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But he’s absorbed in his cell, ignoring me, fueling my frustration further. I impulsively grab the phone from his hand, wanting his full attention, and he roughly yanks it back. People stare at us.
“You said this trip was a detox for both of us,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes. “If that is no longer the case, return my phone.”
“Thisis important,” he replies dismissively.
He finally registers how upset I am. To keep up appearances, he leans forward, pressing his lips against my forehead. The gesture is performative, and it makes my skin crawl. I want to rub his saliva off my skin.
When he pulls away, he meets my eyes. “Don’t embarrass me.”
Although it comes out like a whisper, it’s a warning I hear loud and clear.
“Please offer that girl a thousand dollars to delete that photo,” I nearly beg.
“You’re making a scene,” he hisses, shaking his head. “I cannot deal with this paranoia again.”
I grit my teeth, heat flooding my cheeks. I’ve never felt so helpless.
“Micah, please,” I insist, frustration bleeding into desperation.
I’ve lived under scrutiny my entire life, thanks to my family owning high-end ski resorts and hotels. My brother and I had to use aliases, growing up, just to maintain some semblance of normalcy. One careless snapshot can spiral into a media frenzy within minutes. It’s one that I can’t afford right now, and his gaslighting won’t change that fact.
“I want our private moments to stay private,” I stress again, but my words fall on deaf ears. When he doesn’t move an inch, I decide to take things into my own hands. “Fine. I’ll ask her myself.”
I step away, but he lunges quickly, grabbing the back of my dress roughly, jerking me backward. I stumble slightly, my heart racing at the unexpected aggression. Quickly, I smooth my features, conscious of eyes and cameras potentially fixed on us.
“Stay here,” he commands harshly, slapping the test on the conveyor belt at the checkout.
The cashier scans the barcode, her eyes flickering to mine, as if sensing something isn’t right.
My cheeks flush with shame, and I instinctively whisper, “I’m not pregnant,” hoping to reassure her somehow.
Her gaze darts toward Micah, clearly uneasy, before she discreetly slides a folded piece of paper toward me. Without hesitation, I snatch it and shove it into my dress pocket, my fingers closing around it.
Micah returns seconds later, swiping his card with a smug smile.
“We don’t need a bag,” he says, ripping the receipt from the cashier’s hand before pushing the box firmly into mine.
He leads me toward the exit, his grip like iron around my wrist.
I manage to keep my voice calm, though my anxiety is spiraling. “Did she delete the photo?”
“Yes,” he answers bluntly, not meeting my eyes.
My pulse spikes again. “Are you sure? Did you see her delete it?” I press, needing confirmation. I’ve been burned too many times, and trusting his word feels impossible.
“Fucking yes! Jesus, Billie.” He raises his voice as a younger couple strolls by, giving us curious looks.
I freeze in place, my blood running cold.
Micah pauses, blinking rapidly, his expression carefully neutral. “Harper,” he corrects.
I shake my head slowly, suspicion hardening inside me. I clench the pregnancy test in my hand, trying to keep it hidden. Being out in the public view makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. This is my version of walking a tightrope, fully naked, for the whole world to see.
“It was an honest mistake, Harper. I’m really sorry,” he says calmly, his tone reassuring but his eyes guarded. “I just keep thinking about the other night and how she came onto me.”
“I forgive you,” I reply smoothly. I play along, acting like we’re on the same page, but hearing him lie so effortlessly about Billie pushes me to the edge of what I can handle. One more word about her, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold my tongue. My patience is ready to snap.
I glance nervously around the parking lot, searching for something familiar, anything comforting. Relief floods my chest when I spot the unmistakable gleam of Easton’s blacked-out Dodge Charger. It’s parked discreetly toward the back—the car he jokingly calls his “fuck around and find out” ride. And Brody chose that one—how convenient. At least, in some messed-up way, there is humor in it.