Page 186 of On the Breakaway

Regret.

Devastation.

I know my face mirrors his.

The girls all go silent, their eyes burning into me, while my body becomes hyperaware of the fact that we are not alone and this is not private.

Grayson doesn’t seem to notice at all, the color draining from his face in response to my hesitancy.

Seeing him like this feels like being run over by a truck.

God.

I almost tell him it’s okay, but my brain feels like it’s moving through mud.

Everything is too loud and too much.

And I can’t tell him everything’s okay when a tiny, terrified part of me is now wondering if I’ve been wrong about how steady he is.

“Avery,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”

The words crack something open inside me.

“You promised.” My voice breaks. “You promised me you wouldn’t do that.”

His jaw tightens. “Baby, you have no idea what he said.”

“What he said doesn’t matter.”

“Why does he keep calling her baby?” Wesley whispers to someone behind me.

It sends nerves skittering up my spine because this isn’t how I wanted people to find out.

His voice doesn’t waver this time. “It absolutely does matter.”

“No.” My voice cracks again. “It doesn’t. I don’t give a fuck about Damon Woods. I give a fuck about you. And you promised me he couldn’t get to us.”

We stand watching each other, only a few feet apart, somehow feeling like miles.

“What did you expect? After everything he did to you?"

My chest tightens, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

Behind me, Wesley’s voice gets louder. “What the hell is he talking about?”

Then Harper says, “What did Damon do?”

Sloane adds to the voices, “Wait, are you guys like together?”

A few more questions ring out, and I close my eyes, tuning them and focusing only on breathing.

“Can everyone just shut up? Just stop talking. Please,” I snap, not bothering to look at my friends, too terrified to see pity from whatever they now think they know about Damon, or hurt from me hiding what I have with Grayson.

Everyone falls silent.

Grayson is still staring at me, and he doesn’t even look sorry anymore. He looks like he’s already lost, as if somewhere between the ice and right here, he’s convinced himself he knows exactly how this conversation ends.

And every time I open my fucking mouth, I manage to make it worse.