Spells for Forgetting(58)

“I saw the paper, Em. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sneered, giving me a look I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. It took me a moment to realize who it reminded me of—his father.

I exhaled.

“You need to stay out of whatever August has himself wrapped up in.”

“Someone on this island set that fire, Dutch. That doesn’t bother you?”

“You don’t know that.”

“I was there. I saw it.”

His expression changed again, turning darker. “What do you mean you were there?”

“I could see the fire from the house.” I wasn’t going to tell him that I’d been with August when I saw it. The less ammunition he had, the better.

Dutch shook his head, staring at the ground. The muscles in his arms flexed, the veins in his hands surfacing under the skin. “So you thought you’d do what? Run over there and save him?”

“Are you saying if you’d seen a fire at Nixie’s out your window, you wouldn’t go over there?”

“He’s not Nixie. And I know you went to the burial.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not a secret.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“We haven’t talked in days.”

“Whose choice was that?” His voice rose.

I stilled, looking around us. Molly Tulles’s husband was in the next row, watching. By tomorrow, she’d have even more gossip to spew at the market.

“The burial was for Eloise. You should have been there, too. And don’t pretend like this is about the funeral. You’re not even angry about August. You’re angry at me.”

“Is there a difference?”

“What?”

“It’s all the same, right? Everything goes back to him. Like always.”

My heart twisted as I remembered taking August’s hand as we stood over Eloise’s grave. I hadn’t thought twice. I hadn’t agonized over it or weighed the cost of that moment, I’d just done it. And I could still feel his touch on my palm, like sunlight pooled between my fingers.

It was true, what Nixie said. I’d never let August go, not really. And it seemed so foolish, so childish, that I could hardly stand to admit it to myself. I’d been eighteen years old. I’d known nothing about suffering or responsibility or loss, but somehow, I’d known this soul-deep kind of love that I now wondered if most people never found. It cut open a vein in me that never stopped flowing.

“I’m not going to do this here.” I tried to go around him, but he stepped in front of me.

“If it were up to you, we’d never have this argument.”

“We’ve been having it for years, Dutch.”

“Tell me why you won’t marry me.” He blurted it out, making me wince.

“Because I don’t want to be married. I don’t want to have a family and make the life that everyone else on this island does!” I didn’t care who could hear me now.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“You act like you don’t want this life, but you’re still here, Emery. You could have left at any time and you didn’t.”

“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t. My dad was hurt. Then my mom was sick. Someone had to take over the shop.”

Dutch was an expert at reading me, but I still didn’t know how to be honest with him. He was there after August left. He’d understood me, but that had never been enough. It all felt like crumbling dust when I held it against the body-aching need I’d known before.

Dutch was the kind of man who told me what I wanted to hear. He played by my rules when the waters got rough so that he could be the one to swoop in and save me. But this was different. I shook my head, exhausted. I couldn’t fight with him anymore.

“You have to stop asking,” I said weakly. “Please. I’m never going to say yes.”

Dutch leveled his gaze at me. I could see him searching for something to grab ahold of. Anything. “You don’t know everything”—he swallowed—“about that night.”

I went rigid, letting the words sink in, sure I’d heard him wrong. “What are you talking about?”

“I…” He scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing into them. “Jesus, I’ve almost told you a hundred times.”

I could feel my insides turning to liquid. Whatever he was about to say was the first few drops of an entire ocean.

He stared at me, his face flushing.

“What?” I said, louder.

His eyes lifted slowly, and there was a coldness in them that I didn’t like. “I lied, Emery.”

My mind raced, my pulse quickening. But I wasn’t putting it together.

“About August. I lied about being with him that night.”

A sharp sting like needles under my skin rushed over me, making my stomach turn. This wasn’t the last-ditch effort of a desperate man. He was telling the truth. I could hear it in his voice.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why would you do that?”

His lips pressed together. “Because he was my friend. I was scared for him.”