Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(96)
Cynics would roll their eyes and say they’d recognized a publicity stunt from the start. The unkind would laugh instead. So much for his white-knight ambitions, they’d crow. Even such a gifted actor couldn’t pretend to want a woman like that for long.
Whatever. If they judged her, fuck them.
And even if she’d wanted to hide, like hell she’d let her Lavinia costume—the product of hours of dedicated effort by Mel and Pablo—languish in a closet out of cowardice. And there was no way she’d ever, ever skip her long-awaited gathering with her closest Lavineas friends.
They’d notice her distance from Marcus and wonder, of course. Hopefully, they’d be kind enough not to ask. Or, failing that, smart enough to ask with a fresh tissue box nearby.
After tucking the last of her clothing and travel toiletries into her suitcase, she zipped it shut and rolled it just inside the apartment door. Afterward, she sat on her couch beneath a blanket and listened to a podcast.
She tried to pay attention, but she kept thinking Marcus would find the topic interesting. Not so much because he paid special attention to unsolved serial killings, but because he was as hungry for knowledge as anyone she’d ever met, his innate curiosity matching her own.
Fuck, she missed him.
When she realized she hadn’t registered the last ten minutes of the podcast, she turned it off. In the gathering darkness of her living room, throw pillow held to her chest, she sat and stopped trying not to think about it. About them. About her life without him.
So quickly—or maybe not that quickly, now that she knew he was BAWN—Marcus had made ample space for himself in her daily life and thoughts. But he wasn’t everything, and he wasn’t all that mattered to her. Her work and her costume and her upcoming meeting with her Lavineas friends were proof enough of her non-Marcus interests. So were her dinner plans with Bashir and Mimi next week.
She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t.
Even if his absence from her home, her bed, her arms, left her hollow-eyed and aching down to her joints some days. Even if she watched British baking shows while she ate takeout for dinner, because claggy sponges and underproofed dough reminded her of him.
Even if she loved him, and he loved her in return.
When she shut off her bedside lamp way too late at night, she still saw him behind her eyelids, face crumpled and stricken and adoring as she railed against him in her car. Eyes wet, but too honorable to use his tears or his love as tools to force her forgiveness.
Sometimes, as she turned onto her side and flipped her pillow yet again, she wondered if the conversation would have gone differently under other circumstances. If she hadn’t still been raw and chilled and exhausted from that long-overdue confrontation with her mother, still on edge from the proximity of her father and Marcus’s abandonment of her at her parents’ house.
He’d blasted the heater for her. Warmed her seat. Cupped her face. Apologized earnestly.
But her rage and hurt had still been lingering just beneath the surface, much too easy to access. The slightest scratch to her composure would have unearthed all that volatile emotion, and he’d provided much more than a mere scrape.
With his deception, he’d gutted her.
With her sharp words, by withholding her forgiveness, she’d gutted him right back. That was clear enough. If the devastation in those expressive eyes hadn’t told her so, his body language would have. On the way out her door, he’d moved like a man broken, cradled into himself and guarding against further jolts.
Five days had passed since then. Out of respect for her stated wishes, he hadn’t called or emailed or DMed. That first night, he’d only texted her once. Two simple words he’d already told her, ones she knew he meant sincerely.
I’m sorry.
Scared. He’d been scared, so he’d hurt and misled her.
She couldn’t blame him for that, but she couldn’t seem to forgive him, either. Not when she remembered the wrenching pain of BAWN’s sudden, now-explicable estrangement. Not when she considered all those months he’d pretended ignorance when it came to reading and writing fanfiction; all those months he’d failed to acknowledge the intimate knowledge he held of her, born out of years of friendship; all those months he’d secreted that same advantage, the understanding of who and what he really was, out of her reach.
No wonder she’d felt as if she’d known him for years. She had. But not all of him. Not enough of him.
She didn’t hate him. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was just . . . tired.
The warm, bright spotlight of his love was gone, and the shadows left behind were fine. She was fine.
Absolutely fine.
Or she would be, if she could convince herself she’d made the right choice.
Lavineas Server DMs, Five Months Ago
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: What do you do when you feel down for no good reason?
Book!AeneasWouldNever: What’s wrong? Are you okay?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I’m getting my period soon. Nothing is wrong, but everything is wrong.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I hope you’re not squeamish about things like that, because if so: TOO LATE, SUCKER.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Since approximately half the humans on this planet either have gotten or will get periods, I’ve always found that particular brand of squeamishness ridiculous.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: So you’re the type of guy who would buy his girlfriend tampons at the grocery store?