“I was deeply, truly sorry then, and I’m sorry now,” he says, and I can see it written like a confession in his eyes, their darkness as lucid as a cloudless night, clear enough for you to map out every constellation. “I know I won’t ever be able to make it up to you, no matter what I do, but I needed to tell you. I needed you to understand how I felt. How I feel.”

“But what about the wedding?” I demand. “You didn’t apologize then. You weren’t even being nice to me when you saw me there.”

He huffs out a self-mocking laugh. “Do you know how nervous I was that day? It was all I could do to look you in the eye, Leah. I was so scared—scared you’d simply take one glance at me and leave before I had the chance to talk to you. Scared that if I came across as too nice all of a sudden, you’d assume I had some kind of evil plan or that I was playing another prank. I mean, at that point, we hadn’t seen each other in two whole years. Imagine if I confessed to you then what I’m confessing to you now. You wouldn’t have believed me for a second and I’d have ruined any hopes of ever being your friend or—or something more.”

I’m stunned. He knows me in ways I wouldn’t have thought anyone ever could, or would ever even bother to. It’s like he’s reached into my brain and peered at the mess there and gently untangled everything.

He knows me so well. And I don’t know him nearly as well as I thought.

“I—” There are too many emotions crashing through my chest. I nearly expect my rib cage to crack open from the force of them: anger and relief and disbelief and giddy joy and, finally, a snap back to anger. “Seriously, Cyrus. What the actual hell? How could you— I don’t even— Why would you tell me and then—just—” I twist around on my heel, breathing hard, and march away from him down the alley before I can do something stupid. Like throttle him. Or kiss him.

Within seconds, I hear his footsteps chasing after me, echoing over the cobbled stones. “Leah. Wait—”

I don’t plan to, but my feet resist all executive orders and slow down on their own, letting him catch up to me. I fold my arms across my chest and make the mistake of lifting my head to meet his achingly earnest gaze.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks, his brows drawing together.

“No,” I snap. “Not at all.”

“You very clearly are,” he says.

“I’m not. There’s nothing to be mad about.”

“Leah—”