Still . . . I know I shouldn’t have spoken to Winnie like that.
Hallie was right. I was an ogre.
Flopping onto my back, I draped an arm over my forehead. Every time I thought about the hurt expression on her face when I’d snapped at her, or her pink nose when she came outside and didn’t want to be near me, my chest caved. But apologies didn’t come easy to me—mostly I was the kind of guy who’d rather dig his heels in and claw at the dirt than admit he was wrong or at fault.
And really . . . was I all that wrong? What was so bad about what I’d said? It was the truth! It’s not like we were dating. But it reminded me of the guilt I felt after Naomi would accuse me of shutting down or pushing her away. “You make it painful to love you,” she’d say. “Why won’t you let me in?”
I scowled, the old resentment bleeding fresh. I’d never asked her to love me. This was why I was better off alone. I didn’t want to owe anyone an explanation or an apology. I didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s feelings. I couldn’t be trusted with them.
In the end, I lay there so long I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark, and I sat up, groggy and disoriented. Checking my phone, I discovered it was after nine o’clock. I also discovered I’d missed a call from my sister and a text from Justin asking if I was okay.
But I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Exhaling, I set my phone aside and rubbed my face with both hands. There was a gaping pit in my stomach, and my head was throbbing.
I turned off all the lights and went upstairs to bed.
Seventeen
Dex
I was prepared for Justin to grill me at work the next morning, but he didn’t. In fact, he said nothing to me at all, which made me feel even worse.
Naomi sent me some photos of the girls’ first school morning, and their joyful smiles tugged at my heart. I felt terrible for yelling at them yesterday. None of this was their fault.
I went through the motions of my shift, which was uneventful. On one level, this was a good thing, since it meant there were no dire emergencies. But it left me with a lot of free time and headspace to think about things—Winnie, my father, my sister, my kids, my behavior—and none of it made me feel good about myself.
After dinner, I finally broke down and sought Justin out in the dorm room where he slept. He was seated at the desk flipping through a binder.
“Hey.” I leaned on the doorframe.
He barely glanced up. “Hey.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about yesterday?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my business.” He shrugged. “And Bree told me not to.”
I frowned. “Is she mad at me?”
“No, I wouldn’t say she’s mad. I think she’s hoping you’ll change your mind, but she understands why you feel the way you do.” He flipped a page in the binder. “She knows you.”
I hung around in the doorway another minute, scratching at a nick in the frame. “I was a dick to Winnie yesterday.”
“I figured something must have gone wrong.”
“It did.” When he didn’t ask me what it was, I kept going. “She knew I was upset about something, and when she wouldn’t leave me alone about it, I jumped down her throat.”
He nodded. Turned another page.
“I was mad at my dad and at the situation, and maybe even at my sister for being so trusting, and I took it out on her.” I cringed. “I said something real fucking shitty to her, and I’m sorry about it.”
Justin finally looked up. “Maybe you should be saying this to her, man.”
I exhaled. “Yeah, I know.”
After leaving the station Wednesday morning, I ran some errands and spent the afternoon painting the girls’ bedroom as a surprise for them—the wall behind Luna’s bed pink, the one behind Hallie’s bed lavender.
Dad guilt in all its pastel glory.
I looked at my phone a hundred times, but with every hour that went by, it just got harder to reach out.
Around seven, I called the girls, who told me all about their first couple days at school. Hallie was excited about a new friend she’d made, Luna adored kindergarten so far, and neither of them said a word about Winnie or my grumpy mood the other day—it was like they didn’t even remember it.
But I was sure Winnie hadn’t forgotten a thing.
Finally, just after eight o’clock, I sat down at the foot of my bed and sent her a text.
Sorry about Monday. I was a jerk.
I sent that, and while I was wondering if I should offer an excuse, she replied.
You were.
Exhaling, I texted her again. Can I explain?
You can try.
I don’t want to do it over text. Can I come over?
She didn’t respond right away.
I just got out of the shower.
Give me five minutes.
But I was so anxious to get the apology off my chest, I only gave her three—I didn’t even put shoes on, I just ran over there in bare feet, gray sweatpants, and a white T-shirt.
She answered the door in a short robe that tied at the front, her hair wet and uncombed, and a brush in her hand. She looked so young and pretty without makeup, my breath hitched. But her expression was anything but friendly.
“Come in,” she said tonelessly.
I followed her into her living room. When she sat on one end of the couch, I sat on the other. Rubbed my hands over my knees. Took a breath. “I owe you an apology.”
She began brushing her hair. Pinned me with cool, detached eyes. “Yes. You do.”
“I’m sorry for the way I treated you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“You really hurt my feelings.”
“I know.” I swallowed hard. “I could tell.”
“I was just trying to make sure you were okay. As a friend.”
“I wasn’t okay. But that’s no excuse for the things I said.” I took another deep breath. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Winnie. I was angry about something else and lashed out at you. I sincerely apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” she said, tugging at tangles at the back of her head.
Relieved—and grateful she was so understanding and sweet—I leaned over and reached for the brush. “Let me.”
“Huh?”
“Come sit here.” I moved toward the middle of the couch and widened my knees, patting the cushion between them.
She looked a little dubious, but she did as I asked. “You’re going to brush my hair?”
“Yes,” I said, starting at the bottom. “I have to make up for being a jerk to you. And besides, I’m good at this.”
She was silent as I combed through her hair with slow, smooth strokes. It smelled delicious—like coconut.
“How was your interview?” I asked.
“Good.”
“Did she offer you the job?”
“Yes.”
“Did you accept?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I did. But I haven’t even told anyone yet. You’re the first.”