Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(34)

"Olivia." Michael moves toward her, hand outstretched, and she makes a little sound of dismay.

Instinctively, I start to move between them, but Olivia practically hisses at me.

"Get out," she snaps at me. "You owe me that much."

The magnitude of my manipulation is starting to sink in, and I feel like  complete shit. Still, I give Michael a warning glance, as though to  tell him not to hurt her. But I'm wasting the effort. He only has eyes  for her.

I walk toward the door, pausing beside her. I open my mouth to . . . to do what? Apologize? But she doesn't give me the chance.

"Leave." She doesn't even look at me.

I force myself to walk out the door. For one heart-stopping moment, I don't know how to live with myself.

But then I remember: I'm half dead anyway.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Olivia


Paul leaves without so much as a backward glance, probably gloating that his revenge is going so perfectly according to plan.

I should be relieved to have the hateful guy out of my sight so I can  gather my thoughts, but the truth is, Paul is just one part of this  nightmare. A big part, to be sure. And he's the catalyst. The fact that  he would go through the effort of texting Michael with the sole  intention of revenge makes me realize there's a whole level of bastard  in him that I didn't know existed.

Having a moment of space from him should give me a moment to catch my breath. But I can't seem to breathe.

Gathering my courage, I lift my chin and look at my former best friend.  It's only the second time Michael and I have been alone together since  that horrible day when Ethan walked into Michael's bedroom and saw me  making out with his best friend.

Yeah. Forget pinning a scarlet A on my shirt. I deserve a tattoo. On my face.

Paul has no idea just how much he went for the jugular by forcing me to face Michael again.

But still . . . Michael came. He came all the way from New York to Maine  for me, when I've been ignoring his texts for weeks. I have to know  why, even though I think I already know.

"Why'd you come?" I ask. "I mean, I get that you thought it was me asking, but even then . . . it's a lot of effort."

His gaze is hot. Longing. "Because I care about you. And I need you to know how much."

My heart rips. "Don't. Don't do this."

"It's been a long time coming, Liv," Michael grinds out. "You never let  me explain." I see pain flash in his familiar brown eyes.

It's the same pain I felt when Ethan removed himself from my life  without so much as a backward glance. Michael and I fucked up. I mean,  we really, really fucked up, and there's absolutely no excuse for it.  But Ethan never gave us the chance to explain. We can't make it right,  ever, but we didn't even have the chance to tell someone we loved that  we were sorry.         

     



 

I finally got that chance at the end of the summer, only because I  crashed Ethan's parents' beach party in the Hamptons. Now I realize I  need that closure with Michael too. Just as he needs it with me.

"After everything that happened, I can't let you think that you were  just part of some pissing match between me and Ethan." He moves toward  me again, and this time I let him take my hands.

"Ethan was your best friend. Your best friend."

Michael's chin dips a little. "I know. It was a dick move."

I snort. "What we did is so far beyond a dick move, I don't even know that there are words for it."

The room falls silent.

"I know," Michael says finally.

"Then why? I mean, I know I'm not blameless, but you initiated. I'm not mad, I just . . . why, Michael?"

And even though I ask, even though I know he needs to say it and I need  to hear it so I can help us both move on, I don't want him to say it.  Don't say it, I silently beg him. Please don't.

But Michael doesn't register my silent plea. As good a friend as he was  over the years, as close as we were, he never could read me. Not like  that.

"Because I loved you," Michael says, the simplicity of the statement almost breaking me. "I still love you."

I close my eyes. "For how long? When did it start?"

Michael shrugs. "Always."

Jesus.

His hands tighten on mine. "Liv. I have to know. Do you . . . can you . . . do you love me, Liv? Do you love me?"

Oh God.

I want to lie. I want to spare my best friend the searing hurt that the  truth will unleash. But I can't. I owe it to him-and to myself too-to be  honest.

"No," I say softly. "I didn't. I don't. Not like that."

And then I wait for him to ask me. I wait for him to ask me why, if I  didn't return his feelings, I let him kiss me. Why I kissed him back.

I brace myself, but the question never comes. Maybe he can't bear to  hear it. And oddly enough, although I should be relieved at having  gotten a reprieve, I almost wish he would demand answers. Because I'm  finally ready to give them.

Michael's eyes turn on me, and though the hurt is still there, anger  mingles there too. I belatedly realize that there's something different  about Michael. It's like he's changing in front of my eyes. But no,  that's not quite right either . . . he was different from the moment I  saw him today. If Ethan was always the easygoing charmer, Michael was  like his edgier half-still charming, but his wit had a more acerbic edge  to it. Not unlike Paul, come to think about it.

But now? There's a darkness settling into his features. The edges are  sharper; the cynicism that he always used as humor now seems more  deep-rooted and mean.

I did that, I realize. All this time, I've been so busy trying to cope  with the pain I caused Ethan that it never even occurred to me that I  did some serious damage to Michael too. I had two best friends in the  world, and I managed to treat both of them like garbage: Ethan by  betraying him, Michael by walking away.

His jaw shifts slightly from left to right and back again, the way he  does when he's trying to control his rather formidable temper. He lets  go of my hands, jerks back, and gives a self-depreciating laugh. "To  think of the way I rushed up here like some knight in shining armor,  thinking you wanted me. Needed me."

I step toward him. Don't do this. I'm not worth it.

"I didn't know you were coming," I say hurriedly. "And yet . . . maybe I'm glad. Maybe this can be closure."

I reach out a hand to him again, my heart hurting, but he backs up again.

"I thought you needed time, Liv." Michael's voice is rough. "I've held  back, thinking you needed to forgive yourself, and me, for what we did.  But I thought . . . I really thought that when you let Ethan go, I'd be  the one you reach for."

I close my eyes. Can this get any worse?

"But it was never going to be me, was it?" he asks.

When I open my eyes, the tears spill out. "No," I say quietly.

Michael seems to harden before my very eyes. He swallows once, twice.  And then with a jerk of his chin, as if that's the only goodbye he can  manage, he opens the door and walks out. Just like that, he's gone.

I press my hand to my mouth. I can't shake the feeling that I'll never see my best friend again.

And it's all Paul Langdon's fault.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Paul


Of all the shitty things I've done in my life, and there are a few, this is the shittiest.

I don't know what I was thinking would happen. That we'd all sit down  around the dining table and I'd amuse myself at the little melodrama  going on around me? That Olivia would all of a sudden open up, tell me  all of her secrets, and explain what exactly it is that drove her to  Maine to be my babysitter?         

     



 

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about giving Liv her privacy  after texting Michael, but I'm an ass. So I eavesdropped. I listened in  on the whole damn thing.

Olivia cheated on Golden Boy with Michael. And then I forced them into  the same room together. I thought I was an ass, but that doesn't even  begin to describe what I am. By the time I realized just how major an  apology was due, Michael was nowhere to be seen, and Olivia had locked  herself in her room.

She's been in there for two hours. I know because I've been sitting on  the other side of the door for all 120 minutes of that time. For every  single one of those minutes, she's been crying. And not delicate, girly  sniffles. We're talking big, heart-wrenching sobs.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the door. The coward in me  wants to skulk off to my room, call my dad, and tell him to get Olivia  the hell away from me, where I can't do any more damage to her.

But I'm done being a coward. I need to face her myself.

Slowly, deliberately, I climb to my feet. I lift a hand and knock gently  with one knuckle, but the crying doesn't so much as break. I knock  harder. This time there's a pause. A little hiccup. But the door doesn't  open.

"Olivia." My voice is hoarse. "Can I come in?"

I'm prepared for all of the possible responses she could toss at me.  Silence. Fuck off. I hate you. Go away. But I'm not really prepared for  her to open the door. And I'm certainly not prepared for the pressure in  my chest when I see her.