Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Ruth
Working in the office has become my own little circle of hell. But showing my face every now and then is a necessary evil, so a couple of times a month, I drive to the nearest overground station and make the trek into the city with my laptop in one bag and my lunch in another.
Blessedly, the day is quiet, and by three in the afternoon, after a virtual meeting with my team in New York, I’m very much ready to call it quits and go home. That is, until Peter Winkle stops by my desk.
Winkle is a chauvinist, among other red-flag attributes, and his annoyingly pretty eyes dance with smug mirth as he leans against the furniture. The man is the very definition of nice face, shame about the personality. In other words: he’s a massive dick, with none of the usefulness.
“Saw your friend Katy in town last week,” he says casually.
I’d almost forgotten I’d set Katy up on a date with him.
That was before we found out what a terrible human being he is.
I’m not sure I’ll ever live that one down.
I’m certainly never going to be called on for my matchmaking skills again.
“She looked good. Happy. Holding hands and laughing with a man who looks suspiciously like that guy.”
His tone takes on a smarmy edge as he cocks his head, gesturing towards the two framed photographs on my desk.
One of the pictures is of me with Amie, Katy, and Paloma, so I can only assume he’s referring to the other one—a selfie of me and Jay, a photo I took just before his last deployment.
His hair and beard are both a little longer, a little grayer now, but his face hasn’t changed.
Just like that, the pieces fall into place, slamming into my chest. Stealing my breath, and all but taking me out at the knees.
His evasiveness. Her quietness. The way he’s smiled so much more lately. The way she seems to know him so well—much better than casual friends might know one another. The way she’s suddenly studying counselling, the investment in something that might help him.
The fact that they’ve been keeping this from me.
Lying to my face for weeks. Months, even.
The two people I hold closest have been lying to me, and probably laughing about it in their own secret language.
The language they’ll share without me now.
The kind my brother shared with someone once before, only to have his heart torn out and stomped on.
He was utterly broken after Bailey Cannon dumped him—via email, while he was deployed in Afghanistan—and seeing him so withdrawn on his return, even quieter and more guarded than he had been before, terser and more monosyllabic than his texts and emails from Afghanistan… it broke my heart, too.
“Oh. Uh, yeah.” I don’t know what else to say.
My brain feels like porridge between my ears right now, every sound echoing like I’m listening through a tube.
I fight to keep my expression neutral, and after a minute, Peter Winkle pushes away from the door jamb and leaves me alone to shove everything into bags and drawers before locking up my desk and power-walking out the door.
I drive like a bat out of hell—well, as much as you can through the outskirts of London—until I reach her house.
I yank the handbrake before the wheels stop turning, barely switching off the engine before I leap out and slam the door.
My heels make a satisfying clomping sound as I stomp up to Katy’s front door.
It’s not until I return to my car and fling myself into the driver’s seat, several minutes later, that I finally let my own tears fall.