Page 80 of Shadowed Whispers

I never wanted to hurt Tori. Hell, I didn’t really want what happened with Bishop to happen either, and I don’t think telling her it won’t happen again is going to make a lick of a difference. That man is my own personal catnip.

“I didn’t know?—”

She cuts me off, her voice sharp and cold. “What? That Bishop and I were an item? Didn’t I say it enough?”

“I mean, technically, no.” I wince because that definitely wasn’t the right thing to say. “If I had known you were serious, I wouldn’t have slept with him.”

“So you did fuck him.” Her face turns bright red.

Oh, shit. “You played me.” Well done.

“I wanted an answer, and it looks like I got one,” she snaps at me, her hands trembling as she begins to pack up her things.

“Tori.” I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the moment. I have no idea how I got to this point, and honestly, I have no idea how to navigate through this situation. I don’t want to ignore it and let it fester and get worse, but I also don’t know the right path forward.

Even worse, I feel horrible.

“I feel bad,” I continue, my voice softening, trying to intercept her movements as she shoves books into her bag. “I’m not trying to excuse what happened. It was a mess, and I know it hurt you.”

I hurt me too, but that is beside the point.

Tori pauses, gripping the strap of her bag tight enough to turn her knuckles white. “Hurt doesn’t even start to cover it, Frankie. You think a simple I feel bad fixes anything?” Her voice cracks, a sharp, raw edge slicing through the tension-filled air between us. The dim light of the bar flickers slightly, casting ephemeral shadows that seem to underscore the gravity of the moment.

She took one look at Bishop freshman year and called dibs. She finally got him to acknowledge her this year, and then… yeah. It sucks. No one was ever there for me when my teen years took a wild turn, and I haven’t had a friend, not before and not after. I don’t know how to be a friend.

“I know it doesn’t fix it. Nothing can just fix this,” I say, my own frustration mounting. The words feel clumsy in my mouth, as if they are weighted with all my regrets. “I’m not asking for immediate forgiveness, Tori. I just... We have to work together on this project. We don’t have to like each other, but we can’t even start if we don’t talk.”

She snorts and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Talk? Like how you should have talked to me before falling on Bishop’s dick? Was that the kind of communication you mean?”

I flinch. She’s right. My silence then had been deafening, a betrayal by omission. “I screwed up, Tori. I should have come to you first. I should have respected your relationship.” I didn’t think they were truly together, but I knew she was in love with him.

“Respect?” Tori laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Her laugh is a harsh, scoffing sound that bounces off the bar walls. “You don’t know the first thing about respect, Frankie. Respect would have been you not doing it in the first place. Respect would have been you not pretending everything was fine while we passed each other in the halls and sat in the same classes or, for that matter, slept in the same room.”

The words sting more than I expect them to, maybe because every accusation is true. “I know, and I can’t change what I did, but I’m here now, trying to... to at least start making it right.” Is this how a normal girl would react?

Am I messing this up more?

“Making it right?” She shakes her head, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “You can’t undo the past, Frankie. You can’t un-sleep with someone. You can’t unbreak trust.”

“I understand that,” I respond, my voice steady despite my inner turmoil. The air is thick with the smell of stale beer and the undercurrent of a hundred other bar conversations, none as strained as ours. “But we have to deal with this. We’re stuck with each other for this assignment, like it or not. Maybe we can use it to clear the air. Fully. Honestly. It won’t fix what happened, but maybe it can be a start.”

Tori’s eyes narrow, weighing my words. “Clear the air? You want to air out our dirty laundry while we’re trying to work on a technical writing paper?” She seems incredulous, but she hasn’t walked away yet, which I take as a minor victory.

Baby steps.

“Maybe it’s the best time,” I suggest. “When else are we going to have a forced setting where we can’t walk away from each other? We’re going to have to face this sooner or later.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that stretches out too thin, ready to snap. Finally, Tori sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine, but this isn’t about forgiveness, Frankie. This is about getting through this project. That’s it.”

“That’s fair,” I acknowledge, nodding. My heart isn’t lighter, but there’s a thread of relief. Just having this conversation feels like a crack in a long sealed door.

Not only that, but I feel better. Imagine that. Admitting the truth to this person who has been nothing but a bitch to me for years actually feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

She sets her bag down with a thud, resigned. “Let’s just get this over with, but I’m doing this for the grade, not for you. Got it?” She grabs her drink and downs it in one go before slamming the glass on the table.

“Got it,” I reply, agreeing to our shaky truce, if I can even call it that.

With a heavy silence settling between us, we begin.

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