Page 90 of Dirty Hit
“I thought you were at your cousin’s or something,” I say, brain dredging up the last piece of information I heard about her from my mother, who still talks about Hannah like she’s a tragic heroine and not the reason I stopped trusting my own judgment for a year straight.
“I’m back,” she says. “Look, can we talk?”
I exhale slowly, the air puffing white in front of me. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” She steps closer, blocking the space between me and the driver’s door. “You’ve been dodging me for months, Brendon. You won’t answer my texts, you won’t pick up whenI call, you won’t even look at me in the hallway. I deserve five minutes.”
What she deserves is a restraining order, but I know that’s not what she means.
“You got more than five minutes when you were sneaking around behind my back,” I say before I can check myself, the words sharper than my usual polite deflection.
Her eyes flash. “So we’re going to do this here,” she says. “In a parking lot. Great.”
“You cornered me in a parking lot,” I remind her. “I didn’t invite you here.”
“Well, you didn’t leave me many options,” she snaps. “You told me it was over, and then you just… shut down. You never let me explain.” She takes another step toward me, anger crumbling at the edges. “You owe me a conversation.”
The familiar weight of guilt tries to settle on my shoulders, and I shrug it off harder than I would’ve five months ago. Dominic has been drilling this into me without even meaning to:“You don’t owe anyone access to you just because they demand it. You don’t owe anyone your time, your energy, or your body just because they’re used to taking it—not even me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I say quietly. “You cheated, Hannah. I walked in and saw you with him. That’s the explanation and the whole conversation.”
She flinches, then rallies. “You don’t know what was going on,” she says. “You never even asked.”
“I know enough,” I say. “I know it wasn’t me in your bed.”
“That’s not fair,” she says, voice rising. “You were pulling away. You were so wrapped up in your classes, your TA stuff, your parents, your church, and whatever else that you barely touched me. You wouldn’t even consider moving in together after graduation. You kept saying‘let’s pray about it,’and then nothing changed. I felt like I was dating a ghost.”
“If you were unhappy, you could’ve broken up with me. You didn’t need to find someone else while you still had the first one.”
She throws her hands up. “You’re acting like some pure martyr when you know you weren’t perfect either,” she says. “You’re so stubborn, Brendon. So rigid. You say yes to everything and everyone except yourself, and then when someone doesn’t fit into your neat little moral box, you act like they’re the Devil.”
The irony almost makes me laugh. If she knew who actually held that title in my life now, she’d need a Xanax.
“This isn’t about my moral box. This is about you breaking trust and then playing victim when I set a boundary.”
Her eyes well up, which used to be my cue to cave. There is a part of me that still reacts to tears like a fire alarm, but it’s duller now—muted by the memory of Dominic slamming his hand against the wall and telling me in that low, controlled voice that no means no, even when it’s whispered.
“I made a mistake,” she says, voice wobbling. “People make mistakes. We could’ve worked through it if you hadn’t just… shut off. Your father says—”
“My father isn’t here,” I cut in, more rudely than I’ve ever interrupted anyone in my life. “And you don’t get to use him on me. You don’t get to quote my parents or anyone else to guilt me into giving you what you want.”
She blinks, thrown. “Wow,” she says again, softer this time. “You really have changed.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I have.”
“Is there someone else?” she asks suddenly. “Is that it? Did you meet someone, and that’s why you won’t even try to fix things with me?”
Every muscle in my body goes stiff. Her gaze drops to my wrist, to the leather cuff peeking out under my jacket. I tuck my hand into my pocket before she can comment on it, butthe movement is probably enough of an answer. Her expression shifts from hurt to suspicion to bitterness.
“Who is she?” she demands. “Some good church girl who fits your parents’ checklist better than I did? Some pre-law princess who thinks she’s going to be Mrs. Lane and redeem your precious reputation?”
The urge to laugh hits me again and I choke it back, because there is nothing funny about this, not really.
“There’s no ‘she,’” I say. “There’s just someone who doesn’t cheat and doesn’t use my faith against me when they want something.”
“Then prove it,” she says, stepping closer until I can smell her perfume—light and floral, so different from the cologne that clings to my clothes now. “Talk to me. Five minutes. Tell me to my face that you really don’t feel anything when you see me, that you’re not even a little tempted, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll tell your parents you’re over it, that I’m the crazy one, whatever you want. Just stop freezing me out like I’m nothing.”
The thing is: Idon’tfeel anything. Not the way she wants me to. I feel history, sure. I remember movie dates and study sessions and her folding her hands in church the way I did, both of us singing the same songs without thinking. I remember the way she used to look at me like I was safe, solid, and predictable.
