Page 24 of My Favorite Bad Decision
“That should be fairly easy since your grandfathers were poor as fuck,” he replied.
He asked what my favorite subject was.
“Better-looking men my sister could be dating,” I said.
“I’m just glad it’s not math or science,” he replied, knowing good and well those were my favorite subjects. “Women don’t belong in those fields.”
He goaded me and I hated it. No, actually, I hated how much I loved it, until the day when I somehow went too far. When he was teasing me about popsicles and we started talking about Maren’s friend hitting on me, and suddenly he was walking out of the room, walking out of the house, telling Maren he had to get back to the city for reasons that were obviously fabricated, breaking up with her by text that night.
My mother demanded to know what I’d done as my sister cried herself to sleep. I insisted I hadn’t said a word, but of course I had. It hadn’t seemed any worse than a million things I’d said previously, yet a part of me wondered if it had been my fault, if I’d somehow pushed him too far.
It’s taken a decade, but I can finally admit something to myself: one of the reasons I have hated Miller for so long isn’t because he broke up with my sister. It’s that I felt guilty about my possible role in it.
I wobble as I plant a single boot on a rock in the middle of a stream. His hand shoots out to the small of my back.
God, he’d have been so much better for Maren than Harvey is.
He’d encourage her painting. He’d be the sort of husband who’d brag about his brilliant, talented wife, who’d seek out some amazing artists’ vacation in Italy just to make her happy. For their anniversary, he’d get her into the Uffizi or the Louvre after hours instead of just giving her a random necklace he didn’t even choose himself. He’d care about her enough to remember her favorite flowers or that Indian food gives her heartburn. Harvey doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him as I reach dry land at last and we are told to take a quick break.
He raises a brow. “For which of your many transgressions are you apologizing?”
I give him a halfhearted smile while flipping him off. “I knew I’d regret initiating this conversation.”
“I was just so surprised that you even knew how to say the words,’” he replies, grinning as he leans against the boulder beside me. “Did the porters teach them to you?”
I flip him off again, muffling a laugh. “Never mind.”
“But seriously,” he says, sipping on his water bottle, “you’ve actually been significantly more pleasant today than you normally are, so what are you apologizing for?”
The sight of him drinking makes me thirsty. If it’s possible to have a really sensual throat, Miller has one.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you for so long,” I reply.
He hitches a shoulder. “It made sense. You’ve always defended Maren to the death. I broke up with her and I know she was really upset.”
“She wasn’tthatupset,” I argue, though it’s a lie. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He laughs. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
My family would certainly agree. “I believe I’ve heard that before, yes. Anyway, I’m sorry that I was such a brat and I’m realizing as this trip progresses that it wasn’t entirely about you breaking up with Maren. It was because you did it right after we had that conversation in the Hamptons, and I felt responsible.”
A muscle ticks along his jawline. “You weren’t responsible.”
“But would it have happened if I hadn’t been such a bitch to you all the time?”
There’s chatter from the group of people coming up behind us, but he meets my eye for one long moment before we start walking again. “It wasn’t your fault, Kit. I promise you.”
Then why did it happen, Miller?There’s something he’s not telling me here, and my mouth opens to demand the answer, to tell him that Marenwasdevastated…except Maren wouldn’t want him to know, and the truth is she wasn’t the only one who was devastated when he left.
She was just the only one who was allowed to be.
By the time we reach our next stopping point, the weather has changed. The wind is blowing hard, and the clouds have found us again. We’re also on a flat, exposed area, shielded from none of it. I sit at the table the porters have set up for us and pour myself cocoa, quietly grateful that Miller is sitting close, blocking some of the wind.
If I’m this miserable when it’s forty degrees, how the hell am I going to deal with it being twenty below at the summit?
“I sure hope it doesn’t get any colder than this,” I say to Miller, with a grin.
