“Did he tell you that?”

“He said I was better off without him.”

“Do you think you are?”

I don’t hesitate before answering. “No.”

“Maybe you should tell him that.”

The rest of the drive home is silent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HOLDEN

Grace gapes at me, shocked. My hand throbs like a motherfucker, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish splintering in my chest. I storm past a shocked Finn and out onto the back deck. No one else is out here—it’s freezing.

The cold feels good. Numbing.

I take a seat on the picnic table, trying to focus on the physical pain and nothing else. I don’t realize I’m bleeding until some blood drips onto the wood beneath me. I yank down the t-shirt I’m wearing beneath my sweatshirt and wrap my split knuckle in the white fabric. It’s immediately stained red.

My breaths come in ragged gasps, pain and fury roiling my insides. My eyes screw tightly shut, trying to force away the images my brain conjures easily. Harrison kissing her. Touching her. Fucking her. I’m tempted to punch another cabinet.

As angry as I am with Cassia, I’m even more furious with myself. I did this.

I pushed her away when she was only trying to help.

I made her hate me, when it was a miracle she cared in the first place.

And I knew there would be consequences. I didn’t think they’d be her coming downstairs with some guy, hair tousled and lips swollen. Didn’t know that sight would feel like a hot knife to my chest. I’ve fooled around with plenty of girls. I’ve seen most of them with other guys, and it never bothered me at all.

I should have known she’d be different. I did know, which is part of why I did it.

Masochism and self-sabotage are two of the things I’m best at. I knew she’d move on eventually; knew we were headed on two very different paths. If it wasn’t Harrison, it would have been someone else.

I thought a clean break sooner rather than later would be better. Would hurt less.

Except, I can’t imagine anything hurting more than this.

The screen door squeaks open. Mark steps out.

I look away, not wanting to see anyone. Definitely not wanting to talk. “Here.” He holds a bag of ice in front of me.

“I’m cold enough, thanks.”

He drops it in my lap. “For your hand, dipshit. We’ve still got a championship to win, remember?”

I can’t summon anything in me to care about basketball right now. But I grunt a “thanks” as I drop the cold bag on my split knuckles.

“You love her, huh?”

I clench my jaw so tightly I hear a crack.

Mark sighs. “Baker said he didn’t screw her.”

“He’s worried I’ll come after him.”