“Ah. Tell me more.”
I stop and rub the back of my neck. “We were a big deal in high school, junior to senior year. He was the quarterback, and I was the cheerleader. It was true love, whatever. There were four of us who did everything together: me, Andrew, Skeeter, and Paisley. We graduated and went to UT together. Paisley and I joined a sorority, and they had football scholarships. I went there because of him—like, I followed him. I’d always wanted to go to school in New York . . .” My words trail off as I swallow thickly.
“They hurt you.” His gaze searches my face. “Fuckers.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Fuckers.”
He takes a bite out of his croissant. “That’s the spirit.”
“Give me half of that, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I might even make stuff up.”
He breaks off a piece and hands it to me.
I pop it in my mouth and chew. “First, I need to back up and give you the backstory—which is true, by the way.”
“Okay,” he muses. “We’re stuck here anyway.”
“My mom was a homemaker who sold Mary Kay makeup, but don’t let that fool you. She grew up with money; her family owned several banks in Dallas. Very strict, old-school, conservative people. She went to private school, had etiquette classes, even a debutante ball. They cut her off when she married my dad. They wanted her to marry someone from their circle, but she was in love. My dad was ten years older than her and a big rodeo star,” I say wistfully. “He was your typical cowboy on the circuit but didn’t see a future there long term after he met Mama. He quit the rodeo and managed a construction company. They were so happy . . .” I stop, a tug in my chest.
“You miss them.”
“So much.” I smile wryly. “Skipping that . . . Andrew came from money. Oil and cattle. Big sprawling mansion. Fancy cars. Paisley too. Her dad was in business with Andrew’s. They were all good friends and a lot like my mom’s family; they had certain expectations for their kids.”
He nods.
“My mom used to clean their houses on the side, and that’s how I met Andrew and Paisley as a kid, and I was drawn into their little circle. Mama insisted on putting me in pageants, right there with Paisley. Maybe it was because she wanted things for me that she had growing up—I don’t know, but she’d scrimp and save to buy my dresses or sew them herself. Sometimes I wore Paisley’s hand-me-downs.”
“Two friends slash rivals in a Texas pageant.”
I smirk. “Yep. Our senior year, it was me and her against everyone else in the pageant; then when it came down to just me and her, and I won the crown . . . she changed.” My nose scrunches. “But I wouldn’t see it for what it was until later.”
“She wanted your tiara.” He tears the last bit of his pastry and gives me half.
“Thanks. She wanted everything I had, no matter what. She took Andrew—”
“Then he was a fool,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt this episode of As Blue Belle Turns. Please continue.”
Our chests brushing, I take his Bobcats ball cap off and put it on my head. “My payment for the rest of the story. It’s a bad hair day.”
He huffs. “You marched into my party, your cat attacked a guest, then you told me off in front of everyone. You’ve eaten my pastry and taken my favorite hat, yet you’re chicken to face your high school nemesis?”
“You wanna see Melinda?”
“Well played.”
“Right. So back to the saga. We made it to our sophomore year at UT, and I kept expecting an engagement from Andrew, but he grew distant. I’d text him, and he’d reply hours later.” I frown at the swell of emotion that digs into my chest, the hurt that never goes away.
Ronan tenses. “Hey. You don’t have to explain if it’s painful. I was just trying to . . .”
“No, I started this. Maybe it’s good to talk. I loved him. Madly. He’d been my sole focus for four years.” I take a breath. “A lot of weekends, I came home to help Mama with Sabine, and I missed a lot of his games, but that Sunday I came back early. I had a key to his place and went over to surprise him. I walked in the kitchen, and on the table were candles and leftovers from a dinner. It was chicken breasts stuffed with mozzarella and spinach, and there’s only one girl who loved to cook that . . . Paisley. I stood in the kitchen for a long time, taking in the food, my head processing. Then I heard them. I eased open his door, and they were having sex . . .” This is definitely TMI, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s the images in my head. Their feet tangling on the bed, their soft whispers. “I—I didn’t stop them. I just sat down outside his bedroom and listened. I needed to hear it all, to really let it sink in . . .” I pause. “Have you ever been betrayed like that?”