The Dirty Truth

“Scarlett,” I call out, hoping to catch her before she boards the elevator.

“Yeah?” She pokes her head in the doorway a second later, her tone making no bones about the inconvenience.

“Have you texted Elle lately?” I ask. “In the last few days?”

Hesitating, she nods. “I did . . . this morning, actually. Why?”

“Did she respond?”

“Nope.” She folds her arms. “She’s probably done with us . . . I don’t blame her. We were so cruel to her on Friday, and all she’s ever been is kind to us.”

It’s the most Scarlett’s said in days—and she isn’t wrong.

Dragging my hand along my tight jaw, I contemplate my next move. It’s one thing for Elle to ignore me, but she would never abandon Scarlett this way.

I owe her an apology . . . in person.

“Can I go now?” Scarlett asks.

Folding my napkin over my plate, I nod. “Yes, Scarlett. Good night.”

And then I call my driver, arrange for Bettina to stay a little longer, and make my way to Elle’s apartment to grovel like my life depends on it. Because in a way it does. A life without Elle is no life for me.

“If you’re looking for Elle, she’s not here.” A curly-haired blonde stops me outside Elle’s building. “She’s at Lenox Hill.”

“What?”

Skipping to the curb, she lifts her arm to hail a taxi.

“I’m Indie, by the way,” she says, waving at a cab that passes—and ignores her.

“West.”

“Yeah.” She smirks. “Trust me, I know exactly who you are.”

Another cab speeds past without so much as slowing down.

“Why is she at Lenox Hill?” I ask. “What happened?”

“She was having blurred vision . . . a severe headache . . . good Lord.” She stamps her foot when a third cab passes. “Am I invisible or what?”

“I’ll take you.” I usher her to my car, grabbing the passenger door for her.

Indie slides across the back seat, watching me through a side-eyed glance. “You’re just dropping me off, right? You’re not actually thinking about going in . . .”

“Of course I’m going in.” Leaning forward, I tell my driver to take us to Lenox Hill immediately.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Indie winces. “She hasn’t exactly been singing your praises the last few days.”

I can only imagine the colorful opinions she’s been sharing, but I’ll be damned if I leave her in some hospital like a heartless bastard.

“I’ll sit in the waiting room if I have to,” I say. “But I’m staying. And I’m not leaving until she does.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ELLE

“Hey.” Indie’s voice fills my ear, and her soft hand slips over mine. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. They said they admitted you. Any updates?”

I leave my eyes closed despite knowing the room is as dark as they could make it. Any hint of light sets the pain in my head ablaze tenfold.

“They did some scans,” I say. “Just waiting on the doctor to read them.”

“I called your mom.”

“Did she freak out?” I’d laugh, but it would hurt too badly.

“Of course. She said she’s going to book the next flight here, but your dad talked her into waiting until we know what’s going on.”

“I bet that didn’t go over well.”

Indie chuckles. “Yeah, I had the privilege of listening to them argue for about five solid minutes. Solid entertainment.”

I’ll never forget the first time I met Indie’s parents during our early college days. I’d gone home with her for fall break, and by the end of the weekend, I commented on how perfect her parents seemed. They were like the Cleavers—proper and sweet and wholesome. She told me it wasn’t an act. That she’d never seen or heard them fight in her entire life. It was one of those weird little life moments that has always stuck with me.

“So . . . don’t be mad.” Indie draws her words out. “But there’s someone here who wants to see you. Any wild guesses?”

I groan. Now’s not the time for his legendary tenacity.

“I ran into him on my way out. He was at our apartment looking for you,” she says.

My head pulses. I’ve been dodging West’s calls and texts ever since his outburst the other morning. At first, I wanted some space. A little bit of time to separate myself from all the things I wanted to say in that moment. I knew if I fed into his messages, I’d get roped back in by his charming ways.

All I wanted was a little more time to figure things out.

And I wanted him to know I’m not a doormat—that he can’t speak to me the way he speaks to everyone else in his life and have me come crawling back the instant he apologizes.

As of last night, I was undecided about moving forward or pulling the plug on whatever this is—but then I woke up with a massive headache and blurred vision this morning, and now here I am.