“What?”
“You are intensely frustrating sometimes.”
“Thank you.”
Lisa made a short growling sound. “Why are you thanking me?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I need to say something and I can’t say, in this economy? It doesn’t make enough sense in this context.”
A reluctant laugh tumbled from her lips and she sat on the edge of the bathtub, her gaze moving over me. “What can I do to make this happen?”
“Make what happen?”
“Prove to you that I love you?”
I bit my bottom lip, reminding myself that I couldn’t cry because I was wearing eye makeup. Surprisingly, it worked, and one of Abram’s statements from earlier floated into my brain.
Cry if you need to, but don’t ignore what the tears are about.
Gathering a deep breath, I cleared my throat, and said, “I don’t want you to prove that you love me.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want—”
“What can I do?”
“I—I want—why didn’t you ever tell me what happened with Abram? In Chicago? That morning after I left.” Whoa. Where had that come from?
“What do you mean?” She gave her had a subtle shake.
“He told you that he loved me.” I didn’t mean for the words to sound like an accusation, but they did.
Lisa met my stare for a protracted moment. “Mona, if you remember, you didn’t want to talk about it. Every time I brought him up, you said you didn’t want to discuss it and would sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” until I changed the subject.”
“But I didn’t know that he told you he loved me!”
Her eyes clouded with remorse. “For what it’s worth, I did try to tell you, a few times. But, you’re right, I should’ve made you listen. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I was such a mess back then. And I honestly didn’t believe him at the time. I truly, truly didn’t. And when he seemed to move on so quickly, I took it as proof that I was right not to believe him.”