Page 28 of Broken
I ache to go to her, to touch her. I was right. I didn’t misread her.
“Then tell me what it said,” I say softly.
“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
I don’t answer, only lean forward, set my elbows on my thighs. I’m not eager to hear what it said because I know it’s bad. It’s clearly what tore us apart. The only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t fucking write it.
“It was fun, but it’s over.” She keeps her focus on the patterned carpet at her feet. “You’re good and all, but I can’t keep you. You have to know that. I’m a Bridger and you’re just another pussy I fucked at the spring.” She sighs. “That’s about the gist of it.”
I pop to my feet. “What the fuck?” I shout, knowing full well ’that I’m waking anyone else who may be sharing walls with Avery’s room.
“I’m not repeating it,” she says.
“You don’t have to.” I take a step toward her.
She retreats.
I take another step. “You think I wrote that shit?”
“It was signed by you. You mentioned the spring. You know, where I was just another pussy.”
Rage pulses through me. Who the hell saw us? And she knew that she was my first. We talked about it. We…
Fuck. She thinks I lied to her. That—
I take another step toward her, trying to push down the anger because it’s not directed at her. It’s directed at whoever wrote the damned letter—and I have a pretty good idea who was behind it. “We were together fortwo years, Avery. I never took anyone there. Before or after you. You know it was the first time for both of us.”
She blinks. “Yeah, well, it’s fine. You made yourself clear with everything that you wrote before that.”
I tear my hat off, fling it on her unmade bed, and run my hands through my hair. “I didn’t write that! I didn’t write you a letter. Do I seem like the guy towrite a fucking letter?”
She flinches.
“Fuck, kitten. That’s what happened? You got that letter and left?”
“I—”
“Was it in my handwriting? Did you recognize my signature?”
“I—” She shakes her head. “You didn’t write letters, Chance. I didn’t know your signature.”
“You’re right.” I take another step. “I didn’t write letters. Idon’twrite letters.”
She steps back again, leans against the wall. “What are you saying?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper.
I close the space between us, but I don’t touch her. Since I’m taller, I bend at the waist so my eyes meet hers, which are now swimming with tears.
“Someone got between us, and I have a pretty fucking good idea of who.”
She licks her lips, the color leached from her soft cheeks.
“Your father?” she whispers.
I nod, close my eyes so I don’t punch my fist through the wall.
“But how—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I don’t want to take a second to think about how he did it. Or why. “What matters is that you’re here.”
