Page 51 of Without a Clue

Cock a brow.

“Well, I gotta say, I’ve had a lot of responses. Not being sorry for me is a first.”

“Let me finish,” he says calmly. “I’ve held it in a long time.”

And there it is. A jolt of electricity up the spine. “Yeah?” I say calmly. “What?”

“And I’ve held my tongue through the years, but now it’s nice to finally say it.”

I set the knife down.

Turn to give him my full attention.

Everything in me. My cardigan giving him full attention. My hair that’s been wound up into a too-tight bun that I’m really regretting right now. Even my shoulders are leaning toward him a little, like daffodils reaching for the sun.

He takes a breath. Cricks his neck like he’s prepping for some real conversation. “Yeah.” He’s leaning forward now, elbows on knees. I’m now the sun to his daffodils too. “It’s a relief really. I hope you can allow me to say this even though it’s not . . . well, it’s not the best time.”

“Go for it,” I say automatically, more breathily than I mean to. Yes, it’s terrible Hugh is dead. Terrible. Lifetime of therapy terrible. But this is Nash. “If there’s anything to learn from all this,” I begin, while thoughts of All’s fair in love and war, There is no time like the present, and Seize the day poster bubbles spur me on, “it’s to live fully and in the present. Say anything you want, Nash. I’m listening.”

He nods.

I’ve given him full permission.

Three hundred people surround us.

The hum of excitement as waiters begin to stream out toward the tables, carrying curiously elaborate yogurts in cotton-candy pink and blue.

But I’ve never been more focused in my life.

A knife could whiz by my head and I wouldn’t move a muscle.

Nash takes another breath. Rubs his hands together for a few seconds. And plunges in. “I’m not the kind of man to put another man down, but . . . Michael was worthless. I’ve come across a lot of filthy people in my life, but, and I mean this with all my heart, he’s the absolute worst. I’m glad he did something so brazenly stupid you couldn’t possibly ignore it before it was too late.”

. . .

Wh—

. . .

What?

The little flutter of wings in my chest falls flat, dead on the ground in the pit of my stomach. Whatever thing I had hoped he would say was obviously not said, and instead was replaced with . . . well, with . . . this.

“I’m not an idiot,” I say, pushing my coffee cup away from me on the table as if it’s at fault and not him.

“I know,” Nash says quickly, putting both hands up in a stop position. “That’s not what I mean. I just . . . he’s been a . . . well, when he didn’t meet you on your birthday, for instance. What was that? Two years in a row—”

“He told me he missed the flight,” I reply heatedly, cheeks flaring.

I know there were signs.

I know all the things people have said to me, thought about me over the years.

Doesn’t he know how embarrassed I am?

I was glaringly the girl who gave excuses.

I once made excuses for him for ducking out halfway through a funeral.