Hot Mess - Elise Faber Page 0,39

violated me and took what wasn’t freely given. But that’s not on you or me.”

He covered her palms with his fingers, gently peeling her hands from his face. “Lex, you shouldn’t be trying to make me feel better. You should be concentrating on you.”

“I did concentrate on me,” she said. “I’ve spent the last months concentrating on me, on my healing, on processing what happened, what was done to me.”

“You should keep doing that,” he said. “Not fly out here and—”

“I told you to go.”

He winced.

She turned her hands over in his, squeezed his fingers lightly. “I told you to go because every time I looked over the dinner table, seeing you there as the media storm grew, watching you in agony week after week after week, I just . . . I couldn’t take it.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Finn.”

His eyes flicked back to hers.

“I was never mad at you about the interview, about how it came out.”

“I shouldn’t have—” He shook his head, sat back. “I violated your privacy and—”

“The only one who violated anything was my rapist.”

“I—”

“And further that I was proud of you for standing up for that girl, for calling out that sleazeball of an anchor. That was the right thing to do.” A ghost of a smile. “Maybe I would have liked some warning . . . but—”

He shook his head. “Lexy, I get what you’re doing, but—”

“I was angry at you.”

His lungs froze.

“I was furious. I hated that you were famous enough to get me an invite to that party, that you didn’t come and protect me. I was hurt and shattered inside, and I was so fucking mad at you.”

“You should be.”

“No, Finn,” she said. “The person I should be furious at is my rapist.”

“I—” What could he say? Because she was right, but that also didn’t excuse his role. If he’d just been there, then things would be different.

“Guilt train.”

His brows dragged together. “What?”

“You’re all aboard the guilt train, and you don’t want to get off,” she said. “You stay on it, you keep beating yourself up, thinking you deserve this punishment, but in reality, you’re punishing me.”

“Lex.”

“Because if you stop living, if you keep hurting yourself”—she sniffed—“then you need to know that you’re hurting me, too.”

He tugged her into his arms. “Lex.”

“He hurt us enough,” she murmured. “Let’s not allow him to keep doing it.”

Finn held her tight. Partly in wonder because how had his sister gotten so big and grown-up when he’d had to help her tie her shoes all the way up to fifth grade? Partly because he felt so lucky that she was there and safe and had survived the awful thing that was done to her. “You were right to tell me to go.”

“Hey—”

He loosened his arms, leaned back to meet her eyes. “You needed space to heal, not me freaking out and making it worse.”

“That’s not what I came to say.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s what I need to say. I was never hurt because you told me to go. I got it, and you were right. I needed out of town, just as much as you needed me gone.” He twisted, leaned back so his shoulder rested against the cushions and he faced her. “The media was relentless. Every time they hounded you, I felt worse. And, let’s face it, they were there for me. When I left, things got better.” A beat. “For both of us.”

Her head tilted to the side. “They haven’t found you here?”

“No.” He shrugged. “This town is great. I haven’t had a single person hound me, no stories of my exploits on the gossip sites. It’s so great that I bought a place.”

Lex smiled. “Of course, you did.”

“Wait until you see it in the daylight,” he told her. “The sunrise is gorgeous.”

“I feel silly for waiting to drive over until this late.”

“Where were you?”

“Sitting at a diner, reading a paperback. My flight got in, and I drove to Stoneybrook a few hours ago. Oh!” She pushed off the couch, went to the front door, and grabbed a small backpack that she must have dropped on his deck. “I can’t believe I left this out here—” She reached inside, tugged out a book, and extended it toward him. “But anyway. I think this needs to be your next project.”

Her yawn punctuated the paperback hitting his palm.

“Hit the hay,” he told her, nudging her in the direction of his bedroom. There was only one in his cottage, the second bedroom having