“Look, believe me or not. That's the truth.”
“Why are you trying to get me to forgive him? A few months ago, you wanted me to leave him alone.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Shit changed.”
“Like what?”
“Doesn’t matter. Look, that man’s my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” He shuffles his feet. “Almost nothing.”
Those last two words are whispered so quietly, I barely hear them. I can’t help but study him, my curious gaze falling over his dark roots. Why does he dye his hair? It’s obvious he’s hiding from something. Or someone…
“What did you do?” The whispered words come out before I can stop them.
Declan’s eyes darken, his fist clenching. He takes a step toward me, placing his hand on the side of the wall next to my face. “I fucked up, and I’m going to pay for it for the rest of my life. And you know what? I fucking deserve it. But Ash? He doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He doesn’t deserve to lose the woman he loves over this bullshit.”
My thoughts stray to Skylar, but I shake them off. I have enough of a mess on my own hands to get involved in theirs.
He pushes off the wall and I release the breath I was holding. “You don’t get to decide that, Declan.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “No, I don’t. It’s your choice. Forgive him or lose the man who worships you. I did my part. The rest is up to you.”
He walks away from me but turns his head. “Oh, and he quit his job at the newspaper to go back to work for his dad. There’s only one reason he would do that. He fucking hates working for his old man.”
Wait, what?
Does he mean he did that forme? But why?
Then it hits me. His dad helped me. Helped my mom…
Before I can ask Declan about it, he swings open the door but stops dead in his tracks, causing me to slam into his back.
“Oh, shit,” he chuckles.
I move around him and open the door wider to see what he’s looking at. Standing in front of me is a tall man with dark wavy hair and black glasses. He looks to be in his early forties, and his eyes are the color of the ocean.
The same color as mine.
38
ALLIE
It wouldn’t matterif the man standing at my door looked nothing like me. I would still know. But he does. Same hair. Same eyes. He even wears the same glasses. I have always wondered if I got my bad eyesight from him. My mother has twenty-twenty vision.
His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans, his eyes swirling with intensity. He lifts a hand to run his finger along the collar of his white T-shirt, and my eyes drop to the sleeves of tattoos that decorate both of his arms. I look away, not ready to see if any are tributes to other partners or children. I can’t go there yet.
“Alex,” he clears his throat. “Alexandra?”
My name is a question, and it’s not even my name. Not what I go by, anyway.
“Yes,” I whisper. It’s all I can say. What else is there? To him, I’m still Alexandra, the baby he left. Somehow I always knew that’s who I would be to him. My mom could have started calling me Allie during those first few months, but I knew she hadn’t. I never asked her, but I didn’t need to.
“I, um,” he stretches his arm up, scratching the side of his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Me neither,” I state plainly.
“But you know who I am?”
“Yes,” I repeat.
