Page 97 of Full Split

Nope. This isn't happening.

I stand up to go after him, but Weston is already up.

"Let me," he says, pulling a jacket off the coat rack. "We needed to talk anyway. He might listen to me out of guilt, if anything."

The house is dead silent once he's gone. I feel sick, like the lump in my throat is impeding both my digestive and cardiovascular systems.

I pace for a while, drink a glass of water, pace some more. I drink another glass of water, this time too fast, and I end up bent over the sink trying not to heave it up.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I lunge for it so fast I nearly send it flying across the room. I'm hoping for a text from Niles, or even Weston, but it's not. It's an email from Mik Reinier-Sanders.

CHAPTER 27

NILES

I’m nearly halfway through my backyard when he catches up to me.

“Niles! Wait.”

At first, I’m almost disappointed it wasn’t Wyatt that followed me out. If I had to argue with one of them, at least let it be the one I can make out with after.

I don’t turn around. Not until I feel him grab my sleeve, pulling me back just enough to make me face him.

“You can’t?—”

The words start sharp, like he’s going to chastise me for something. But then Weston cuts himself off. He hesitates. I can see it in his face that something in him has shifted.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. More cautious.

“You really love him.”

It’s not a question. There’s no doubt behind it. Just the quiet weight of realization.

There’s no need for me to pretend or downplay my feelings. It’s something I would have done in the past, but not now. Not with him. Not after all I’ve put him through.

“Yeah.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “I kind of always have.”

Weston stares at me, his breath fogging the air between us. He seems stunned, like this is new information somehow. For a long moment, he looks at me like he’s seeing something that was always there but never made sense before.

“I knew you thought he was hot,” he says finally, slow and cautious, like he’s working his way through a puzzle that suddenly has all the pieces, “but?—”

I can’t help it, I laugh. It’s not a happy sound. It’s small and cracked and tired, but it’s real.

“You didn’t get a clue from the very specific type I had?”

He blinks, brows pulling together. “I thought you thought he was hot because he was your type.”

Then his expression shifts. Like something clicks into place.

“I didn’t realize it was the other way around.”

For the first time in days, I smile for real. It’s small, a twitch of my lips really, but it’s not forced or faked.

“I just thought…” Weston trails off, grimacing like the words taste wrong, “…you had, like, daddy issues or something.”

That makes me snort. “Issues aboutyourdaddy, maybe.”

Weston’s face twists like I’ve just personally offended every one of his ancestors.