Chapter Thirty-Six

"I can explain," Daphne said, then winced at how cliché that sounded. "I mean, it's not what—"

"Holy shit," he said. "Holy shit."

Any slight hope Daphne had clung to that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, maybe he'd be happy even, died with the way he said those two words.

"Chris—"

"What is this?" he asked. "Like what is even going on?"

She could do this. This was what she'd wanted—a chance to lay it all out for him, to plead her case. She knew it looked bad, but if he only heard her out, she was positive she could make him see that none of it had been intentional, that she hadn't meant for it to go this far.

"It started with that DM, right? I was trying to say I was sorry for heckling you. Only I accidentally left out the part where I actually said I was the heckler, and then you replied, which I hadn't expected, and we started talking and—"

"I don't give a fuck about that part," he said. "I know what happened with that part. But then you met me—as Daphne—knowing full well that you were also Duckie. We've been talking for months, we've been—" He broke off, taking a hard swallow. "And the whole time, you knew."

Behind them, someone honked, and Chris startled like he'd forgotten where they were. Daphne had forgotten where they were—already the Little League park and the kids and the Popsicles seemed so far away. He bit out a curse under his breath as he eased the car into traffic, heading back in the direction of his condo. She didn't know what she'd thought—she certainly hadn't expected he'd leave her on the side of the road right there—but she tried to take it as an encouraging sign that he was heading back to his place.

Then again, the brief pause didn't seem to do anything to make things better. If anything, when he spoke again, his words came out harder and colder than before.

"From the very start, you've known all of it—about my brother, about what I was going through. You sat across from me to ask softball questions about that one stupid incident, and the whole time you knew exactly why you'd made me cry."

He'd never phrased it that way, she realized. She had, in her guilt over it all, but he'd always brushed away any of her attempts to apologize for it, or made a sideways reference or joke without outright calling it what it was. She hadn't known if it was because he didn't see the incident that way, or because he just didn't want to make her feel bad about it. She supposed now she had her answer.

"That interview was the first time I met you. I thought about saying something, but I couldn't—I had a job to do, you had a job to do, it would've been—"

"Is that what it was about? The job?"

"No."God, she was fucking this all up. "I didn't even know about the sideline reporter gig then. And when Layla told me, I didn't even know if I wanted it. I was nervous about working that closely with you. But I think that's also why I did want it, why I ended up taking it."

His mouth twisted in a poor imitation of a smile. "You took the job to be closer to me. And just didn't tell me that's what you were doing."

Okay, yes, when he put it like that she could see how it sounded absolutely deranged. "Subconsciously, you were definitely a big reason why I took the job. But at the time, I wasn't thinking of it that way. I tried to keep my distance. I thought I could cut off the chat as Duckie, and you'd never have to know. I thought I could just ask you a few questions after a game, keep it professional, and it wouldn't have to affect anything."

Ahead, the light changed and Chris slammed on the brakes to stop at the intersection. His knuckles on the steering wheel were white from how tightly he was holding it. "You must think I'm a real idiot."

"No, I—"

"Of course you couldn't use those tickets for the game," he said. "You were at the game. Of course you couldn't give me your number. I already had your number. And you know the worst fucking thing? This whole time, I've felt bad. I've felt terrible. I felt somehow disloyal to Duckie—which, Jesus, what a joke—and then anytime I thought about Duckie I felt disloyal to you."

He gave a harsh laugh that shredded something inside her. "Duckie," he said. "Daphne. Daffy Duck. Come on, admit it. That had to make you laugh that I couldn't figure that one out."

"No," she said. "It wasn't a joke. Please, if you believe nothing else—"

"How can I believe anything you say? You've been lying to me this whole time."

They'd reached his building, and he pulled the car into his space, shutting it off but still just sitting there, like he couldn't bring himself to move yet. "That first night, when I told you in the hotel bar that there was someone else. You already knew about that—you were the someone else."

"I know," she said. She wasn't going to try to minimize or hide behind most of her lies being ones of omission. It was just as bad, and she knew that. "You have every right to be angry. If I were you, I would be. All—"

"But it wouldn't be you," he said. "Because I would've never done this to you."

He got out of the car then, shutting the door behind him. Daphne had to fumble with her seat belt several times to get it to unbuckle, and by the time she followed him, he was already halfway to the elevator. She had so much she wanted to say, but her throat was closed up. They rode all the way to his floor in tense silence, Chris with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall of the elevator like he physically wanted to be as far from her as possible.

"Chris," she said once they were in his condo. He still hadn't turned to look at her, taking the time to put his wallet and keys on the dresser in the bedroom like it required his full attention. "Please, listen to me. I know I fucked up. I know I let this get out of control. I did lie to you, and I am so, so sorry—you have no idea how sorry. But I swear to you, none of the important parts were lies. The things I said, the way I feel, those have all been true."

"The important parts." He snorted, like he found something about that funny, but his expression when he finally turned to face her had no trace of humor in it. "Do you know how shitty it felt, to have Duckie just disappear on me like that? How many times I read back through our conversations, trying to see where I'd gone wrong, if there was something I could've said or done differently to make her want to meet up, to share more of herself?"

Daphne didn't know what to say. Of course she'd thought about how Chris might be affected by the way she ended their text relationship. But she'd also thought…well, it sounded so stupid now. She'd thought it couldn't have mattered that much to him, that he'd move past it pretty quickly. It would be a minor disappointment, a blip, but it wasn't like they'd ever called what they were doing a relationship, and he hadn't even known her real name. How serious could it be?

But of course it had been serious. It had been serious for her—enough that she'd wanted to end things via text to give herself a chance to be with him in real life. She could see that now. And it had been foolish and cruel for her to not see how serious it had been for him. He'd told her. She just hadn't believed him.

"Except one night when we shared quite a lot of ourselves," Chris said. "Do you remember?"

He had to know she did. The question had to be a way to twist the knife just a bit more, although his tone had been almost crushingly matter-of-fact. He was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, like he didn't know if he wanted to be in there or out in the main living area with her. Behind him, she could see his bed, the covers still rumpled from the way they'd left them that morning. She stepped closer, wanting to go to him, but she felt repelled away like there was an actual force field around his body.

"And then do you know how shitty it felt, to have my—well, whatever we were to each other—not even want to give me her number? What do you think I made of that?"

Whatever we were. She'd known it was coming, but still the past tense gutted her more than anything else.

"I never meant for it to go this far," she said, her voice shaking. Her eyes were filling with tears, her vision going blurry, but she willed them not to fall. Not because she cared if he saw her cry, but because she knew she didn't deserve to be the one breaking down right now.

"How far was it supposed to go? You fucked with me, Daphne, and I'm already—" The words sounded wrenched from some deep place inside him, like they scraped against his throat on the way out, and he seemed to forcibly swallow the rest of them down. "Were you ever going to tell me? What was the plan? We keep fucking but I just never get to meet your cat?"

That made her flinch. "I wanted to tell you," she said. "I almost did so many times. But then Layla told me to wait until the season was over, that it would be a distraction you didn't need…"

She knew that was a mistake the minute the words left her mouth. For one, it wasn't exactly a mark in her favor to acknowledge what she'd planned. For another, she hadn't meant to get Layla involved, or throw her under the bus in any way. She was just trying to convey that she had thought about it, that she'd consulted with someone whose advice she valued especially when it came to how something might affect Chris as a player or a teammate.

"Wow," he said. "Well, thank you. For considering my mental health. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

Daphne had seen Chris stoic and reserved, she'd seen him upset, but she'd never seen him sarcastic like this before. And even though she knew she deserved it, that he wasn't even saying half the things he could say to her, the contempt in his voice still caught her raw.

"I wish you would consider your mental health," she said before she could think about it.

He paused. When he spoke, his voice was low. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She'd said it; there was no taking it back. "Just that you can't white-knuckle your way through the whole season," she said. "You suffered a devastating loss, Chris. You're grieving. And if it helps you to play baseball through it, that's fine, if it would help you to take some time off, that would be fine, too, but either way I think you should talk about it with someone, Marvin or Randy or one of the trainers, I don't even know, but someone who could—"

"I told you," he said. "Twice. I trusted you, and I told you. Twice."

She could see instantly that this was the most unforgivable part of what she'd done. She tried to reach for him, more out of an automatic impulse than anything else—tears were streaking down her face, she needed comfort and he was her comfort—but he flinched away. She realized he wouldn't be that for her ever again.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I know those words don't mean much, coming from me. I know I could say it until I'm blue in the face and you wouldn't forgive me. You probably shouldn't. But I do want you to know that I really do care about you, Chris. None of that was fake. None of that is fake. I love you. I fell in love with you in our texts, and I fell in love with you in real life, and the only reason I wasn't more honest with you was because I was so afraid of messing it all up. Which, ironically of course, I did worse than I ever could've by being honest from the beginning. I know what I did was wrong, and I don't expect or deserve your forgiveness. But I did want you at least to know that I love you."

When he looked over at her, it was hard to believe the way he'd looked at her only an hour before, like she was something precious to him. "You're right, those words don't mean much," he said. "They don't mean shit to me. I don't even know who you are."

She felt her face crumple. "You do," she said. "I'm the same—"

"You're not." He shook his head, backing away from her. "I'll tell you one thing, though, you're not boring. Whatever else this was, it was a hell of a ride. A twist a minute. You can feel great about that part."

Feel great? This felt awful. And it felt even worse for all the memories she had of how happy they'd been right here in this same space only hours before. When they'd had the whole day ahead of them and were looking forward to spending it with each other. Daphne knew they'd said what they were doing was just a fun, no-strings arrangement—she'd been the one to use the phrase friends with benefits, but she'd been fooling herself. That had never been all it was. And now it might never have the chance to be anything at all.

"Please," she said. "Just—"

"I gotta go," Chris said, pressing his hand to his chest. "I can't—I gotta go."

He picked up his keys from the dresser, passing by her carefully in the bedroom doorway to avoid even the barest touch. "Just lock up after yourself when you leave," he said. He was talking fast, looking somewhere over her shoulder. "And from here on out, I'll answer any baseball questions you ask me in front of a camera, but I think it's probably best if we don't interact beyond that."

A broken, silent sob racked her body, but she didn't respond. He hesitated only a second at the front door, like maybe he wanted to say something else, but her vision was too blurry for her to see the expression on his face. And then, with a quiet click of the door, he was gone.