“What will you do if he shows up?” I’m not entitled to this jealousy—this anger. But I wield it anyway. “You said your heart’s not broken, but Shayleigh, if you could see what I see when you look at him—”

“I’m not heartbroken over him, Easton.” She swallows and her eyes brim with tears. “I’m heartbroken over what he made me by hiding his marriage. I haven’t even told his wife yet.” She presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “I’m trying to cope with the fact that I pushed away the man I . . .” She swallows. “I didn’t talk to you for years because I didn’t want to be the reason your daughter lost her father, but now I may very well be the reason this other little girl loses hers, and I didn’t even love him.”

She’s killing me. “Shay—”

“I can’t talk about it anymore tonight.”

I want to hold her, but every time I process her words, I hear the truth. I’m the root cause of this pain. “I pushed away the man I loved.” She loved me. She didn’t say the word, but I heard it anyway. Part of me has always known it, even if she never said it. Now it’s just a matter of finding out if I can earn that love again.

Easton

Scarlett picked up Abi and took her to Chicago for Easter weekend. They got a suite at the Four Seasons and are shopping and going to the aquarium. That leaves me to spend the weekend alone in Jackson Harbor until Abi comes home Sunday morning—though I’m not interested in spending it alone at all.

As I climb the stairs to Shay’s apartment, I feel like a teenage boy about to go on his first date. I grabbed pizza again, but I’m hoping this time I won’t have to give it to the neighbor. When I texted earlier, Shay said she’d be home and didn’t argue when I said I was going to swing by. Since I’m focusing on the little victories with her, that felt like a prize.

I shift the pizza box and knock with my free hand. Shay opens the door to her apartment wearing flannel sleep pants and a tank top with a picture of Shakespeare that says, “OMG. I literary can’t even.” Her hair’s piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and her makeup’s been washed away. She looks younger like this. More vulnerable. And I hate myself for every time I’ve hurt her.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

She looks down as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing. “Thanks. Lilly gave it to me for Christmas.” She leans on the doorjamb and arches a brow. “What did you need?”