“A lie.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that? Leave a voice mail, or text the truth?”

“Well, one because I thought being adults we’d talk face-to-face. Everything we’ve done together required a great deal of trust, Sara. I gathered I deserved the benefit of the doubt. But also”—he ran his hand through his hair, cursing—“it would mean admitting that I’d told Will about how you let me photograph you. It would mean admitting I’d betrayed our secret. It would mean revealing that he’d sent me a private picture of a woman who had presumably trusted him. I’ve had my lawyers handle the containment issue, but honestly, it made us both look like pricks.”

“Not as much as seeing her in the paper did.”

“Do you not see it’s exactly the story they wanted? The story of me and all my many women? They found hundreds of photos of me and you and yet they just post one? There is one image of another woman, and bam—it fits their gossip narrative. I told you I wasn’t with anyone else; why wasn’t that enough?”

“Because I’m used to men who say one thing and do another.”

“But you expected me to be better than that,” he said, eyes searching mine. “Otherwise why admit you love me? Why give me a night like that?”

“I guess when the photos came out . . . I didn’t think that night meant as much to you.”

“That’s absolute shite. You were there, too. You’re looking at the photos now. You know exactly how much it meant to me.”

I reached for him but reconsidered. He looked really pissed, and my frustration with myself and him and all of it just exploded. I still remembered the stab I felt in my chest when I saw the picture of the other woman.

“What was I supposed to think? It just seemed reasonable that you’d played me. Everything between us always seemed so easy for you.”

“It was easy. Falling absolutely in love with you was really fucking easy. Isn’t it supposed to be that way? Just because I haven’t been brokenhearted in recent years doesn’t mean I’m incapable of it. Fuck, Sara. I’ve been wrecked for the past two weeks. Positively smashed.”

I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling like I needed to physically hold myself together. “Me, too.”

He sighed, stared down at his shoes, and didn’t say anything else. In my chest, my heart twisted tightly.

“I want to be with you,” I said.

He nodded once, but didn’t look back up, didn’t even say a word.

I stepped closer, stretched to kiss his cheek, and only made it to his jaw because he wouldn’t bend to meet me.

“Max, I miss you,” I told him. “I know I jumped to conclusions. I just . . . I thought . . .” I stopped, hating how still he remained.

Without looking back, I walked out of his dressing room, through his bedroom, and back to the party.