Page 56 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

She crosses the threshold slowly, shoulders tight, like she's bracing for impact.

For a second she just stands in the middle of the room like she hadn't planned past the knock.

I know that feeling—the edge of a decision with nothing but runway behind you.

“You want to sit?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

Then nods.

Then gives up and drags both hands through her hair.

“I'm doing great so far,” she mutters.

“You're doing fine,” I say.

Her mouth presses into a tight line.

“That's debatable.”

I step closer.

“You're not alone in this,” I say. “Not in any of it.”

That breaks something.

She makes a raw, wordless sound and her fingers twist into my shirt like she's holding on to the only stable thing in the room.

I pull her in.

One hand at the back of her head.

The other flat between her shoulder blades.

She shakes once. Twice.

“I'm sorry,” she says, muffled against my chest.

“Don't.”

“I should have told you. I should have—”

“Riley.”

I pull back just enough to see her face.

“You were protecting yourself. That's not something you apologize for.”

She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes that feel more honest than anything else in this penthouse. Still bracing. Still waiting to see which way I'll break.

“I expected you to look at me like everyone else eventually does. Like I’m something they have to figure out what to do with.”

That stops me cold.

I shake my head once.

“You think that little of me?”