Page 241 of Darling Venom
“Okay.”
I already had no intention of putting Terry’s name on this.
It was Kellan’s turn to shine.
“You do that, and I’ll keep it to myself that we finished.” He blew his cheeks out and released the air. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing if you stuck around and dislodged that stick from Tate’s ass.”
“Poetic.”
He belched, rubbing his belly, right above an unidentifiable stain. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
Since Terry was the one to bring Tate up this time, I decided to leap over the line between walking toward progress and racing toward it.
“If you won’t apologize to the author you stole The Imperfections from, at least try apologizing to Tate. Whatever it takes.”
Maybe I was reaching, but he did just agree to keep me in Tate’s life.
“It’s pointless. He won’t forgive me.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try.”
“I’m not worthy of redemption.”
“That’s Tate’s decision to make.” I shook my head. “The goal shouldn’t be redemption. It should be telling Tate you care enough to repair your relationship. A real apology isn’t given with the intention of healing yourself. That’s just a side effect.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I sucked my lower lip past my teeth, biting down. “After my parents died, I realized something I should have known earlier. I think you’ve realized it, too, but you’re having trouble admitting it because it means you’ll have to change your life from the bottom up.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Love is just being there for someone. It’s that simple.”
His brows pulled together. A crease developed between them. The air felt charged, but neither of us dared to drain it.
I turned to leave but stopped again when I realized Terry looked like he wanted to say something else.
“This is really it, huh?” To his credit, he seemed to dread the idea. His hands dipped into his pockets, feet rocking back.
I didn’t know if he was referring to the book, Tate, or our meetings.
Maybe all the above.
I waited for him to clarify.
“We finished.”
Ah. The book.
He meant the book.
Terry said finished like he never expected it to happen. Since The Imperfections, he’d never released again. This marked his first novel in nearly a decade.
And it wasn’t his own.
“We finished,” I rasped back. I selected my next words with caution, knowing I was treading dangerous waters with someone who had a tendency of turning to substances to cure his problems. “You’re not a fraud, Ter.”
“Of course not.” He lifted some fingers up, pretending to count them, wiggling all ten digits when he ran out. “I wrote thirteen books before The Imperfections ever happened.”
