I fumble backward and grab Kaitlyn’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t be mad at me.”
My gaze goes from her to Christian, back to her again. “What have you done, Kaitlyn?”
“I need you to trust me on this.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Please, Maize. If you can’t do this for you, do it for me.”
My brain is a fuzzy mess, trying to figure out what she’s talking about when Christian takes long strides and closes the distance between us. My God, he has dark patches under his eyes that match mine. Has he not slept in a week either?
There’s a pleading look in his eyes when he says, “I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Christian.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need you to talk. I need you to listen.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“The first thing I want to say is I know you’re not like my mother. I know you’d never do it on purpose, Maize…and you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll always be there for you. I want to be there for you, if you’ll let me. I didn’t know that this was what I wanted until I met you.”
I stand there staring at him, the mixture of sadness and hope mingling in his eyes, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. You’re not like my mother. What the hell? I open my mouth to ask, but he presses a finger to my lips to hush me.
“The second thing I have to say is I think you were given wrong information. I’m certain of it. Linc and I talked, and we put it together.”
I glance around the room, and all eyes turn away, all except Kaitlyn’s. She’s keeping a close eye on me to make sure I’m okay, and I appreciate that. I realize she brought me here for a reason, and I trust her. There’s something she needs me to hear, so I’ll hear it, despite the fact that I’m is shaking so hard, it’s near impossible to stand. I glance back at Christian, and my legs nearly give way. The mere sight of him is messing with my brain and my body. I slide onto the bar stool.
“Wrong information?” I’m seriously lost here. If he’s talking about him in bed with Chelsea, I saw the pictures with my own damn eyes. At least, I think I did. I can for sure say it was his room, but the couple was dark. Why would anyone else be in his room, and in his bed, right? Something in the way that he looks at me tells me I’m about to find out, so I close my mouth and let him finish, hoping that everything he’s saying will eventually make sense.
“Let me back up,” he says and takes a deep breath.
“Every year my parents have a Christmas party. I hate it.”
“Wait, it wasn’t your party?”
“No, it’s a big family party and I’m expected to be there, and Mom invites her friends, and everyone from her social circle…”
“Including Chelsea.”
“Yes.”
“Chelsea told me it was your party. I felt…” I glance down. “I ran into her at the coffee shop. I thought it was a weird coincidence.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, and takes another breath. “You thought I had a party and didn’t invite you.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m sorry, Maize. You can’t believe anything Chelsea tells you. And I know how that made you feel, actually. To think you weren’t invited…wanted.”
I blink up at him. “You do?”
“You asked me to drop you off two doors down, terrified your mother would see me.”
I’m about to protest, but it’s the truth. I did do that, not thinking how it would make him feel. We weren’t officially a couple, but I was in love with him, and I never stopped to think how much that would hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, accepting responsibility. “I never stopped to think.”
“It’s okay, I understand. You didn’t know where we stood, or how I felt and that’s my fault. I should have told you how I felt, but there’s a small chance I’m a bit of a chicken shit.” My lips wobble, but he goes completely serious and adds, “The truth is, Maize, I didn’t invite you because you would have hated it. I hate it. I only go because…well, because I always have to play the role of the good son. You know me, always having to do the right thing. I fucking hate it, but it’s been ingrained into me since I was a boy. I wanted you at that party more than anything in the world. Not at the party because you’d hate it, but I wanted you with me. I thought about you the whole time, and sent you tons of texts beforehand, you just never responded.”
“I did respond. I was busy with Mom when your messages came in and when I finally had a moment, I crawled into bed, and sent a dozen messages back, but I only got one message from you.”
“What?” he asks, his eyes wide, filled with worry.
I take my phone from my back pocket, and show him the text that says I’d be at the coffee shop and his response of, Busy, can’t.
“Fuck, I didn’t write that. I would never be too busy for you.”
I run my finger along the phone and show him all the texts I sent him.
He exhales and his shoulders sag. “I never got any of them.” He hands me his phone. “Look.”
I take a look, note the texts from me are gone. I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I dropped my phone, and Linc had it. Chelsea must have gotten hold of it when she was in my room, answered you, then deleted them. That’s how she knew you were at the coffee shop. It wasn’t a coincidence and it’s the only logical explanation.”
“And the only logical explanation of the pictures I saw of your bedroom, with her in your bed was that she was
