I couldn't answer. Because she was right.
Tears were running down my face now too. Hot against the cold air. I wiped at them with the back of my hand.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Emily, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" She wiped at her face. "For lying? For using me? For letting me think we had a chance when you knew—"
"I didn't know! I thought I could make it work. I thought if I just tried hard enough—"
"But you couldn't." Her voice went flat. The anger draining into something worse—resignation. "Because you're in love with him."
The words hung in the cold air between us.
I didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
Because she was right about that too. And hearing it from her—not from Noah, not from my own spiraling thoughts, but from the girl I'd been lying to—made it real in a way nothing else had.
My knees felt like they might give out. I locked them. Stood there like I was bracing for a hit because that's what this was. A hit I'd earned.
Emily let out a broken laugh. "Oh my god. You are. You're in love with him."
"Emily—"
"So what now? You two ride off into the sunset? Come out together? Play the happy couple?"
"No! Because people can't know. It could ruin everything. Just please don't—"
I stopped myself but it was too late. She knew exactly what I was going to say.
Emily went very still.
Even in the harsh orange streetlight, I could see her face change. The hurt shifting into something harder. Angrier. Something that looked a lot like contempt.
"If people find out." She stared at me. "That's what you're worried about right now? Your reputation?"
The realization of what I'd just said crashed over me. What I'd implied. That her pain mattered less than my secret. That after everything I'd done to her, my first instinct was still to protect myself.
What kind of person—
My stomach turned. Actually turned. I thought I might be sick right there on the gravel.
"You just broke my heart. And your main concern is making sure no one finds out?"
"Emily please—"
"Please what? Please keep quiet? Please don't tell anyone?" She stepped closer. "Please protect you even though you couldn't be bothered to protect me?"
"I'm not asking you to lie—"
"Yes, you are." Her eyes were hard. "That's exactly what you're asking. And you don't even hear yourself. You don't even hear how selfish that sounds."
She was right. She was absolutely right. And the shame of it—bone-deep, the kind that settled into your muscles like lactic acid after a race you lost—was worse than the cold, worse than the fear.
"I hope it was worth it," she said. "I hope he was worth throwing everything away for."
She turned to walk away.
