Page 92 of Caught Up In You

“I didn’t want you to be alone!” I cry.

She rolls her eyes. “Ah, yes. That doesn’t make me feel at all pathetic.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my best friend like that,” Grace slurs.

“I’m just saying, I’m not looking forward to sharing a room with you while you silently pine for that giant hunk of pediatrician across the hall. I’d much rather order the entire room service dessert menu and sample everything while watching HGTV.”

“But—”

She holds up her finger in a kindergarten teacherdon’t you darewarning. “No. You’re not going to use me as some kind of smoke screen to trick yourself into believing you’re not in a relationship with that man.”

I look at Grace for support, but she practically turns her back on me. “Hey, I’m with her on this one,” she says, then hiccups. “I know you have a whole dark and twisty past that makes you fear relationships that you like to keep secret. And that’s fine. We’re your friends and will love you irre—I mean, regardless. And we’ll be here if you ever want to share it. But we’re done pretending when it comes to my brother.”

“Gobewith him,” Carson pleads.

But I’m still stuck on the “dark and twisty past.”

“I’m not trying to hide things from you guys,” I say, the alcohol catching up with me and making me feel a touch of melancholy.

“We know, hon,” Grace says.

“We figured you’d tell us about it when you were ready,” Carson says.

“We’ve tried to be patient, but it’s hard, okay? Because we love you,” Grace adds.

Suddenly we all morph into a pack of stereotypical drunk girls weeping into our champagne.

And I tell them. Everything. About Romy and our adventures in Nashville. About meeting Griffin and how the three of us became a trio. About how things slowly began to change after Griffin and I started dating. How he’d disappear and come home smelling like perfume. How girls would show up at the apartment and he’d say they were crazed fans. How he quit his job so he could pursue music and I supported him emotionallyandfinancially while he contributed nothing.

And finally, how the night I got the call about Libby’s arrest, I walked in on Griffin kissing Romy on our couch.

“And I think the reason I kept Romy at arm’s length, even though Iknewin my heart that she didn’t do anything wrong, was that even being reminded of Nashville made me face my greatest failure,” I finish.

Carson’s champagne glass hits the bedside table with a heavy thud. “Do not give that man that kind of power,” she says, her voice lower than I’ve ever heard it.

I sigh. “It’s not even about him, though. Not really. It’s that I should haveknownbetter. I grew up with Libby Hart. I watched her give her heart to a string of men who were more suited to being gas station dumpsters on a hot July afternoon than halfway decent boyfriends. She picked garden-variety jerks, abusers, leeches who took what little she had, and all of them left her in the end. I watched her cry over those assholes. Real honest-to-god tears. And I told myself I’d never let that happen to me. I’d do better. So I should have seen him coming.

“Instead, I ignored it when Griffin quit his job to take gigs even though it meant I had to pick up extra shifts to cover the rent. I explained it away when he came home from a show with lipstick on him or panties in his pocket. I laughed it off when he borrowed my truck and got it towed, then stuck me with the cost of getting it back. When I finally walked in on him kissing Romy, it hit me.Ihad picked him.Iwas the one making excuses for him.Ihad put myself in this situation. I was no better than Libby.”

Grace’s eyes are watery, but Carson looks furious.

“Fuck off with that,” she says finally.

“Carson!” Grace cries.

“What doesthatmean?” I gasp. “I finally pour out my dark and twisty past and you tell me to fuck off?”

Carson settles back against the headboard and sips on her champagne like she didn’t just swear at me. “It means fuck off withthat. With taking responsibility for men who will under no circumstances take responsibility for themselves. With blaming the victim for the atrocious behavior of men—and that includes your mother, by the way. Fuckoffwith that. You’re Wyatt Fucking Hart, and some walking case of syphilis disguised as a drugstore cowboy can’t take you down.”

There’s a beat of silence in the hotel room.

“Damn, Carson,” I say.

“What? Are you seriously telling me that Griffin Stone still has so much power over you that you’re going to let him keep you from a man so good that he’s spent several months letting you pretend this is just a hookup even though he’s clearly in love with you?”

I open my mouth to reply, but I have no words.

“Truly, Wyatt. Fuck. Off. With. That.”

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