Chapter 32 #2
There was that familiar, awful tilt of Sloane's head, like she was thinking of something evil to say, right before the vile words were spewed from her mouth.
And there was that squint of Preston's beady eyes, like he was doing the same.
"Preston. Sloane," Tristan said, voice firm and steady, making me wonder for the first time what he was feeling in all this. After all, these were supposed friends of his, people he'd hung out with plenty of times since our days at St. Lucius. "Thanks for coming tonight."
"Sure," Sloane said, her tone different than I remembered.
Preston nodded. "Of course."
An awkward beat passed, as their attention returned to me, Sloane inhaling like she was about to speak, but then thought better of it.
Should I say something? Was this up to me, for fuck's sake? I mean, what exactly did one say in this situation?
Thanks for ruining my senior year. Thanks for making my life hell. Thanks for being the single source of my nightmares for the last decade. Sure appreciate it. Sure appreciate you making my teen years so unforgettable.
Preston ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up, and not in a very flattering way.
Wait a second. Was his hand shaking? Was I hallucinating?
When he repeated the same gesture, this time I watched more carefully, and yes—holy shit—his hand was indeed shaking.
What did that mean?
Tristan cleared his throat beside me, impatience bleeding into the sound.
"This... I... well..." Sloane began, her fingers fidgeting with a sparkling ring, spinning it over and over. "We—"
"Look," Preston interrupted. "I feel like the biggest asshole in the world right now—I think we both do—and I'm embarrassed as hell that it's taken this long for us to address this whole, uh, situation."
I blinked, then blinked again, not quite sure I could believe my ears.
"Me too." Sloane shifted from one heeled foot to the other.
Were they actually apologizing?
"I'm really, really sorry that I, uh, we were so mean and cruel to you in high school," Preston said, not meeting my eyes, his cheeks flushed.
"I'm sorry too," Sloane added. "We were both evil. And we've changed so much since then. I hope... well, I hope you can someday find it in your heart to forgive us."
Forgive them? For plastering cow posters of me on the wall? That was too much to ask for, even from a so-called "nice" person like me.
"It's not about her forgiving us. We have no right to ask for that," Preston argued. "It's about us apologizing and taking accountability for our actions."
Damn.
"Right, of course, of course. I'm... I'm..." Sloane sputtered. "I'm really terrible at this. So I'll just stick to the apology."
An apology was great and all, but there was a burning need inside me to know why, and now was my chance to ask that.
"Why? Why would you do something like that to me when it was completely unprovoked?"
Preston hissed out a breath, looking down once more, like the carpet was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.
"The truth is..." Sloane began, "there's no great answer to that. Because we were young and dumb."
"I was young and dumb too," I countered.
"You weren't dumb," Tristan chimed in.
I appreciated that. And the way he still held onto me.
"Ah, but maybe we were truly dumb," Preston said. "And insecure. And selfish. A toxic combination. And jealous."
"Jealous?" I asked. Why would they possibly be jealous of me? "But why?"
That weird, awkward tension stretched between us all again, the air around us weighted and heavy, my brain spinning with the significance of this conversation.
Sloane was the first to break the strained silence. "It's hard to explain. But... but you and your family were so out of reach—old money, family name, status, real influence—that I guess we wanted to knock you down a peg."
"I was hardly out of reach. Not with my thighs."
She smiled softly. "You may not have felt like it, but you were. You had everything. And everyone was so cut-throat that we'd do anything to be on top. Which doesn't excuse it," she quickly added. "Not at all. Never."
"No. Never," Preston agreed.
Tristan's thumb stroked against mine, that small gesture reassuring me once more that I wasn't alone in this.
How could I tell them that their bullying had taken years for me to come to terms with? That in some ways they'd damaged me for life, done and said things that would stay with me until I died?
There was literally no excuse good enough. Really. It was unforgivable.
But at the same time, I did appreciate them apologizing to me.
And I did note that the tables had turned in an odd way that I would have never expected.
Because now, I was the one standing tall, confident in who I had become and the life I'd built, and they could barely even make eye contact with me.
The dynamic had suddenly flipped, and I held all the power.
"I have to say," I stated, proud of how sure and steady my voice was, "that I'll have to think about all of this.
I'm not sure I can actually forgive you.
I'll have to work on that. But for now, I do hear you, and I sincerely thank you for speaking to me about it and for trying. It means more than you know."
Sloane's eyes gleamed suspiciously, like she might be holding back tears. "Thank you," she croaked out.
"Yes, thank you," Preston said, reaching inside his suit jacket and handing me an envelope.
If I thought he'd had trouble with eye contact before, that was nothing compared to now as he cleared his throat.
"Um, I intercepted this at Tristan's house before he left for boarding school, but it was meant for you. "
I glanced down to see a name and address scrawled across the envelope and squinted in an attempt to decipher the messy handwriting. Tristan dropped my hand to brush his fingertips against the crumpled envelope.
"Wait, what is that?" he said, brows drawing together as he stared at Preston. "You took that from my house?"
"I did." His voice was thick with guilt. "I was sure you'd told her the whole story, and I—I didn't want her to know everything. I'm so sorry."
"Jesus," Tristan muttered.
Maybe I wasn't the only one who'd been wronged.
"I... I'm not sure if you've told Astrid yet," Preston said, hesitant as his eyes went back and forth between us, "but Tristan had nothing—and I mean, nothing—to do with the posters. We just panicked and shoved the extras in his locker last minute. And he... well, he took the fall for us."
"Tristan was completely clueless about it all. I think his dad was arrested for a DUI the day before." Sloane shook her head. "And we had no shame doing that to you and to him."
"God, I hate myself right now," Preston said, barely audible.
"Me too."
The silence was deafening as the string quartet finished one song then paused before starting another. I'd almost forgotten where we were, so caught up in my own little drama.
"Listen," Tristan said, "I can't speak for Astrid, but as for me, it's all water under the bridge, and I just want to move on and leave all this shit in the past where it belongs."
Preston gave a short, pained nod before taking a step backwards. "Thanks for that. And thanks for listening. That's really all we wanted to say, so we won't keep you."
Touching her collarbone, Sloane looked so awkwardly nervous, the exact opposite way I remembered her. "If you ever want to talk more about it, just let me, let us, know."
"I will. I appreciate that."
"Enjoy the rest of your night."
And with that, they were off. I let out a deep breath, a bit unsteady on my feet. "Did that really just happen?" I asked the man beside me.
"Yes. Yes, it did." He reached for my hand. "Come on. I think we could both use some air."