I bark out a laugh as I watch him scoot as far away from me as he can. Shrinking into himself. It’s almost kind of...cute, in a smelly, greasy, grumpy sort of way.

Ha. Way.

Chuckling, I say, “You do fucking reek, man.”

He screws up his face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I tell him simply. Ducking down to meet his gaze, I arch a brow. “Thank you. I think I needed that too.”

His face flushes, but he doesn’t break my gaze as he nods.

“I’m glad it wasn’t because he was gay,” he says suddenly.

I rear back.

He cringes. “You know what I mean. I just—I’m glad he was loved.”

My mouth purses, throat aching, and I nod. “Me too.”

I barely hear myself say the words as my brain travels back to everything I learned this morning. Everything Waylon said last night, and the night of the storm. What he did to me when we were kids. All the little pieces slowly but surely sliding toward the middle, fitting together to create one final, telling picture.

He hasn’t come right out and said it—and at this point, I don’t expect him to. Not anymore—but it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

Somehow, his dad learned about what happened between us on Waylon’s eleventh birthday. It’s the only reasonable explanation. If I had my doubts before, I don’t anymore.

Waylon might have been the one to stab me in the heart all those years ago, but it was his sorry excuse for a father who guided the knife.

The question remains, though: how did he find out?

I mean, sure, I could ask Waylon. If ever there was a time to get some answers, once and for all, it would be now. But would it change anything? Or would it just reopen old wounds for the sake of my curiosity?

No. If Waylon wants to share his side of what happened back then, then it has to be on his terms. Because at the end of the day, his healing is his and his alone, and only he can decide when he’s ready to face old ghosts. I said my piece. I did what I set out to do, despite what I led myself to believe when I came back to Shiloh: I got my closure.

The rest is up to him now.

I lick my lips. “You’re not a project to me.”

He stills at the sudden turn in conversation.

“I’m just scared, Way.”

A frown burrows deep between his eyes as he searches my face.