“Did he tell you he loves you?” Her tone implies she already knows he didn’t.

I adore you. Every. Damn. Inch.

“We haven’t said those words yet . . .”

“And he never will.” She walks toward me, that damn pity all over her damn face. “Because he is playing you for a fool. I know you don’t believe me, but he did watch you all those years ago. Saint would have loved to get into your pants, if only to have the experience of catching you.”

“Why are you like this?” I rasp. “Why are you so hateful to anything good that comes into my life? This goes beyond jealousy. It’s cruel.”

Sam halts. “I’m trying to help you.”

“This isn’t help. This is an attempt to tear into my insecurities.”

“Dee,” she intones as if I’m a child. “If you have those fears, you have to ask yourself why.”

“I’m not listening to this anymore.”

Sam snags my wrist, and her tears are back. “He used me. For years he used me because he was bored. He’ll use you, too, because you’re safe and familiar.”

She knows me so well. Knows all the soft spots and ways to place a direct hit. She always has. I want to laugh until I howl. Bile fills my mouth. I swallow it back down, and it burns.

Sam stands there, smug but trying her best to look sad. “Think what you want. But ask yourself if you’re really willing to risk our relationship on someone as emotionally empty as Macon Saint. The boy who made your life a misery.”

When I don’t answer, Sam shrugs and turns to grab a glass from the cabinet as if she hasn’t just tried to cut my legs out from under me. While she hums and pours herself a glass of white wine from the fridge, I think about Macon. Every word he said. Every word I said. The way he touched me. The tenderness and need in his eyes when he looked at me. The way he laughed with me, held my hand, told me about his pain. The letters he wrote.

He lied. Sam lied. I lied.

Everyone lies sometimes.

Sam keeps humming. A stupid tune.

I gather my keys in hand. “Samantha?”

She raises an expectant brow.

“I love you very much.”

“I love you too, Dee. I’m glad we got that settled—”

“I love you,” I cut in. “But you’ve been a crap sister. Call me when you decide to grow the fuck up.”

I leave her and her ranting protests behind.

Macon

She’s gone. I pushed her away, and she left. I tell myself she’ll come back eventually. It’s not as though I’m just going to let her go without any further discussion. I’m not giving up. But I can’t control the outcome of everything. Which means I could lose her.