realization that he was used. It feels like shit. I’d know.
“Me too,” he mutters. Taking a much larger than necessary gulp of his wine, he squeezes his eyes closed. It takes several seconds before he opens them, his eyes—ones with too much experience—sinking deep into me, telling me more than words ever could.
“What did she do to you?” I request. It’s so loaded. I know it from the little detail he told me the other day. The one about his near-death.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He laughs, but there’s no humor on his face. It’s a pitiful sound, one full of so much disdain. It’s surprising a man this kind could carry such a weight. “When we were in high school, I was dumbfounded when she asked me out. She asked me. Eleanor Graves, the most popular girl in school. The one with dark raven hair that was never curly. It was slick straight, like she flat-ironed it for days just to keep it so stiff. And her face, almost angelic with sharp cheekbones and a tiny nose. Some would say she was flawless... they’d be wrong.” He shakes his head sadly. Nostalgia doesn’t lace his tone, derisiveness does. “Not for the fact that she was a psychopath, but because she had a tiny scar underneath her eyebrow. It was always covered with make-up, but after you spent time with her and she skipped her cover-up, it was there. I always thought it was adorable, it reminded me of when a cat scratches you and you remember it years later fondly. She hated it, though. Whenever I mentioned how endearing I found it, she’d freak out and call me stupid.” He lets out a long exhale. His eyes are wide and filled with the need to talk faster, explain more. They run rampant and expose everything he holds within himself.
“It’s okay to breathe,” I offer, hoping to calm the wildness seeping through his skin, inking the floor with all the indecision and regret.
He closes his eyes, as if he’s already forgotten that it’s a necessary action to survive, calming himself with each passing second.
“She was cruel, but I loved her. She was hateful, but I forgave her. She was crazy and in love with my best friend, but I kissed the ground she stomped upon, covering and forgiving each hellish thing she did. But it wasn’t love. That’s where I got it all wrong.”
He finally releases my thigh, the imprint of his fingers on me has him scrunching his face in disapproval. As soon as he’s opened up, the conversation is over. He’s shut down the topic completely, every flutter of emotion he had is gone.
“I’ve had too much to drink,” he chastises himself. “Ironic, really... since I just told my best friend to stop drinking himself to death.”
“You still talk to him? The one who slept with your ex?” I accuse, shocked that he could forgive him. Whether that’s some kind of superpower or stupidity he wields, the jury’s out on that. Whether his best friend was a part of his ex’s love or not, he had to have given her ammunition for that, right?
“Fuck no,” he curses, his voice lower and raspier than I’ve ever heard. I grip my chest from the hatred that spills out with those two syllables, realizing I made a major mistake in judging him. “That’s an entirely different story that we’re not ready to have.”
He polishes off his wine and stands, offering his hand to me. “Let’s eat and save such dark topics for another time, hmm?”
I stare at him in mouth-open-wide shock. How can he just brush over all of that? My heart is still racing from his admission, and he just ignores it like it didn’t change his life.
Why does alcohol make people weird?
And why do I want to beg him for more answers?
Chapter Fifteen
Present
Toby
“Do I really have to come over?” I ask Francis the following Sunday. He called me, telling me how excited he is to introduce me to “Ma coccinelle.” Whoever the fuck that is. This weird French shift with him has thrown me off.
Nate, Francis, and I kept in touch after Ellie tried murdering Francis, but it seems his acclimation to France made him more French than American in the sense of language and accent. It’s like he’s an entirely new person, one I don’t really know anymore.
After my happenstance with Jameson, I called Bobbie, my actual sponsor. The most worrisome part of that call was her telling