Her words are so brutal—because they’re true. Shame riots through me.
“Cole—”
“Don’t,” I warn, my voice breaking as I hold my hand up. “Don’t stand there and try to make sense of what you don’t understand.”
“I don’t have to understand to care.”
She saw it. Saw him. She saw me let it happen.
Fuck.
Just . . . tears burn in my eyes that will not see the light of fucking day. I bark out a laugh instead.
“What about my life right now makes you think any part of this is okay?”
She steps closer, careful, like she’s afraid I might bolt. She doesn’t know how bad I want to.
“I think you’re struggling,” she says quietly. “And I think you’ve been dealing with it alone for so long, all you know how to do is tread water just to breathe again.”
“Dublin,” I warn, her words hit too close. Too validating.
“Cole—”
“Don’t,” I repeat. “Don’t stand there and try to fix something you can’t.”
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I needed to make sure you were okay,” she says again. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
I shake my head, refusing the pity. “Sorry doesn’t begin to cover this.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I am.”
That does it. That snaps my pride. My temper. And both are like fuel feeding my humiliation.
Anger fires. Misdirected, but it fires anyway.
“You want to know what sorry is?” I step closer without thinking. “Sorry is hating that you saw that. Sorry is wishing you hadn’t been there. Sorry is—”
I cut myself off and drag a hand over my face.
“Forget it,” I mutter.
End this.
I turn.
Shut it down.
Walk in the house, close the door, and shut out all of these emotions that I can’t let myself feel.
“Cole. No.” Her hand grabs my arm just as I cross the threshold. “Finish what you were going to say.”
I freeze. My lungs ache as I hold my breath. As I fight the one thing I want that will make me feel better.
Then slowly, I turn to look at her. Rainwater still clings to her hair and her eyes don’t waver. She lifts her chin in challenge. She’s not backing down.