I stare up at him, searching his gaze. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink.
“I thought you knew that much about me, at least,” he says in a broken tone.
“Why do you think I was so upset?” I rasp. “It killed something in me to see that.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Why didn’t you confront me back then?”
“Because it would hurt the band. Hurt Killian. It was my job to keep you guys going. No matter what.”
Rye hasn’t let me go. His grip burns through my shirt. “That’s why you really hated me all these years, isn’t it?”
“I was so disappointed in you,” I whisper through numb lips. “I couldn’t look at you without seeing it. For so long, I truly hated you for that.”
“And yet you let me into your bed.” It isn’t an accusation. He’s surprised. Moreover, he’s clearly confused.
“It’s been years at this point. And I’ve seen the way you’re always there for the guys.” I shrug weakly, my shoulders weighed down. “I knew you were drunk, and I figured maybe it was time to let it go.”
His hand slips from my arm. “But you didn’t. Not really. It’s been oozing between us like sewage.”
Dully, I nod, glancing down at my feet. “I don’t like to think of it. But when you said you’d be at the party…”
“And Isabella will be there too,” he finishes succinctly.
My breath hitches. “I didn’t want to remember, Rye.”
Rye runs a hand over his jaw. “And now? Do you believe me?”
We’re standing close enough to touch, but there’s an ocean of history flowing between us now. It would be easy to say he’s lying to save his ass. Except I know this man better now. I know he has a core of integrity that is stronger than steel.
I’ve been quiet too long. He moves, as though to go, and I hold out a hand. “Of course, I believe you.”
Pressing his lips together, he stares at me as though he’s trying to see if I really mean it. But then he shakes his head and turns away. “You know what exhibit I never remember to visit? The eighteenth-century French and English rooms they have set up—”
“Rye…”
He keeps walking. Not fast, but steady enough that I know he’s not going to stop. I have no choice but to follow, my heels clicking loudly on the limestone floors. They say the truth shall set you free. Doesn’t feel that way at the moment. It feels like I’ve sent us back to the beginning.
Chapter Nineteen
Rye
I’m running away from an argument with Brenna. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore. But I can’t shake the weight of disappointment and frustration crawling down my throat. I can’t joke right now. I can’t be the guy who pretends nothing matters.
Brenna’s heels click in that familiar pattern of hers. I hear that clickety-click in my sleep some nights and wake up smiling. Damn it, why did it have to be her? Out of all the women in the world, the one that thinks I’m dirt is the one I want.
“Rye…” She sounds tentative, remorseful. And even though I want to ignore her, I can’t. Never could.
Letting out a breath, I slow my stride so she can catch up. But I can’t look at her. Not yet.
We’ve reached the American wing, another light-filled, glass-covered courtyard. There’s a cafe at the far end by the windows, and the scent of stale coffee and warm bread fills the air. I hang a left and step into the relative quiet of a neoclassical interiors gallery.
Brenna follows, and when I stop to stare unseeing at an exhibit, she stands just behind me like she’s afraid to face me. The idea sends a wave of exhaustion through my body.
“All this time,” I croak, my throat too thick. “You hated me for something that I didn’t do.”
The air stirs with her sigh. My skin twitches when her hand settles on the back of my arm. “Rye, I’m sorry.” With another sigh, she rests her forehead between my shoulder blades. When she slides her arms around my waist, I close my eyes tight.
“It’s okay,” I get out. “I’d have come to that conclusion if I’d seen the same.”
She holds me a bit tighter, her hand spreading wide over my abs. “You would have confronted the person and demanded an explanation.”
“I get why you didn’t.”
Brenna hums in doubt, her fingers pressing into me like she’s afraid I’ll move away. “I let my feelings for you color my judgment. You weren’t exactly my favorite person back then.”
“I know.”
The movement of her lips against my shirt tickles, and yet it feels so good, I want to lean into her. I hold steady as she talks. “It was so petty, that dislike. You rejected me, and I acted like a spoiled brat, hating you when it was your prerogative not to want me that way.”