Page 159 of Hate You More

He says nothing for a moment. “Did she say something to you about it?”

“No, nothing like that. She was perfectly nice. It just would’ve been nice to have known there was a reason she doesn’t like me.”

“Clara, that’s not true.”

My smile feels polite. Or fake. “She doesn’t, and that’s okay,” I add quickly. “She just needs time to get to know me better.”

Troy’s expression turns puzzled before I realize what I’ve just said. The future we don’t have. I’m not going to be around for her to get to know me, am I?

“This was really tasty,” I say as I grab for a walnut left in the salad tray. I pop it into my mouth and pray my expression isn’t transparent. “Thanks for lunch.” Now, smile again. Make it look like a real one.

Troy’s chest expands as though he’s reluctant to speak. “She doesn’t know. About before. Not really. But I guess she pieced some of it together after I got drunk one night. After.” After us. After I ruined everything. “I was being an asshole, and she was worried that I was about to press the self-destruct button. No, not like that,” he adds wryly, taking in my sudden wide-eyed shock. Maybe the way I clutch my napkin. “I was gonna leave. Leave college. It felt like there was too much going on.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as my heart sinks. My chest aches, probably from the weight of the guilt I feel.

“It all turned out okay.” His attention flicks around his office space as though to say behold Troy’s current circumstances—life is sweet!

“No thanks to me.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now.” But how can it not matter when the past is the reason we have no future together?

“Hannah said you’re under a lot of stress.” I feel like she wouldn’t have mentioned it if not to see if I could help. I mean, being bent over the desk seems to have relaxed him some, but I want to offer him more than physical comfort. If I can’t have my true heart’s desire, then maybe I can be a good friend too.

“It’s all good,” he says, brushing off my concern. “Pressure comes with the job.”

“Well, if it gets too much, I know a sweet little catering company that’s always looking for gigging servers.”

He gives a small smile. “I’ll bear that in mind. How did you come to be working for them, anyway?”

“Because money. And pesky stuff like rent and food.”

“No, I mean, why’d your dad cut you off? Apart from the fact he’s a colossal fuckhead.”

A laugh trips out of me like a motorbike, low, rattling, and throaty.

“You disagree?”

“That is about as far from Edwin Forbes’s vernacular as you could possibly get, yet it’s the best way I’ve ever heard anyone describe him.”

He inclines his torso over his hand like he’s taking a bow. I laugh again, until I realize he’s waiting for my answer.

While I wonder why he’s asking this now, I also know I couldn’t have told him before. He wouldn’t have been able to reconcile the Clara that denied him all those years ago with someone who might do the right thing. Who knows, maybe he might still question it. Humans are complex creatures, and forgiveness isn’t a linear journey. But as he reaches for my hand, I think it might be time.

“I . . .” I glance at our linked fingers, feeling both happy and sad at the sight. But the buildup to this explanation already feels eons long, so I don’t make him wait. “I wouldn’t lie during a deposition for him.”

“Fuck.” The expletive is low and harsh.

“Indeed,” I say on a wobbling breath.

“Why did he need you to lie for him? I mean, what’d he do?”

“It wasn’t for him.” I give a tiny shrug because the point feels academic. “He wanted me to lie on behalf of an old family friend. You met him once. Drummond East?” But maybe he won’t remember.

“Uncle Drum,” he says without inflection. I guess he would remember that night as well as I do. “The man with the name like a musical instrument. I barely spoke with him, but I remember thinking I didn’t like him a whole lot.”

“You’re a better judge of character than me.”

His expression hardens. “What’d he do?”