Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(74)

Finn shook his head, trying to remember. “You never came there.”

“I did. You weren’t alone.”

“Who . . .” His face fell as he answered his own question. “Bridget.”

“She was there. Cuddled up to your side as you watched a movie in the loft.”

Bridget and her tight little body. She’d fit well into Finn’s side. Maybe that was why I hated her so much. She fit with Finn.

And I . . . I was just a woman who’d spent hours getting ready to impress a man whose gaze had already wandered.

“Molly.” He held up his hands. “There has never been anything between Bridget and me. I swear.”

Was he lying? I searched his face, every crease. Every angle. He was telling the truth. “You swear?”

“On Jamie’s grave,” he said with a sure nod. “I have never touched Bridget in that way.”

The relief made my knees weak. I’d always wondered . . . but the way Finn had reacted after my one-night stand convinced me he’d never done anything with Bridget. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d punish me for a mistake he’d already made himself.

But then there were the years after the divorce. They worked late together. They were close. I’d convinced myself years ago that they’d had something going on at one point or another.

The image of them cuddled together that night was one I’d never forget.

“I came up the stairs. Quietly, I guess. Or else the TV was too loud because you didn’t hear me. I froze when I saw you both together.”

“She kept me company. That was all.”

“Kept you company? She was there, inches away from you, ripping me to shreds. Your wife. And you just sat there.”

“What? No.” Finn shook his head. “I wouldn’t let her run you down.”

I fumed. Wasn’t this conversation about honesty?

“I was there. You two were sitting together, eating from the same bowl of popcorn, like we’d done time and time again. She asked you if you were going home. You said, ‘No.’ She asked you if we were getting divorced. You said, ‘Yes.’ Then she proceeded to go on a rant about how I wasn’t good enough for you. That I wasn’t the wife you needed because I didn’t support you. She called me a bitch for kicking you out of the house and separating you from the kids. And what did you say? Nothing.”

Finn opened his mouth but no words came out.

“We were only separated. We hadn’t decided to get a divorce. Or at least, I thought we were still trying to fix our marriage. But you’d already decided we were done. And instead of telling me you wanted a divorce, you told your employee, the woman who called me a bitch to your face and you . . . You. Said. Nothing.”

“Molly,” Finn said, hanging his head. “I don’t know what to say. Hand to God, I don’t remember her saying that.”

“I’m not making it up.”

“I didn’t say that.” He held up his hands. “I’m not calling you a liar. If the TV was on, if I was tired . . . I don’t remember. Are you sure I was even awake?”

“Yes.” Maybe. Was he awake? I’d been so focused on Bridget’s profile, the way her body had leaned into his side. I hadn’t really noticed much of Finn’s face. He’d been sitting with his arms thrown over the back of the couch. His face had been aimed at the TV, not hanging loose or lulled to the side. But I couldn’t remember if his eyes had been open. Oh my God. Could he have been asleep?

Bridget had been talking to him like he’d been awake. But could he have nodded off?

The idea that I could have misread the entire thing, that he might not have even heard her words, made me want to curl into a ball and cry. A strangled sound came from my throat.

“Why didn’t you confront me about it?” he asked.

“Because.” I blinked, the doubts fogging my mind. “Because it was too late. I left Alcott, thinking we were done. I met up with Lanie at her party. Poppy wasn’t there because she was having a hard night, so I was alone. I drank too much. I listened to the girls tell me how I deserved better. How you were probably fucking Bridget anyway.”

“I wasn’t fucking Bridget,” Finn gritted out.

“She’s been in love with you since day one. It was easy to believe you were into her too.”

“What?” His entire body jerked. “Bridget is not in love with me.”

“Then you’re blind,” I huffed.

Bridget looked at Finn like he was a rock god on stage, surrounded by a mass of people, singing only to her.

“Whatever.” Finn waved it off. “You should have confronted me.”

“While you were snuggled up with Bridget?” I shot back. She’d been wearing shorts. They’d ridden so far up that her entire bare thigh had been pressed against his jeans.

“What about the next day? You could have confronted me the next day.”

“It was too late. After . . . after it was done, when I came to tell you the truth, I tried to tell you everything. I tried to tell you that I’d been blitzed out of my mind. That there was this group of guys following us from bar to bar. That one of them was flirting with me. But you didn’t want to hear it.”

“I didn’t then. I don’t now. So, stop. Just stop.”