Page 86 of Say You Will

I’m not trying to benice.

“This whole thing was my fault. I should have made an excuse to Charlotte and waited for you to get out of the shower instead of going downstairs without you,” she says.

“The likelihood of the two of us having a problem that is your fault, rather than mine, is virtually nil. Let’s establish that as a baseline,” I say.

“I can’t tell if you’re being facetious or ridiculous.”

“Darling, I’m a pain in the ass. I’d like to say I’ll stop, but—”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass?”

“No.” Her lips twitch in a repressed smile. “Don’t stop.”

twenty-six

Franki

You Say | Lauren Daigle

Ispend the nexthalf hour in silence wrestling with the conflicting emotions inside me. I went with Henry willingly because I want to believe we’re going to work out. I want all of it. Frightened was the last thing I felt when he picked me up over his shoulder.

Exhilaration and hope are at war with distrust and fear. Henry wants something more than just me. I knew that from his very first proposal. When he said he neededme, I thought he’d made a choice.

Then he asked me to marry him again last night, and the longer I’ve had for that proposal to sink in, the more it makes me question his motives. Especially after this morning. At the time, it was couched so sweetly and framed with sentiments that made me feel special. Made me feel loved. Who’s to say that when I shot down a business arrangement, he didn’t decide stupid, gullible Franki will do it if I convince her I care about her?

I don’t want to believe that. This past week has been the best one of my life. I feel good, not just about Henry, but about myself. Then he told his family that a relationship with me would be absurd, and it’s made me question everything that’s come before.

He says his rejection was a misunderstanding. Maybe it’s true, but I’ve lived through similar scenarios with my parents too many times to simply trust that there isn’t some level of manipulation happening.

This is how love bombing works. Time. Attention. Affection. Take it away, then give it back, but not quite as much as you had before. Lather, rinse, repeat. Until the object of your manipulation spends every moment striving to earn back what they think they’ve lost. My mother, swooping in periodically for mother-daughter bonding. Hugging me, telling me she loved me, then turning on me. Over and over. Wanting me to need her, but never willing to satisfy the need she deliberately fostered.

My father, smiling and indulgent when he saw me once a year or so, but harsh and dismissive if I wanted to speak to him outside of his own schedule.

My personal phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. I want to throw the thing straight out the window.What phone? I don’t have a phone.Instead, I fish it out of my pocket to see which of my parents wants to talk to me.

With a silent sigh, I accept the call. “Hey, Mom, how are you?”

“You can’t have heard what your asshole father has done, or you would not be saying, ‘Hey, Mom’ to me right now.” Her voice blares over the speaker.

“Whatever it is, it’s not worth letting it affect your peace.”

“It’s going to affect your peace too. You’re the one he’s lying about on social media. Henry McRae is going to go ballistic. How have you avoided the press?”

My stomach drops. “I’m not in New York at the moment.”

“Are you on a business trip?”

“No. I’m visiting a friend.”

“Without Henry, right? You didn’t take your boss on a weekend getaway with a friend. This is good. You need to put some distance between you.”

I scroll through Jonny’s social media accounts, nausea rising when I see the things he’s posted. “I’m with Henry. We’re visiting his sister.”

Mom moans. “When that gets out, it’s going to make things worse. There’s enough truth about being friends of the family to make it believable to people who don’t know you.”

I drop my head back against the headrest. Jonny has announced our “engagement” to the world and reposted photos of Henry and me from Finn’s wedding. He’s also added one of Henry and me when I was around twelve and Henry was sixteen. I don’t know how my father got his hands on the picture. I suppose Charlotte could have sent my parents photos I knew nothing about when I stayed with them.

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