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“We were together for a long time. It ended badly. Now we can’t decide if we hate each other or not.”

“That’s slightly more informative than ‘it’s complicated,’ but not by much.”

He sighs. “What do you want me to say? That we were in love? That we destroyed each other? That the island’s too small for both of us but neither of us will leave?”

“Yes, actually. That’s exactly what I want you to say. The truth.”

“Fine.” His words harden. “We met when we were nineteen. Both island kids from the wrong side of the tracks. He was delivering fish to the big houses; I was gardening. Started talking. Started fucking. Kept at it for two years.”

The bluntness surprises me. “What happened?”

“What always happens. Life. Mistakes. Betrayal.” His eyes stay fixed on the road. “I left for Italy for a few months after… after some stressful times. Needed space to sort some things out. When I came back, he was with someone else.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He takes another curve, the headlights briefly illuminating a deer watching from the treeline. “When I confronted him about it, he said it didn’t mean anything. That he thought I wasn’t coming back. That he was just passing time.”

“And you didn’t believe him?”

“I believed him. That’s the problem. It was so easy for him to replace me that it really didn’t mean anything to him.”

“Is that why you hate each other now?”

“We don’t hate each other. Not really.” His mouth quirks up at one corner. “We just can’t figure out how to be around each other without falling back into old patterns.”

“Like sleeping together even though you’re broken up?”

He glances at me, surprise evident in his expression. “How did you?—”

“I have eyes, Damiano. The way you look at each other. The tension. Plus Flint pretty much confirmed it.”

“Did he.” His voice is flat.

“Does it bother you?That I know?”

“No.” A pause. “Does it bother you?”

The question catches me off guard. “Why would it bother me?”

“Because of last night.”

Right. Last night. When I was in his bed, while less than twenty-four hours later I’d be letting Flint push me against a desk, his fingers inside me, my body responding just as eagerly.

“No,” I say, too quickly. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

I’m such a liar.

The Jeep falls silent again as we approach the estate. The main house stands dark against the night sky, only a few lights burning in the downstairs windows. Mrs. Fletcher must still be up, waiting for me.

We stop. I should get out immediately, but something keeps me in my seat.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “For coming to find me. Even though it pissed me off.”

“You’re welcome.” He stares straight ahead for a moment, then turns to face me. “You were with him, weren’t you? With Flint.”

It’s not an accusation, merely a simple statement of fact. My breath catches, but I don’t deny it.

“I know Flint.” His voice is quiet, almost resigned. “And I know that look. The one you’re wearing now.”