Having enough, I repeat more forcefully. “I said get out.”
I turn to look at her. I don’t mask the revulsion anymore. I let her see it. I let her see exactly what I think of her, and what I think of myself for letting this charade go on for so long.
“Don’t make me say it a third time,” I repeat, my voice rising, vibrating with a cold fury. “Get out of my parents’ house. Get out of my life. Find someone else.”
“B-but Shane,” she sputters, her eyes darting around, looking for an ally. “Henry? Marabella? You can’t let him do this. Think of the optics.”
My mother lifts her chin. “I believe he asked you to leave, Emily.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she hisses, her voice trembling with humiliation. “You’re throwing away a partnership for... for her?”
“Call a car,” I say, turning my back on her.
Frustratingly, Cordia steps aside so Emily can leave, but holds me in place. Emily marches past us, the sharp click of her heels sounding like gunfire on the marble, slamming the door so hard the frame rattles.
But before I can wrestle Cordia from my way, my father speaks.
“That relationship was never going to work. We’ve been rooting for you and Dove for years, son,” he adds.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, dry and humorless. “If you were, why did you never say anything?”
“Because you’ve never been single for more than five minutes,” my sister, Marabella, drawls from the end of the room.
True, and it was on purpose.
I run a hand down my face, the exhaustion hitting me like a physical weight. “I thought I was protecting her.”
As I hand Cordia my bloody napkin, Theo asks, “Protecting her from what? From being happy? Dude, that’s savage.”
“I know,” I groan, closing my eyes.
The image of Dove’s face—pale, shocked, devastated—burns behind my eyelids. I did that. I broke her heart because I was too much of a coward to admit that mine belonged to her. I thoughtI was too dark, too complicated, too much for someone as soft as her.
But looking at her empty chair, I realize the truth. I’m not protecting her. I’m just hurting her.
Chapter Nine
Dove
The key turns, but the engine doesn’t catch. It makes a sick, grinding noise—metal on dying metal—before choking into silence.
“No,” I whisper, the word scraping out of my throat. “No, no, no.”
I try again. The starter clicks, a pathetic sound that mocks me. Outside, the sky has turned as dark as my mood, the earlier sunshine swallowed by a sudden, violent spring storm. Rain drums against the windshield, blurring the sprawling estate into a gray, watery smear.
The cabin of my car feels like a coffin. It smells of damp upholstery and stale air, a humiliating contrast to the lavender-scented perfection I just ran from. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.
I am trapped. I am sitting in a rusting tin can at the bottom of the Archers’ driveway, wearing a pastel dress that now feels like a mockery of my feelings.
I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, wild. Mascara is smudged beneath my lashes like charcoal bruises. I look exactly like what Shane called me: a child. A silly girl who thought she could sit at the adults’ table.
“Start,” I beg, my voice trembling. “Please, just start.” I twist the key again. The engine wheezes, shudders, and dies.
A scream builds in my chest, hot and acidic. I slam my palms against the steering wheel, the impact stinging my skin.
“Start, damn it!” I shout, the sound tearing through the small space.
I slump forward, pressing my forehead against the cold plastic of the wheel. The tears finally spill over, hot and fast. I sob into my hands, the sound ugly and raw.
