Page 27 of My Girl to Ruin

My heart clenches at the sight of her tears. “Tatum…”

“All of this,” she cuts in, gesturing vaguely between us, her hand trembling now. “Taking care of me. Paying for everything. Showing up out of nowhere after years of shutting me out—”

“It wasn’t out of nowhere,” I cut in, frustration bleeding through now, even though I know this isn’t about me. “You came to me.”

“And you let me stay,” she shoots back immediately. “Why? Because you wanted me here, or because you felt it was your job, your responsibility to keep me happy?”

The question lands hard. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out because the answer isn’t simple. The truth is tangled up in too many things I can’t separate.

My hesitation says everything.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, her voice barely there now. “It isn’t even real to you?”

“It is,” I say quickly, stepping toward her. “You think I would—”

“Yes,” she cuts in, louder now, tears spilling freely as she finally lets everything break. “I think you would, Lachlan, because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing this whole time. Taking care of me like I’m something you owe, like I’m one more thing you have to carry because of Tyler.”

“That’s not fair,” I snap, even though part of me knows it is.

“You told me you thought about me graduating.” Her voice cracks straight down the middle. “In your bed. You told me that’s what you held onto in there, and I thought—” She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth. “I thought you meant me. I didn’t know you meant the invoices.”

That one goes into some place inside me I didn’t know was open.

“What’s not fair is falling in love with someone who never saw me the same way,” she says, her voice shaking but her words hitting with razor-sharp precision.

The air goes out of the room. Everything stops.

She stares at me, waiting. Hoping. Even now.

All I have to do is say it. Tell her the truth, that she’s wrong. That it isn’t an obligation and never was. That she’s the only thing that kept me going when everything fell apart.

That she’s the reason I got through four years of concrete and noise. That every day since she pushed her way through my door has felt like something I stole.

That I love her.

The word is right there. Ready. But it doesn’t come out.

Because I don’t deserve to say it. Because if I do, she’ll believe me. And she shouldn’t. Not when everything I’ve done says otherwise. Not when I couldn’t face her when it mattered most. Not when I was the one behind the wheel.

I force the words back down where they belong.

“No, I didn’t,” I say instead, low and quiet.

Her face stills completely. “Right,” she whispers, nodding slowly. “That makes sense.”

Something in my chest turns to lead. Heavy and poisoning me from the inside out. I should tell her the truth, ease her hurt. But my guilt silences me.

She grabs her bag without looking at me, her shoulders squared already putting distance between us before she’s even reached the door.

“I guess I should thank you. At least now I know the truth.”

At the door, she turns. Her eyes are red but clear. “And for what it’s worth,” she says, “it’s sad. Falling for someone who only ever saw you as something to fix.”

The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.

Then she’s gone. The door closes, the sound echoing through the apartment in a way that feels too final.

***