He ran a finger along the delicate gold chain, taking on an almost pedantic tone. “My dad is gone, my mother is sick, and I am their only son. Do you know what that means?”

He continued in a slightly softer voice: “She fled a revolution, then spent her life giving herself arthritis doing hair ten hours a day so I could go to the best schools. I’m not going to let her spend her last years in some disgusting care center where they abuse the residents, okay?” He looked at Alex as if he expected an answer, but she only nodded, mesmerized by his unexpected honesty. “My mother lives in a palace in Westwood with a full staff, and I visit her every single month.”

“That’s”—she inhaled—“very lovely of you.”

He looked at her with great consideration, judging how much moral high ground to claim, as they so often did with each other. “And I know your dad is sick, too, by the way.”

“He has a back injury,” she clarified, tentatively.

“And your mom is still pulling double shifts running a daycare out of your house, right?”

“What does that mean?”

He stepped toward her again, looking her squarely in the eyes. “It means that you get to choose the career you love, and that makes you feel like a good person. Because you don’t support them.”

“Wait.” Her voice had dropped in an involuntary anger. “So I’m the bad guy because I’m not paying for my parents to live in a palace?”

“You’re not the bad guy. You’re just a different guy, making different choices, and I’m sick of you treating me like a monster because mine are what they are.”

“I don’t treat you like a monster.”

A burst of derisive laughter erupted from his chest. “Oh, yes, you do. You tell yourself that I’m a monster because it makes you feel better about punishing me.”

“I—”

“And you’re punishing me because of what happened that night.”

Her entire body recoiled at the mere mention of it, desperate to pivot to something that would destroy her less to acknowledge.

“What night?” she feigned, rather unconvincingly.

“You know exactly what night.” His eyes bore into hers, full of anger and regret. “Because I do, too. And I have spent the last ten years of my life beating myself up for it, but I’m done! I don’t owe you anything, including letting you humiliate me with that fucking video.”

She felt glued in place by her conflicting instincts: to run from the room and to run into his arms, begging for forgiveness. But that same cowardice gnawed at her, telling her denial was her only escape hatch if she were going to avoid any more reckless vulnerability.

“I barely had anything to do with that video,” she weaseled, grateful she hadn’t appeared on camera for it.