The anger had faded from his expression, and the desperate shake of his head must have hurt his neck. “No, April. No. That’s not—”
She bit her lip, her cold, calm facade cracking. “I w-would never have told anyone. Not a soul. Not my coworkers. Not our friends on the Lavineas server. Not my mother. No one.”
The honest fucking truth, and she hoped he recognized it.
“I know that!” He flung his hands in the air, his own voice breaking. “Do you honestly think I don’t know that?”
The air seemed simultaneously too thin and too thick to breathe, and she wanted to fling open the car door and run. Instead, she stayed and faced him dead-on.
“Right. Of course.” Her lip, now bitten red and raw, stung as she gave him a mean little smile. “Except for one problem: if you knew that, if you trusted me, you would have said something.”
He clawed at the seat belt as if it were strangling him, finally stabbing at the release to fling it free. The violence of the motion didn’t seem to satisfy him, though, and his chest heaved with labored breaths.
“I was scared.” It was a blunt, rough statement, unvarnished enough that her desolate sneer faded despite her best efforts. “When we met in person, I was cautious about sharing something so damaging, and I think that’s understandable, even though you may not agree. Then I knew I could trust you, but I didn’t—”
Jaw clenched with frustration, he seemed to search for words.
“I didn’t trust that I’d say the right thing when I explained. I didn’t trust that I’d be enough to make you stay, once you knew I’d been hiding something so important all this time. From that first date.” His brows had drawn together, a mute plea for understanding. “I love you, and I was terrified you’d leave me.”
Her sudden inhalation removed all the remaining oxygen from the car. Dizzy and sick, she stared at him.
I was scared.
I love you, and I was terrified you’d leave me.
Even desolate and enraged, she couldn’t dismiss the naked honesty in the admission. Couldn’t pretend to herself that he was playing her, misleading her, wheedling for her forgiveness through strategic, manipulative vulnerability.
At long last, he was letting her see him without any barriers, any artifice, any deception between them.
And it was too late. Too goddamn late.
Outside the car, children shrieked in a game of keep-away from across the park’s expansive grassy field. The sound was distant, almost inaudible over the ringing in her ears, the subtle creak of her seat as she sagged into it all at once.
Her voice wasn’t angry or disdainful anymore, but still thick. Still despairing. “For months, you’ve known much more about me than I realized, and you kept that information from me. It’s a horrible violation of trust. You realize that, right?”
It was disorienting. Sickening.
Every conversation they’d had, every moment of their relationship, she’d now have to revisit and question. When had he lied? When had he simply not told her the truth? When had he used his knowledge as BAWN to further his own purposes as Marcus?
He’d definitely pumped her for information about Marcus as BAWN, she knew that for certain. And then—and then he’d cut off contact on the Lavineas server. Just like that.
“When BAWN s-stopped”—she inhaled through her nose, exhaled a hitching breath through her mouth—“when you stopped writing me on the server, I told myself I’d done something wrong, or you’d finally seen me and realized I wasn’t anyone you c-could want. You were m-my—”
Her sob shook her shoulders, and he bowed his head.
She sniffed back more tears. “Y-you were my best friend, and you just . . . left. With no good explanation, only some dumb excuse that was obviously untrue. You lied to me as Marcus, but you lied to me as BAWN too. You a-abandoned me.”
Tipping her head back, she stared at the gray fabric of her car’s ceiling and waited until she could speak intelligibly again. “You hurt me, lied, and violated my trust because you were scared.”
“I’m so sorry.” He sounded agonized. Helpless in the face of her despair.
“Your public persona.” Fretfully, she rubbed her forehead. “You said you’ve wanted to drop it for years, but you haven’t. For the same reason, I assume. Because it’s too hard, and you could lose everything, and you’re scared. Too scared to pick your next role, because you’d have to decide which version of you would show up on