Page 2 of Don't Say You're Sorry

She nods, hiding her disappointment behind a smile. “Does Easton know you’re here?” she asks, and I almost choke on my champagne at the sound of his name.

When she turns to search for him, I panic and blurt out, “I already said hi to him. He knew I was coming.”

More lies. So many fucking lies.

She pouts. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I told him not to.”

She raises a skeptical brow. “That boy can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

You’d be surprised, Mum.

When she blows a kiss to her stepson, he doesn’t miss a beat. He has no idea what’s going on or what we’re talking about, but he still grins and blows her one back, meeting my eyes again for a moment before he goes back to dancing with his date.

When my mum waves her husband over, he looks shocked to see me here, then pissed, just as I knew he would be. He hides it well as he walks over to us. He doesn’t try to hug me, but my mum doesn’t find that suspicious. Michael Miller is not a hugger.

We catch up, and I ask about their lives, their friends, his company, my mum’s bookstore, and all the money they’ve raised for several different charities so far this year. I try to keep them talking about themselves, but it doesn’t work for as long as I hoped it would. They ask about me, and I tell them some half-truths about my life in London, leaving out the part about me being so pathetic that I barely leave the flat. The friends I tell them about are actually my brother’s friends, not mine. I never cared enough to make any of my own.

They ask me about guys, and I shrug as if I’m keeping that part of my life private, when in reality, there are no guys. There’s only ever beenoneguy, and he’s dancing with his date just a fewfeet away. I feel his eyes on my face every few seconds, and my heart gallops as if it’s desperate to go to him.

I don’t have to lie about my work. I love being an artist. Even so, I’m not happy in London, but I’ve gotten good at pretending I am, so they don’t suspect I’m lying.

Michael has the nerve to give me a quick nod of approval when my mother turns to grab another glass of champagne. I pretend not to notice.

Fuck him and his approval.

When it’s time for their dance, I breathe a sigh of relief and go to the bar.

Everyone gathers around the dance floor as their wedding song starts to play. I remember their first dance exactly ten years ago today, how ridiculously happy they looked, how they smiled over at me and my new stepbrother while we stood side by side. We were eleven. When it was time for everyone to join in, the fucker grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. He knew I hated dancing. He and my mum laughed, and I reluctantly wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tight while he swung us side to side. Neither of us knew how to slow dance. It was awful. There’s a video of the whole thing on his phone, or at least there used to be. I used to smack him upside the head every time he played it to embarrass me. I never told him that was one of the best moments of my life, though.

Just like that day ten years ago, every eye in the room is on my mum and her husband. They’re so in love, sometimes it hurts to look at them, so I don’t this time. I look over to find my stepbrother watching me, waiting. He smiles, but it feels off. It makes me nervous. I used to be able to read every expression on his face, but I can’t read this one. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

He tilts his head toward the bathrooms, and my heart somersaults. I’m just about to nod, but he’s already lookingaway. He doesn’t need my confirmation. He knows I’ll follow him.

After the dance ends, he says something to his date, who nods and heads for the bar. I walk toward the bathroom, feeling his eyes on my back the entire time. It takes an extreme amount of effort not to look back at him.

We’re discreet. This isn’t our first time sneaking away to be alone together. We know how to get away with it.

When I get there, I check the stalls are empty before pacing back and forth, feeling sick with anticipation and dread.

What am I going to say to him?

What is he going to say to me?

The door opens, and I spin toward it, coming face-to-face with my stepbrother—the guy I’ve wanted for what feels like forever but could never keep.

He’s so close, I can smell him. He smells like soap and…me. He smells like the aftershave I wear. I don’t get to think about that for more than a second before he’s reaching behind him, distracting me by snapping the lock into place. Leaning against the door, he slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, his light brown hair longer on top and shorter on the sides, his sky-blue eyes holding mine, his lips tilted up at the way I’m devouring him with my eyes. Always so confident.

Not always.

I remember the way he looked at me the day I left—the way he cried, fought, begged—and all the breath whooshes out of my lungs.

“Easton,” I whisper.

He quickly closes the distance between us, and I startle. Just when I think he’s about to hug me, or kiss me, or shove me back against the wall and demand to know why the fuck I haven’t been home in three and a half years, he punches me in the face.My head jerks back, and I let out a grunt, touching the blood dripping out of my nose.

Huffing through my mouth, I nod. I deserved that.

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