Broken (18 page)

I set the table quickly and take a step back to make sure everything looks right. The table lacks a centerpiece. Flowers would be perfect, but since we don't have any, I rummage around in cabinets until I find a bunch of pillar candles. They're all mismatched in size and color, but I've arranged enough charity fund-raisers in my life to know that once they're lit, it'll look classy and modern, not hodgepodge.

I fuss with the candles as long as I can, knowing full well that I'm stalling. It's decision time.

Am I going to play whatever game he's setting up? Or am I going to do what
he
would do and lock myself in my bedroom, refusing to come out and be a pawn?

In the end, it comes down to curiosity. I'll play along. But only because I'm dying to know who could motivate Paul to
willingly
end his own solitude.

It's not likely his father—Lindy would have known if Harry was coming in.

So who?

Kali? No, she would have mentioned it. Wouldn't she?

It had to be someone from his former life.

Oh God. What if it's an ex-girlfriend? What if he's trying to torture me that way? One hand flies to my damp ponytail as I glance down at the admittedly ugly sweatshirt Lindy frowned at. Maybe a little primping isn't a horrible idea.

I race up the stairs, but once in the safety of my room, I take my time getting ready. My shower is long and hot, and I finally get around to shaving legs that have been just a
wee
bit neglected the past couple of weeks. I not only blow-dry my hair but also take a flat iron to it, giving it that extra bit of sleek shine. The ends are looking a little ragged, and I smile as I remember Bella's concern about my hairdresser being inaccessible while I was on my Maine hiatus. It's been only two months since my parents threw me that going-away party, but it feels like another lifetime.

My smile fades a little as I realize I haven't heard from Bella in days. She's dating some guy named Brian, who's “a little short but makes up for it in every other way.” Apparently he keeps her very, very busy.

But as much as I try to tell myself that it's just her new love life that has us drifting apart, I suspect it's more than that. Our lives are never again going to overlap as effortlessly as they have in the past.

I pause in putting on mascara as it hits me that
this
is a part of post-college life that nobody ever warns you about. Your social life is no longer dropped into your lap by virtue of shared classes and extracurricular activities. Relationships, whether with friends, family, or romantic partners—from here on out, they're going to take a lot more work. No more built-in friends at the sorority, or hollering down the stairs when I need my mom. It's certainly not going to be as easy to meet guys now that I'm done with school. It's not like I can just chat up the cute guy in econ class anymore.

Thinking about my romantic future inevitably leads my thoughts to Paul, and I make a little growling noise at my brain for even going there.

He's not for you.

Going back to my makeup, I add more eyeliner than usual, going for a subtly smoky look. I also add lip gloss and blush, even though any guests of Paul the bastard barely deserve deodorant, much less makeup.

I have no idea when his guest is coming, so I sit down on the window seat and pretend to read my book. Really, though, I just do a lot of staring at the water and thinking. All the while I'm braced for a knock at the bedroom door. Surely Paul will tell me himself that my presence is expected, or even mandatory?

The knock never comes. Lindy's order to freshen up is apparently the only invitation I deserve.

I tense when I hear the doorbell, but force myself to relax. It'll be fine. My parents hosted more parties in a month than most families do in a lifetime. I can small-talk strangers in my sleep. With one last glance in the mirror, I open the door to my room.

I hear voices, but they're too muffled to make out whether they're male or female. As I descend the stairs, I listen more carefully. There's Paul's familiar timbre, but I can't hear the other person.

Seriously, if it really is an ex-girlfriend, I—

I freeze when I hear it. A male voice. I know that voice. Why do I know it?

Recognition takes my breath away.
Oh my God.

Somehow, even as I register the familiarity of it all, I'm not fully prepared for what I see when I round the corner into the foyer. I'm not sure anyone could
ever
be prepared.

My eyes lock on the dark-haired guy still standing in the doorway. The heated longing on his face when our gazes collide feels like a punch in the face. I close my eyes to block it out, and take a deep breath.

I swallow. “Michael.”

He smiles. “Liv.”

Kill me.
Kill me kill me kill me. This is not happening. The very guy I'm trying to escape is standing in the house that's supposed to be my hiding place.

I tell my manners to override my panic but fail miserably. “What are you doing here?”

For the first time, the heated adoration on his face flickers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you even find me? Did my parents give you the address?”

Michael frowns and takes a step toward me. I step back.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You told me to come.”

I blink. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Your texts, Liv. You told me you needed to see me. Said you couldn't get away, and asked if I could come here—” He breaks off when he sees the truth on my face. “You didn't ask me to come.”

But I'm barely listening, because a dangerous buzzing has taken over my brain. Very slowly I turn my head to face
him
.

Only then does Paul emerge from the shadows. “Surprise, darling.” His voice is lethal.

I meet his gaze, and cruel triumph is written all over his features.

The pieces click together as I read his face. I get it now. I get what's going on. This is some sick revenge plot. I snooped in his business, behind his back—I dragged his ghosts out of the closet without permission.

Now it's his turn.

It was ridiculously easy—just a couple of quick texts to the mysterious Michael when Olivia was out for her morning run.

Runs that I once joined her on. Right up until she went and acted just like the rest of them, reading up on me like I was Soldier X instead of Paul.

But that's not the point. The point is that my instincts about Michael were dead-on: not just a friend, but not a boyfriend either, though he wanted to be. It was written all over his whipped face when she came down the stairs.

It's not Michael's face I'm looking at now, though. It's Olivia's. I was prepared for surprise and anger. No, I was counting on them. It's the very nature of revenge, after all. But what I see on her perfect features is pure, undiluted agony.

I am an ass.
But then, I've always known I'm an ass. It's time she knows it too. And I'm a big fan of the eye-for-an-eye philosophy. She snoops in my business, I snoop in hers. Did I go overboard? Sure. But it was so fucking
easy
.

I'd assumed that Olivia's reasons for fleeing New York were a little more interesting than a clichéd love triangle, but when Michael thought it was Olivia asking him to come see her, he responded in about two seconds. He had it bad, and Olivia was avoiding him.

The need to fuck with her life the way she'd fucked with mine was too great to resist, and now…now I regret it. The tension in the foyer is almost palpable, and my plan no longer feels cleverly devious. It feels cruel.

“Olivia.” Michael moves toward her, hand outstretched, and she makes a little sound of dismay.

Instinctively, I start to move between them, but Olivia practically hisses at me.

“Get out,” she snaps at me. “You owe me that much.”

The magnitude of my manipulation is starting to sink in, and I feel like complete shit. Still, I give Michael a warning glance, as though to tell him not to hurt her. But I'm wasting the effort. He only has eyes for her.

I walk toward the door, pausing beside her. I open my mouth to…to do what? Apologize? But she doesn't give me the chance.

“Leave.” She doesn't even look at me.

I force myself to walk out the door. For one heart-stopping moment, I don't know how to live with myself.

But then I remember: I'm half dead anyway.

Paul leaves without so much as a backward glance, probably gloating that his revenge is going so perfectly according to plan.

I should be relieved to have the hateful guy out of my sight so I can gather my thoughts, but the truth is, Paul is just one part of this nightmare. A big part, to be sure.
And
he's the catalyst. The fact that he would go through the effort of texting Michael with the sole intention of revenge makes me realize there's a whole level of bastard in him that I didn't know existed.

Having a moment of space from him
should
give me time to catch my breath. But I can't seem to breathe.

Gathering my courage, I lift my chin and look at my former best friend. It's only the second time Michael and I have been alone together since that horrible day when Ethan walked into Michael's bedroom and saw me making out with his best friend.

Yeah.
Forget pinning a scarlet
A
on my shirt. I deserve a tattoo. On my
face.

Paul has no idea just how much he went for the jugular by forcing me to face Michael again.

But still…Michael came. He came all the way from New York to Maine for me, when I've been ignoring his texts for weeks. I have to know why, even though I think I already know.

“Why'd you come?” I ask. “I mean, I get that you thought it was me asking, but even then…it's a lot of effort.”

His gaze is hot. Longing. “Because I care about you. And I need you to know how much.”

My heart rips. “Don't. Don't do this.”

“It's been a long time coming, Liv,” Michael grinds out. “You never let me explain.” I see pain flash in his familiar brown eyes.

It's the same pain I felt when Ethan removed himself from my life without so much as a backward glance. Michael and I fucked up. I mean, we really,
really
fucked up, and there's absolutely no excuse for it. But Ethan never gave us the chance to explain. We can't make it right, ever, but we didn't even have the chance to tell someone we loved that we were sorry.

I
finally got that chance at the end of the summer, only because I crashed Ethan's parents' beach party in the Hamptons. Now I realize I need that closure with Michael too. Just as he needs it with me.

“After everything that happened, I can't let you think that you were just part of some pissing match between me and Ethan.” He moves toward me again, and this time I let him take my hands.

“Ethan was your best friend. Your
best friend
.”

Michael's chin dips a little. “I know. It was a dick move.”

I snort. “What we did is so far beyond a dick move, I don't even know that there are words for it.”

The room falls silent.

“I know,” Michael says finally.

“Then why? I mean, I know I'm not blameless, but you initiated. I'm not mad, I just…
why,
Michael?”

And even though I ask, even though I know he needs to say it and I need to hear it so I can help us both move on, I don't want him to say it.
Don't say it,
I silently beg him.
Please don't.

But Michael doesn't register my silent plea. As good a friend as he was over the years, as close as we were, he never could read me. Not like that.

“Because I loved you,” Michael says, the simplicity of the statement almost breaking me. “I still love you.”

I close my eyes. “For how long? When did it start?”

Michael shrugs. “Always.”

Jesus.

His hands tighten on mine. “Liv. I have to know. Do you…can you…do you love me, Liv? Do you love me?”

Oh God.

I want to lie. I want to spare my best friend the searing hurt that the truth will unleash. But I can't. I owe it to him—and to myself too—to be honest.

“No,” I say softly. “I didn't. I don't. Not like that.”

And then I wait for him to ask me. I wait for him to ask me why, if I didn't return his feelings, I let him kiss me. Why I kissed him back.

I brace myself, but the question never comes. Maybe he can't bear to hear it. And oddly enough, although I should be relieved at having gotten a reprieve, I almost wish he would demand answers. Because I'm finally ready to give them.

Michael's eyes turn on me, and though the hurt is still there, anger mingles there too. I belatedly realize that there's something different about Michael. It's like he's changing in front of my eyes. But no, that's not quite right either…he was different from the moment I saw him today. If Ethan was always the easygoing charmer, Michael was like his edgier half—still charming, but his wit had a more acerbic edge to it. Not unlike Paul, come to think about it.

But now? There's a darkness settling into his features. The edges are sharper; the cynicism that he always used as humor now seems more deep-rooted and mean.

I did that,
I realize. All this time, I've been so busy trying to cope with the pain I caused Ethan that it never even occurred to me that I did some serious damage to Michael too. I had two best friends in the world, and I managed to treat both of them like garbage: Ethan by betraying him, Michael by walking away.

His jaw shifts slightly from left to right and back again, the way he does when he's trying to control his rather formidable temper. He lets go of my hands, jerks back, and gives a self-depreciating laugh. “To think of the way I rushed up here like some knight in shining armor, thinking you wanted me.
Needed
me.”

I step toward him.
Don't do this. I'm not worth it.

“I didn't know you were coming,” I say hurriedly. “And yet…maybe I'm glad. Maybe this can be closure.”

I reach out a hand to him again, my heart hurting, but he backs up again.

“I thought you needed time, Liv.” Michael's voice is rough. “I've held back, thinking you needed to forgive yourself, and me, for what we did. But I though…I
really
thought that when you let Ethan go, I'd be the one you reached for.”

I close my eyes.
Can this get any worse?

“But it was never going to be me, was it?” he asks.

When I open my eyes, the tears spill out. “No,” I say quietly.

Michael seems to harden before my very eyes. He swallows once, twice. And then with a jerk of his chin, as if that's the only goodbye he can manage, he opens the door and walks out. Just like that, he's gone.

I press my hand to my mouth. I can't shake the feeling that I'll never see my best friend again.

And it's all Paul Langdon's fault.