Chapter Forty-­Six

Chapter Forty-Six

Tobias

T he tick of a grandfather clock and the intense stare of the woman sitting across from me has me on edge. It's been a solid minute of uncomfortable silence since we sat down. She lifts her teacup, never taking her narrowed gaze off me as I clear my throat. It was a short trip from Triple Falls back into the pits of hell, and this is part of my penance and one of Cecelia's few conditions for re-entry. I was told in great detail of how it was "on me" to right the wrongs of my past and explain my behavior to the people who mean most to her outside of our exclusive world. One of whom is now looking at me as though plotting my slow and painful death.

Cecelia bristles at my side before bursting into laughter. "Christy, ease up on him. I don't think I've ever seen the man sweat this much."

I keep my stare on Christy, another oversight and the very "best friend" of my future. A friend who's had to pick up her pieces over the years due to the nature of our relationship. It's clear now, even with ample warning from Cecelia, I wasn't prepared enough when she opened the front door of her colonial-style home in suburbia Atlanta. When we arrived, Christy rushed her husband away, along with their two children to Home Depot—which was, I'm guessing—a safe enough distance from where the inevitable mushroom cloud couldn't be seen .

For me, this is both penance and Cecelia's price—for Christy, this is a day of reckoning.

She seems ready to burst now as she slurps from her cup again and darts her eyes from Cecelia to me in accusation.

"I'm listening."

Cecelia looks over to me. "The floor is yours."

I open my mouth to speak and close it, unsure of why I agreed to explain my motives to the Atlanta Housewife from hell. Well, I do, but I'm not happy about it.

"We are together now—" I slice a hand through the air—" end of ."

"Tobias," Cecelia hisses in clear warning.

I can practically see the steam coming out of Christy's ears and I relent and take a patient breath. "Why don't you ask me what you want to know?"

She comes in, guns blazing. "Have you stopped punishing her for sleeping with your brother?"

Cecelia sucks in a breath, and I glance her way before turning to address Christy.

"Nothing to forgive."

"Bullshit, you tortured her for years."

"Christy, there's a lot you don't know," Cecelia interjects. "A lot."

"Yeah, like what? This asshole didn't claim to love you and then toss you to the side? He didn't rip your heart out a second time a year ago and stomp on it for good measure?" She stands abruptly, discarding her tea and saucer on the table, before putting both hands on her hips. "I understand you were grieving your brother, and I'm truly sorry for that, but that's no excuse to treat a woman the way you treated her. It's unforgivable, and you're here now, for what, my blessing? Fat chance . It will be a cold day in hell. She faithfully loved you for years, but did you? Did you ever once ask about her life or the people in it? Have you even bothered to meet her mother ?" Christy's scold shifts to Cecelia. "And you brought him here thinking I would be okay with it? I'm not okay with this!"

She's lied to her, repeatedly, to keep me safe, damaging her own relationships with the people closest to her for my protection while alienating herself in the process. And through it all, she's been alone—alone with her knowledge, alone with the truth, and isolated because of it, her pattern mimicking my own.

"Christy," I address her, and her attention slowly shifts to me. "Please, for her, not for me, for her , listen to what I have to say."

"Now you have something to say?"

"Plenty. And you're right, I am the bad guy, and I treated her horribly. I don't deserve her."

"No shit! And maybe I don't want to hear your excuses." She stands and begins snatching toys from her carpet, and with the death glare she grants me between her hostile cleanup, I'm sure it takes great effort not to hurl them at me. After a few restless seconds of watching her, I stand and join her, picking up a teething ring. She snatches it from my hands, and I can see the fear in her eyes as I try and level with her.

"I love her."

"You're terrible at it."

"I will do better."

"Not good enough. Can you really blame her for moving on after you—"

"His brother didn't die in a car wreck," Cecelia says softly, and Christy flinches with the revelation. "He died from several gunshot wounds at a gunfight at my father's mansion, saving us both." Mouth agape, plastic keys in her hand, I guide Christy back to her seat on shaky legs.

She gapes at Cecelia before looking up at me, and I attempt to crack a joke to take some of the tension away.

"And we know who shot JFK."