The disgust.
The accusation.
But it’s not there.
What I see instead?
Confusion.
Shock.
Something almost like guilt.
But that doesn’t make sense.
“I know you don’t believe me but I didn’t sleep with Paul,” I say, the words coming out louder than I intended.
Firmer.
Like I need to stake a claim on the truth before it gets buried again.
“I haven’t slept with anyone since you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Thick.
Benji drags his hand down his face, his shoulders tightening, his whole body going still in a way that tells me something inside him just shifted.
“Fuck, Ezzy,” he mutters.
Then, quieter, almost to himself, “I think I know that now.”
My chest aches.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Esme.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.
I blink.
He’s not looking at me.
Not at first.
“What?”
Then, he lifts his head, and those crazy dark blue eyes of his are glittering at me like sapphires.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, looking at me now, really looking. “For all of it. It’s my fault. Everything is all my fucking fault.”
His voice is rough.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
