Kincaid looked at her friend, at the questioning brown eyes, and the truth came to her with harsh clarity. “No. I wouldn’t have. I already had a crush on someone else.”

Taryn gave her a sad smile. “And Ash gave that guy to you. Complete with a stack of love letters to seal the deal.”

Kincaid put a hand over her face, the reality of it all crashing over her. Ash had known who she wanted, and he’d made it happen for her, even when it meant he got left out in the process. She groaned aloud. “Fuuuuuuuck.”

Taryn made a sympathetic sound and sank back next to her, still holding her hand. “Welcome to your fairy tale, Kincaid Breslin. I think you were missing a few pages of the book.”

Kincaid shook her head, feelings warring inside her. “He lied to me, Taryn. He lied to me about the shooting.”

She put her head on Kincaid’s shoulder. “Yes. In one way, that was really shitty. In another, he was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” she said with a scoff. “He was trying to protect himself.”

“I don’t know. He gave you and the Lowells the story y’all wanted to hear. It’s easier to process the grief when the person is labeled a hero. It gives a death some kind of meaning.” She was quiet for a second. “Believe me, I know. I’ve given my sister all kinds of hero labels. I don’t know what she did during the shooting, but I want to believe she helped others, protected them.”

Kincaid squeezed Taryn’s hand.

“Don’t you think it’s better that the Lowells think their son saved you and Ash instead of knowing that he punched Ash right before and that he was arguing with you? What good would the truth do for them?” she asked. “It’d only make the pain that much worse.”

Kincaid’s chest was burning. Her head hurt. A lie was a lie. There was no excuse for that, right?

Gah. She didn’t know anymore. Everything black and white had merged into a murky gray.

“I don’t know what to do with all this,” she admitted.

Taryn lifted her head and turned toward Kincaid. She set the letter in Kincaid’s lap. “Do you love him?”

Kincaid stared at her friend, a bone-deep exhaustion settling in like a flu. “I feel like my guts have been ripped out.”

Taryn smirked. “Hello, love. There you are.”

“But it’s so much more complicated than do I love him,” she said, frustration building again. “Even if I forgive him. I live here. He’s a traveling writer. He hates this town. His parents live here, and they’re awful. Whether we love each other or not, whether he still feels the same about me, I would never make him live here. And I’m not leaving.”

Taryn picked up one of the letters. “‘Dear Kincaid, You were sad today, and it physically hurts me to see you upset. I wish I could hold you and tell you that everything’s going to be okay, that you’re amazing and that you’re loved. I wish I had the power to show you what I feel inside when I see you. You would never doubt yourself again. You shine light into all the shadows. You are my light on the tough days. I would do anything to see you smile because when you smile, all feels right in my world.’”