“I’m sorry, Macon.” She visibly deflates. And it pisses me off that I want to hug her. I’m too angry right now. I feel like the damn rug has been pulled out from under my feet. How can she understand me so well and not get this?

“When we were kids, all I had was my pride,” I say tightly. “I thought protecting my pride was the most important thing in the world. But I grew up and realized that trust meant more. I let you in because I thought I had that—”

“Macon . . .”

“If we can’t trust each other with the worst parts of ourselves, what’s the point?” I throw my arms wide.

“I do trust you. Aside from Sam, I have never lied to you.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the lie I’m stuck on.”

We stare at each other in silence. And I wait for her to tell me something to make it better. That she loves me, that I won’t have to wonder if she’ll always put Sam over me. Something.

She doesn’t speak. For once in our relationship, she’s silent.

I let out a long breath. “This is getting us nowhere. I need to clear my head. I can’t do that with you around.”

I might as well have slapped her. She visibly recoils. But then she pulls her shoulders back. “All right. I’ll just get my things. I can stay with my mother.”

Get her things? “You’re leaving?”

A little wrinkle forms between her brows. “You said you need space. I’m giving it to you. What did you expect me to do?”

I expected her to leave me alone for a while until I calmed down, not move out. I expected her to fight, not walk away. To pick me—us.

“Besides,” she says, walking toward the bedroom door. “There are things that I need to discuss with my sister.”

I see red. Admittedly, Sam has become a trigger for me. “You’re going with her?”

Delilah pauses long enough to catch sight of my expression. “I just found out that my sister was responsible for the worst humiliation of my life. I’ve hated you for years for something you didn’t do. I lied for her and caused you pain. You want space. Yes, Macon, I’m going to talk to my sister.”

It’s a sucker punch to the gut. “So go, then.”

She’s looking through me the way she used to, like I’m nothing other than a painful reminder of things best left in the past. Like I’m the enemy. I hate that look. My temper snaps. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

Delilah’s chin lifts, and that spark I’ve been waiting for lights in her eyes. But I see the pain there too. When she speaks, her voice is stiff. “I never wanted to hurt you. I know I lied, but it was only—”

“One more lie between us?”

Delilah blinks once before answering. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

She leaves then. And that hurts most of all.

Delilah

Everything is crumbling beneath my feet. Sam’s confession has taken a jackhammer to my solid foundation. But the fight with Macon was worse. Inside, I’m shaking.

We both lied. We both let each other down in our own ways.

A lie is still a lie. We were supposed to be pushing past all that, starting anew with everything laid out on the table. Yet I kept Sam’s call a secret. And he planned to keep the knowledge of the prank secret forever if he had his way.

The thought of him and Sam sharing this knowledge of my worst humiliation turns my stomach. I know he feels much the same about me keeping Sam’s call from him.

He’s right. If we can’t fully trust each other, what’s the point?

Tears blur my vision. He kicked me out. That hurt most of all. I’d gotten out of his room as fast as I could so he wouldn’t see me fall apart.

Sam isn’t in the house. I have no idea where she’s gone, and if I’m honest, part of me doesn’t care. I told Macon I wanted to talk to my sister—something I know pisses him off—but I’m so disgusted in her, in myself, I don’t know what I’d do right now.

I head to my mother’s because short of a hotel, I don’t have anywhere else to go. A sob breaks free as soon as I leave Macon’s property. It’s become my home. I know he’s angry and wants his space, but leaving him behind feels like a betrayal. Part of me wants to turn around and tell him, “Fuck no, I’m not going anywhere.” But I hurt him, and if he wants space, I’ll give it to him.

My mother takes me in without question, though I know she can tell I’ve been crying. Quietly, she hand washes the dishes, affording me a moment of privacy.

I sit at my customary spot at the table, feeling all of twelve years old. I’m half-tempted to ask for peanut butter cookies. But it’s soothing here as well, with the familiar sounds of my mother cleaning and the faint scent of lemon Pledge rising from the oak table.