1. EASTON #2
“Oh, he is. That’s the thing.” Her voice wobbles. I catch her dab at her eyes with the tulle of her skirt. “He’s so charming. Everyone says so. My mother says so. My friends say…” she stops. “My friends used to say so.”
“Used to?”
“I don’t really see them anymore.”
She says it like it’s a fact about the weather and not the saddest sentence I’ve heard in a long time.
Apparently, this asshole has managed to convince everyone around her that he’s the good guy while slowly cutting her off from the people who should’ve been there to protect her.
Something hot and ugly twists low in my gut.
I want to meet Preston.
No. Scratch that.
I want five minutes alone with Preston.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, forcing my hands to stay there because imagining what I’d do with them anywhere else isn’t helping.
Riley sniffs beside me, and when I glance over, there’s a smile on her face that doesn’t come close to reaching the faraway look in her eyes.
He did this to her.
And apparently the asshole cheated on her too.
Fuck, I hate cheaters.
I know what people say about me. That I’m a player. That I’ve probably slept with half of Los Angeles. Some of it’s deserved.
But I’ve never cheated on a woman I was with. Not once.
If I want someone else, I leave first. It’s not fucking complicated.
I look at Riley again, at the smile she’s still trying so hard to keep in place, and my hands tighten around the steering wheel.
Six years with this prick, and somehow he had her believing she was the problem.
A minute passes before she clears her throat and forces some of that brightness back into her voice.
“Anyway. So. He’s a piece of shit. I caught him.
I ran. I opened a stranger’s car door. Here we are.
This is the part where you ask me what I want to do next and I tell you I have absolutely no idea. ”
She laughs, but it still lacks her humor, and instead, it’s saddled with worry.
So, I don’t ask her. I let her breathe.
The road ends. There’s a small turnout, a little gravel pull-off that overlooks the city, the kind of spot teenagers come to at night, and tourists come to during the day. It’s empty. I pull in. Cut the engine.
For a long second, neither of us moves.
The silence is different now that the car isn’t running. It’s much quieter. It makes room for the things she’s not saying, the things under all the jokes. All of her fears and worries. Her eyes are down, and I can tell the reality of her decision is finally settling in.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
I don’t reach for it. I’m watching her, the way she suddenly seems so small, as if wishing she could disappear. Whoever’s calling can wait.
But then it buzzes again. And again. Three texts in a row.
Riley glances at the screen before I can flip it over.
I watch the color leave her face.
“Easton.” Her voice has gone thin. “Why is…” She leans closer. The tulle slides against the leather. “Why does your lock screen say Sinclair statement?”
I look down.
It’s a news alert.
Breaking: Preston Sinclair issues statement following bride’s hospitalization scare at downtown ceremony.
My jaw tightens. I scroll without unlocking, and the preview unfolds. Three lines of carefully worded concern, words like worried for her wellbeing and mental health, and asking for privacy during this difficult time.
Riley reads it upside down.
“Oh, my God.”
“Riley…”
“Oh, my God.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “He’s… he’s already… that fast? It’s been forty minutes. Forty minutes, Easton.”
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
She doesn’t. She’s reading it again. Her eyes are moving across the words like she’s trying to make sense of it, and how quickly it’s spreading.
“He’s telling them I had a breakdown.” It comes out flat. Disbelieving. “H-he’s telling them I’m sick. That’s… That’s what he was always going to do, wasn’t it? If I ever…” Her voice catches. “If I ever left, he was always going to say I was the crazy one.”
I want to put my hand on hers. I keep both hands on the wheel because if I touch her right now, I think I might actually drive back into the city and find him.
“Riley…”
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are wet, but she’s not crying.
“You’re not crazy,” I say.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you ran. I know your hands were shaking. I know nobody who’s making jokes about Thanksgiving forty minutes after running out of a wedding is having a mental breakdown.” I hold her gaze. “He’s lying. Everyone who knows you is going to know he’s lying.”
“Nobody knows me anymore.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it. “That’s the whole point. He made sure of that.”
She looks down at her lap. At the dress. At her hands, now trembling again, fisted in tulle that probably cost more than my first contract bonus. When she speaks again, her voice is so small I have to lean in to catch it.
“Easton…”
And then, slowly, like she’s afraid I’ll move away, she reaches across the center console and lays her hand on top of mine on the gearshift. Her fingers are still cold. Still shaking, just a little. But she leaves them there. But in the next minute, they’re gone. She looks away.
“I don’t… I have no idea where to go. I did it all out of reflex.” She laughs, but it’s humorless. “I can't… I can’t go back. I don’t have my credit cards, and I can’t go to my parents. He’ll find me. They’ll…” She stops. Her eyes find mine, and I see the fear in them.
“Stay with me.” The words are out before I can process them.
I look at her. The woman I’ve only known for forty minutes, who has somehow roped me into the middle of her falling life. And I know I can’t say no. Not when every part of me is viciously screaming to find Preston fucking Sinclair and rip him a new one.