Thomas said Ashton used his mother’s maiden name after Adam’s arrest. Marjorie must be her first name.
Marjorie Dessen.
I swipe at my wet cheeks and stare at the name harder, as if it’ll tell me everything I need to know. There’s no way this could be a coincidence. It’s why my gut nagged me that day at the diner when I was being interrogated by Thomas about his agent.
My grip tightens on the paper until it crinkles in my fingers, and I have to let go before I rip it.
I want to know why. Why give me a scholarship? Was it randomly selected? I know better than to ask that aloud.
No.
Someone did this intentionally.
Standing, I abandon the papers scattered on the living room floor and go to the kitchen where I left my phone. I’ve been avoiding it all day because I’m sick of Kourtney’s hourly check-ins and threats to come see me with Brad and Luca. I’d love to see them, just not her husband. And she knows it. Which is why I begged her after the sixth “I’m fine” to stop texting me.
She’s not who I need to talk to, though.
I dial the number and swallow down the anxiety bubbling in my stomach as it rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth, I’m about to hang up with shaky fingers when I hear, “Hi.”
The husky voice makes my lower lip tremble as I furiously swipe under my eye again. “Hi.” My voice comes out weaker than I want it to, and I mentally slap myself for it.
Thomas is quiet for a second before clearing his throat. “Are you okay?”
The shame from earlier comes crashing back down. I’d said some messed-up things, and he’s asking if I’m okay still. Why can’t he be an asshole? The version of him that he introduced himself as? It would make this easier.
I don’t answer his question. Because I’m not, and I don’t feel like lying to him. There are already so many lies and half-truths between us, I can’t keep track. Why add to the list?
“I need to speak to Ashton.”
I expect him to ask why. Maybe to tell me that it isn’t a good idea. But he does neither of those things. He simply says, “Okay. I can make that happen.”
No questions.
No hesitation.
I close my eyes again, take a deep breath, and murmur, “It would be easier if I hated you.”
He says, “I know.”
“But I don’t,” I murmur.
Again, he says, “I know.”
We’re quiet for a few heartbeats.
I look toward the other room at the papers on the floor and feel nauseous. No. I’ve felt that way since Ashton stepped into Janel’s office. Despite that, I know I need to face him. No matter how much I wish I didn’t have to.
Alone.
Not with Kourtney.
