Then, she opens her mouth and her voice—fuck—it’s soft and intimate and warm enough to put a knife between my ribs.
Only this time—I hear it.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my sweet Benji,” she sings all sexy and breathy, like a modern day Marilyn.
My name.
Clear as day.
Not his.
Mine.
My whole body goes cold.
I replay the line in my head even after the clip moves on.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my sweet Benji…
Not Paul.
Not him.
Not anyone else.
Me. She sang this to me.
She says Benji.
My hand tightens around the phone.
“That’s not what I saw,” I say, but the conviction’s gone thin.
“Because he cut it,” she says, voice rising with every word. “He edited it. He took what he wanted and twisted it into something else.”
I shove the phone back at her harder than I mean to. I shake my head.
“Pretty nifty edit. You do that online?”
Her face crumples for one flash of a second.
Hurt.
Raw and ugly, and plain as day before she can hide it.
Then it hardens again, and she squares her shoulders.
“Why would I? I didn’t even know he sent you that. But you can have a pro look at it for edits if you want. I’m done trying to get you to listen,” she replies.
And honestly. I have to admire her grit. If she hadn’t already ripped my heart out of my chest once, I’d tell her so.
But I can’t go there.
Not with her.
“You slept with him,” I accuse.
I say it out loud—and I ignore the gasps of Sawyer, Bit, Angie, and I think Micah.
