Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(68)

He grew very still and didn’t say anything for so long I looked at him. He seemed equal parts wary and concerned.

“What is it?”

I curled my fingers around his, holding his hand tighter. “That night you came to the hotel—that last night you came, when I called you—your mother overheard our conversation. She must’ve heard you on the phone talking to me.”

“My mother?” His eyes narrowed, visibly confused, like I’d handed him one piece to a puzzle without providing the big picture first.

“She was concerned for you, so she followed you to the hotel. And after you left, she came to the door, and she, uh, she confronted me.” Keeping hold of his gaze, I scratched my forehead, watching for his reaction. “She was worried about what we were doing. She asked me, in her sweet gentle way, to let you go.”

His frown was one of confusion, not anger. “My mother did?”

“Yes,” I confirmed quietly. “And I promised her I would stay away from you after that.”

Billy’s eyes dropped to our hands, but I got the sense he didn’t see them, or me. His gaze had turned inward. “Why would she do that?”

“Don’t be angry with her.” I gave his fingers a squeeze. “She didn’t want you compromising yourself for me or for anyone. She didn’t want that kind of stain on your soul. She didn’t want you living with the guilt of being a cheater, or—maybe worse—justifying it to yourself as something acceptable, taking what you wanted just ’cause you wanted it. She said that was Darrell, how Darrell behaved. That he could justify every single one of his hurtful decisions, and she’d tried to raise you better than that. I agreed with her, so I promised.”

He stared at me while I spoke and it was uncanny, the echo of his former self just beneath the surface. He looked so young, almost na?ve. And he looked hurt, like this information about his mother wounded him. Clearly, the fact that Bethany had thought these things about him was upsetting.

I knew it would be, which was why I’d never wanted to tell him. I didn’t want him thinking poorly of his mother. I didn’t want her memory to be corrupted. She wasn’t here to defend herself, to explain her perspective. It didn’t seem fair.

But maybe some situations just aren’t fair and will never be fair. No matter how much we plan, and think, and try to compensate, unfairness persists.

I continued, “I know your daddy cheated on her a lot, so I think it hit close to home. For her. She didn’t want that for you, and—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The blurted question was heavily seasoned with accusation, and he stood, taking his hand with him.

I refolded my arms, trying my utmost not to judge him for his outburst despite the hypocrisy of it. “The next time I saw you was the night before my wedding to Ben, after I’d already promised Bethany I’d stay away. Telling you then would’ve been counterproductive to my promise. When Ben died, it didn’t seem relevant. Being with you, sharing a life with you, felt like an impossibility. I was drowning in so much self-hatred and—”

“And her words reinforced that,” he cut in angrily. “You should have told me. No wonder you hated yourself, no wonder you couldn’t stand to look at me. She made you feel like you were wrong.”

“I was wrong.”

“No.”

“No. I was. Sneaking around was wrong, Billy. I should’ve been honest. I wasn’t. I was a coward and I paid the price. Your momma being disappointed in me, losing her trust, that was part of the price. Actions have consequences, we don’t get to hide from them. Whenever she and I were in the same place together after that, I could see it, how she looked at me, like I was a stranger not to be trusted, who wanted to corrupt her son.”

He pushed his fingers into his hair, turning, ranting, “No. No! You weren’t alone. I was right there with you. She never should’ve put this on your shoulders. I’m the one who sought you out, took you to that hotel. If one of us corrupted the other, it was me. I wanted to corrupt you, God how I wanted it. And she never should’ve approached you in the first place, she should have come to me.”

“Hey, hey. I get it.” I stood, wishing I could reach out to him and end this conversation with comforting hugs and kisses, but knowing there was still too much to say. “Putting myself in her place, I get it. I didn’t blame her; I wasn’t angry with Bethany. All she did was tell me the truth. It may have been painful to hear, but that doesn’t make what she said any less true. And if I’d been truthful—if we’d all been truthful from the beginning—and brave enough to be honest with each other about everything, then all this heartache could’ve been prevented.”

Once again, he grew very still, absorbing my words. But this time the stillness was different, the energy of him was different. It was like watching an animal slowly realize it had been cornered.

He turned. And he glared at me, half panic, half anger. “You know.”

I met his stare squarely, doing my best to keep the hurt from mine, whispering, “Yes. I know.”

“How?” Now he whispered, panic edging out the anger. For the moment.

I ignored his question in favor of my own. “At any point, was there ever a chance that you were going to tell me the truth about taking my punishment? About saving my life?”