Page 74 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“It was a mistake . . . but this has all gone too far.”
Those were all his words, spoken in his brogue, but Marisa recognized none of them. No sweet inflections. No tender humor.
Just phrase after phrase of painful . . . Oh, God, she couldn’t hear this. If she watched any more, she was liable to vomit all over Monica’s carefully crafted tablescapes.
And yet she couldn’t look away, and she sure as hell couldn’t look at Alec, who had remained at her side glued to his phone, his posture torturously stiff in her periphery.
“Marisa . . . She’s not your girlfriend.”
Her stomach sank at hearing her name, a confirmation of her implication in whatever the hell she was watching, but still, she couldn’t look away.
Because she knew what would come next, and like any good car wreck that stole much more than it saved, she had to witness it for herself.
“No, she’s not. I’ll . . . be leaving her alone.”
Tears rose up until the words before her were nothing more than a blurry sheen of betrayal.
Marisa tossed the phone into her bag, grabbed her coat, and ran out the back entrance of the tent. Her heels’ frenzied scrapes against the shoveled walkway mimicked the frantic beat of her heart as the damn muscle gasped out whatever confidence she’d worked so hard to fill it with.
“Marisa!” Outside the tent, Alec’s head was on a swivel. Once they locked eyes—hers tear-rimmed, his crazed—he wasted no time vaulting over a large garbage can to get to her. “Marisa. This . . .” He held up the phone. “I didn’t say . . . Those weren’t?—”
“Your words? They sure as hell sounded like your words. Unless you think Phoebe was wrong and I’m actually dating a slew of other Scottish guys in North Jersey.”
“Dammit, can’t we just talk about this without the sarcasm?”
“Why? Why are you allowed to have your armor, but I’m not? Why are you allowed to meet with her and have a private conversation about me, and I’m not allowed to combat it with the only weapons I have?”
“Jesus Christ, will you just listen to me? Please.” Something akin to heartbreak twisted his features, strengthening the plea in his voice and causing her resolve to falter slightly.
“Explain,” she bit out, trembling from rage rather than cold. “Now. Why were you even with her, after how she treated me?”
Alec shook his head in frustration, dragging a hand over his face. “I set up a meeting with her, aye. But I did it because I discovered her involvement in sabotaging your efforts for the Ball.”
Her blood froze. “What?”
“The Jamaican ginger extract. She was the one who snuffled up all the supply after she saw how popular your gingerbread post was on social media. I confirmed it with the grocer when I was trying to see whether I could get a quantity in for you by some bloody miracle.”
Marisa’s throat tightened around the few breaths she could still summon. “I don’t believe you.”
“You should, because it’s true, and I went to confront her about it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to drag you any further into my mess. Lord knows I’ve fucked up enough already.”
“That’s what partners do, though. They drag each other into their messes, knowing they’ll each have the other to lean on through it all.”
Unless she’d read the room wrong this whole time.
Unless they weren’t actually partners.
His sentiments from the video rose up to strangle her over and over again, with nary a stammer or misstep to be found. Nothing but smoky, low-timbred surety delivered in the precise number of words needed to deliver his message. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Marisa . . .” Alec entreated.
“I can manage my own life, you know,” she said through a thick throat. “Despite what my family thinks, or what the whole fucking world thinks, I can manage it. I’m a person capable of making the right choices.” She stomped her foot, but even that couldn’t help the statement sound less hollow.
“Of course you are. You’re brilliant. Marisa, you’re?—”
