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“Paul, I know you’ve been spiraling—”

My mouth goes dry.

“It wasn’t—”

“And I’ve been here for these ebbs and flows of self-destruction, but this one... Honey, it takes the cake.”

I swallow.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve really fucked things up.”

Don doesn’t shout. I almost wish he would. It would allow me to defend myself against tone instead of content.

He leans forward instead. “Yes, you have. You lied to him.”

“I know.”

“No.” He points, sharp and small. “You lied to him in a way that let him be vulnerable while you stayed hidden.”

I flinch.

“I didn’t know it would turn into anything.”

“And once it did?”

I look away.

Don nods. “There it is.”

“I tried to stop.”

“Oh, well.” His voice turns bright and poisonous. “We applaud the effort.”

“Don.”

“No, Paul. You don’t get wounded widower points for almost doing the right thing.”

I fold forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight enough to hurt. “I know.”

“Do you?” he asks. “Because I love you, and I am very worried that somewhere in that tidy little grief maze of yours, you have made this about your loneliness.”

My throat tightens.

“Isn’t it?”

“Partly. Sure.” Don’s voice softens, but not enough to become mercy. “I’ve seen it eating at you. And, frankly, I hoped that you’d somehow Stella your groove back on this trip—but not at someone else’s expense. You never deserved to suffer, but neither does Clint.”

I close my eyes. The worst thing is that it steadies me.

“He trusted me.”

“Yes.”

“And I ruined that.”

“You both did what you did,” Don says, holding up his hands. “I’m not removing his agency. He’s a grown-ass man who maybe put things where they didn’t belong.”

A laugh almost escapes me. It dies halfway.