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“Don gave me the address,” I say. “In case, like, I wanted to talk to you.”

Paul huffs a laugh. “Or kill me?”

I shrug. “Don’s a questionable friend.”

I move in closer, ignoring the fragile-looking chair in the corner. Sitting feels like agreeing to something.

The paper is still in my hand, damp and soft around the edges. I fold it once, then shove it in my pocket before it becomes a distraction.

I’m still mad, and I should be. But Paul looks gray in this gray little room, and something in me keeps trying to reach for him before I can slap it away.

“I don’t know if it’ll matter at all,” I say, “but I wanna know why.”

Paul’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “You ever sit in your life and just want to burn it all down? Like, just start from dust?”

I step closer and lean against the balcony doorframe. I don’t answer, just wait.

His hands rest loose between his knees. “I didn’t intend to hurt you. Or hold something over you. Or confuse you.”

“You can’t take all the blame for that one.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth. Sad, and almost surprised.

He finally looks over.

“When I saw you at the pool party,” he says, “at the celebration of life, I didn’t want to like you. I thought… this guy could take what’s left of my life from me. But then…” He swallows. “Then I recognized something. Like you were the only other person there facing the damage of all of this. And I couldn’t talk to you about it.”

I hate that I know what he means. I hate that the second he says it, Bentley shifts in my memory. Not clean, or excused, but different.

He wasn’t digging for dirt. Wasn’t just digging for dirt. He was touching a shared bruise.

“I reached out to you,” I say. “A lot.”

Paul nods. “Yeah. But we were already chatting by then. I didn’t think I could look you in the eye without a screen.”

I sigh. “And I would have used that against you if I could. In the inheritance fight.”

A nervous laugh slips out of him. “So that wasn’t paranoia on my part?”

“Fuck no.” I shake my head. “I wanted what I thought was mine. What I deserved for having to mourn a guy who never did one damn thing for me.”

Paul leans forward, elbows on his knees, and covers his face with both hands.

“I could murder Renny for doing this to us.”

I crouch down. The joke is right there, daring me to be a decent person.

“Wouldn’t that be… overkill?”

Paul pauses, then laughs behind his hands.

Thank God.

I slide down to the floor because crouching makes my thighs burn and standing makes me feel like I’m here to fight. One leg kicks out before I can stop it and bumps Paul’s.

He moves his hands from his face. His eyes are red, swollen and wet, his lashes sticking together. Something inside me stirs, something that wants to be protective and dumb.

I look away first.