“El,” I urge, reaching across the table. “We’re all friends. Fucked-up friends, but friends. Come on.”
He rests his palm atop mine, but doesn’t do the whole almost break my fingers thing Jase did. He is more reserved, and I see the way he holds back. The way his body language and the distance in his eyes says this isn’t my girl anymore.
I take a deep breath as I study the two people in this world who are my absolution.
“Thank you,” I say, squeezing each of their hands, tears welling in my eyes.
“Thank you for getting me out of there. For risking your lives. And…”
Even now, I find it so hard to admit fault. I am so stubborn. Just like my dad was.
“I am sorry,” I whisper, with every ounce of emotion that lives inside me. The overwhelming gratitude. The crushing sorrow. I bundle it up into those three words, I am sorry, and hope they believe me.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Jase murmurs, staring at my hand, the one he’s holding. Elliot swallows thickly, his eyes glassy. These men have done everything in their quest to save me, and I can never repay them for that.
“I do,” I murmur, tilting my head back and blinking so the tears don’t fall. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. I was selfish, and I used you both, and I’m sorry.”
They don’t speak. Elliot fixes me with his sorrowful stare, waiting for me to continue.
“I don’t like the person I’ve become,” I press on, the truth stinging me. “The things I’ve done. If I met me right now, I would hate me.”
Jase shakes his head, running his free hand through his short hair. “Nobody hates you, Julz.”
Except Dornan.
“My father would be so disgusted by me,” I whisper, tears dripping down my face, my voice remaining strong by some miracle. “He would hate me.”
Elliot looks frozen, like he can’t form words. Jase drops my hand and sits back in his chair, lacing both hands behind his head. He looks like he’s aged five years in three months.
My fault. My fucking fault.
Elliot uses this time to drop my hand, too. He gives it a gentle pat, before standing and walking over to the window. He parts the curtain slightly, looking outside, close enough to still be a part of this discussion.
“Your father would be proud of you,” Jase says finally. “Horrified, but proud. He raised you to be a fighter, Juliette. He’d be fucking proud.”
A flash of the past bites at the back of my mind, of the first time I walked into Dornan’s office after six years dead and let him put his hands on me, welcomed it, and even got off on it in some perverse way. I shudder, wondering how I ever thought it would end up anywhere other than here.
Dornan was always going to find out. I think I knew that, deep down, but I pushed it aside, assigned that horror to future Juliette, because present Juliette just wanted to drown her pain and her grief in a dirty little cycle of fucking and killing.
“I could’ve just bombed that fucking clubhouse and let them all burn to death inside,” I say, my words thick with grief and realization. This is the first time I’ve ever acknowledged this out loud. And it hurts. I am a bad person.
“I could’ve paid a dude with a sniper rifle to take each one of them out, end it all in a day. I could’ve figured out a way to frame them for something, get them arrested and thrown in jail.”
Elliot’s expression says devastated, Jase’s says numb.
“But I didn’t,” I finish, the truth like a stab to my gut. “Because that would be too kind. That would be too unsatisfying. You understand? I had to do it like this because I needed to watch them die. I needed to know that they knew who I was, and feel the same fear I felt when they thought I was dying at their hands.”
I am a bad, bad person, as bad as they come. Because this is my truth.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jase says suddenly, but I press on. I have to finish.
“I’m so sorry I risked both of your lives for my fucked-up vendetta.” I am so fucking sorry. “Elliot, I’m so sorry you gave everything up for me. Your life, your career, and now your safety. I’m sorry you had to hide your family away because of my selfish crusade. I’m sorry you had to build a new life after you gave your old one up for me, and I’m sorry you lost that one, too.”
He doesn’t respond. His face is drawn, his cheeks pink, as if, for the first time, he’s realizing how much that decision to save the dying girl six years ago has actually cost him. But he doesn’t look angry. He just looks really, really tired.
“Jase, I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m so sorry I felt like I couldn’t tell you who I was. Because I should have known you weren’t like them, but after six years, I couldn’t understand how you were still there with them. I should have looked harder.”