Page 74 of The Bet
I growl. “Yes, I remember that one.”
Her voice is still steady.
“I know it sounds stupid. I know it was wrong. But everything after that—the texts, the meetings, the things we did—that wasn’t for the bet. I was scared if I told you, you’d never want to see me again. So I never said anything, lying by omission, and then it was too late to course correct.”
The truth lands with a soft, terminal weight.
I run a hand over my mouth, think about what to say, then decide to be just as direct. “I was furious. Not just at the bet. At the fact that you used me.”
She doesn’t flinch, but her nails dig into the mug.
I keep going. “I’ve told you before that when you’re a man with my money and reputation, women start scheming. Women have been using me since I was old enough to buy dinner, so I’ve grown wary. Again, I’ve had multiple women try to entrap me via pregnancy, and a few tried to extort me for cash with ‘emergencies.’ Some wanted a name. All of them wanted a lifestyle.”
She blinks. “Right. That’s why you?—“
“Only did anal. No way for anyone to get a hook in me. I thought that was smart. I thought it would keep me safe.”
She just looks at me, and for the first time, there’s no anger, just a slow, blooming sadness.
I shake my head, take another drink of the bitter, burned coffee. “Then you came along. You weren’t supposed to be…”
I stop, not knowing how to finish.
She finishes it for me. “Real?”
I nod, feeling defeated. “You weren’t supposed to be you, Andie.”
The air in the diner is syrupy, so dense you could swim through it. Someone scrapes a stool across the linoleum at the counter, and the hiss of the espresso machine spikes, then falls away. The world outside the window is dead, just the orange wash of a streetlamp and the ghost of the Lambo’s paint under it.
She takes a long breath, her shoulders dropping. “I just wanted to be something different. To matter.”
The words settle between us, soft but radioactive.
I run my thumb along the edge of the mug, then set it down with a dull thunk. “You mattered to me. Still do.”
She blinks, not believing it.
I lean forward, elbows on the Formica. “You know I tried to move on. I could have anyone. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I tried to forget you, and it made me miserable.”
The truth is like acid, eating through all the bullshit.
She smiles, shaky and small. “I tried, too. I couldn’t. I kept waiting for you to show up. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was you, even though I knew it wouldn’t be. I watched random male figures sometimes, from the river walk. I would see you through the window, but it was always a figment of my imagination.”
A pause, heavy as a brick.
“I still wanted you to want me. Even after you found out.”
I reach across the table, rest my hand on hers. Her skin is ice cold. “I do,” I say, and the words scrape my throat raw. “I don’t forgive you for everything, but I do want you.”
Andie looks up, and her eyes are wet but fierce. “Then what do we do?”
I let the question hang, let the silence fill up with the sound of the world moving on. The espresso machine spits and clatters. The waitress hums to herself as she wipes down a table. The radio plays another heartbreak song, the lyrics too on-the-nose to be funny.
I squeeze her hand once, then pull it back. “We start over,” I say in a fierce tone. “If you want to.”
She nods. “I do.”
The relief is sharp, almost painful.
