Page 36 of Roundabout

“Just shut up,” she says, still walking.

Jerking my head back, I frown as I shove my hands in my pockets.

“So, I’m the bad guy?”

A few feet away, she stops and just…stops. We stare at each other for a while, neither of us saying anything.

“Angela—”

“You always do this. You say the right thing. You do the right thing. You’re the one that gets to smooth things over, but let me try this time, okay?”

I give her a nod, even though I don’t always do the right thing. If I did, she’d be in my arms already. But I’ll give her what she wants, what she needs. I’ve always given her that.

“When I saw the girls at the Fall Fest, they were…” She dabs her eyelids, pressing harder than she probably should. “They were…”

“Like they were when we first got them?” My voice is as cold as my veins feel envisioning Brittni and Makya on our doorstep last year. Bare feet, itchy, starving.

“Worse. So much worse. You have to understand, Coty, I was sick, fucking sick with worry about them.”

Tears run down her cheeks despite her fingertips still attempting to dam the source, and I have to stop myself from going to her to wipe them off.

“I couldn’t move on. I couldn’t breathe without them.”

That is a feeling I know all too well.

“You should’ve told me,” I say after a hard swallow.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

I clench my jaw. The wedding.

“I didn’t care about the wedding.”

She drops her hands to meet my eyes again. “That’s not entirely true.”

“No, it’s not,” I confess. I did care about that wedding. “But if you would’ve given me the chance, I would’ve found another way to marry you, Angela. I would’ve married you in our spare bathroom.”

“You hate that bathroom.”

“Exactly. I would’ve married you from our bed, in our rattiest pajamas, with an officiant on a video call. I would’ve married you anywhere.” And that is true.

Her eyebrows lift over eyes that are normally clear and full of humor but are now red and full of…I can’t tell. I used to be able to tell. I used to be really fucking good at telling exactly what she was feeling. How did I lose that so quickly?

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Stealing my thunder by giving a speech that’s going to make me cry.”

“You’re already crying.” I wave at her, my arm, hand, and fingers all reaching farther than I was planning until I almost brush her front. Once I touch her though, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, and we need to have this talk. We need to have lots of talks. I never want to stop talking to her. Why the fuck did I think I’d be able to?

She wipes her face, saying, “You’re not the bad guy, Coty. You could never be. You’re the hero.” All movement on her stops as she tells me, “You’re my hero.”

“You make it sound like I saved you,” I say, glancing around like I didn’t just hear the biggest compliment of my life.