eventually focused on my mental health, what happened between Brooke and me had never found its way into words. “I should have been more alert, should have spotted him sooner.”
“You jumped between a man with a gun and me,” she said, her face screwing up in confusion.
“It wasn’t enough.Iwasn’t enough. If I hadn’t been…” I ran a hand through my hair, the pressure building behind my eyes.Tell her the truth. Tell someone for once instead of berating yourself again.
The words jammed in my throat, and I turned away.
