I wish I did. I wish I could track him down and break his nose like I did Mitchell Hurst’s back in high school. It’s clear by Libby’s broken expression that whatever Grayson did shattered her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a failure. How can I tell her that I’m falling for her when I don’t know anything about the men in her past? When I didn’t bother to look—and it would have been so easy, given who she is? “I don’t know who Grayson is. Is he an ex?”
Libby blinks again like she did when I admitted my feelings. “What?” she says, sounding stunned.
“I’m the worst,” I say with a sigh.
She shakes her head slowly. “How is it possible you don’t know about Grayson Hollis?” she whispers. “You acted like you knew…”
I don’t know what to say. How can I? I have no idea what she means.
“When I told you that my family would think me running off to marry you was just like Grayson all over again?” she prompts. She squints. “I might not have said his name, but … you acted like you knew,” she repeats. “And the whole reason I’m getting the show. To change the narrative about me. The way the fans talk about what happened—haven’t you seen the comments on the pictures we’ve posted?”
I grimace. A couple conversations pop into my head, when I was confused about references to her past, but I pushed them aside. “I don’t pay a lot of attention to social media. I’ve been letting my publicist handle things.” I rub a hand across my forehead. This doesn’t make me sound like a very good partner for Libby if I’m ignoring things she thinks I should be paying attention to.
She puts a hand over her mouth and laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Well, this is humbling, I guess.”
“Do you want to tell me about Grayson Hollis, or should I Google?” I ask. I sense this is bigger than just a breakup. Has Libby been married before? Is that what she’s referring to? I never watched more than a couple early episodes ofBeing the Bennetsin order to prepare for appearing on Libby’s show with her, but maybe this is in the later episodes?
But she would have only been a teenager. At least I know she was young when the show ended. So maybe not.
She chews on her bottom lip. I want to pull her into my arms, tell her that nothing about Grayson Hollis matters to me, whatever she decides. I hate seeing her like this. But I hold back and let Libby take the lead.
“I’ll tell you. I don’t want to think about how the internettells this story.” She reaches up and tugs on her braid. “Grayson Hollis used to play for the Pumas. He was twenty-five when I met him. I was seventeen.”
I clench my jaw. My stomach swirls. I don’t like where this story is headed.
“He lied to me about something that happened with Will’s cousin. He wanted to spread his lies, his side of the story, and because I was on this huge reality TV show, and because I was seventeen and didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut, he groomed me.” She says all of this matter-of-factly. She looks down at her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped now.
I want more than anything to pull her into my arms, but I resist. The effort is herculean, harder than anything I’ve ever done.
“He charmed me. He flirted with me. He made me feel special.”
All of Libby’s boundaries make perfect sense. The way she put up walls in our first interactions because I flirted with her, because I was charming.
“He convinced me that my family didn’t understand us, of course. That he thought I was mature for my age and that he loved me.” She’s still talking in an even tone, but that must have come from ten years of healing over this. Her eyes glisten, proving that no matter how much time has passed, it still hurts. It always will. I only know a tiny bit of that heartache after watching my sister become the target of Bryce’s lies, but it’s enough to break my heart for Libby.
“He convinced me to go to Mexico with him.” She pulls in a breath. She’s steeling herself for the worst of the story. I want to throw up because I know what’s coming. “He wouldn’t let me contact my family, and he … he…”
“It’s okay, Libby,” I say, putting my hand over hers. I want to haul her into my arms, hold her and promise that everything will be okay—but after what she went through then? And the way she’s held herself back because of trust? Stepping over thatboundary now definitely isn’t the right move. “You don’t have to say anything else,” I insist. “It’s okay.”
“I want something between us,” she whispers, her voice on the edge of breaking. “I feel it too. I want it, but I can’t believe it’s real.”
“Shhh,” I whisper back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“Can I hug you?” she asks. “I know after what I just said, that’s probably too much?—”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.” I do let her lean into me first, though, and then wrap my arms gently around her, even though I want to press her to me and tighten my hold. This is ripping my heart in half. After everything I admitted to her, and after what she told me, she still feels safe in my arms. It tells me that she trusts in me more than she thinks.
But I would never push her. I would never try to convince her of something she doesn’t see herself.
I will not be the better version of Grayson Hollis.
She pulls back after several moments and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“You don’t need to be sorry about anything.” I shake my head vehemently.
“What are we going to do, then?” she asks in a small voice. “I can’t ask you to keep doing this?—”
