Page 179 of Vows We Never Made

“We’ll clean it up,” I say.

“For fuck’s sake, Hattie, stop trying to fix everything. I’ve got it. Go back to bed or the couch or wherever the hell you’re sleeping.”

Definitely not in your bed, I think sourly.

Biting back the comment, I grab some towels from the bar and throw them on the floor as I start collecting shards of glass.

“It’s fine,” I say, though to him or myself I don’t know. “It’s fine. We’ll have this cleared up in no time.”

“You don’t listen. And you’ve got bare feet.” Ethan eyes me coldly as he picks me up and puts me on the counter, keeping my feet clear from the floor. “Stay and don’t move.”

Before I can protest, he’s bending down again, picking up the glass and depositing it in a small empty tin.

When he straightens up, we’re silent, staring at the paper towels soaking up the brown liquid.

My feet are damp. I think there’s a bruise or small cut blossoming on my foot.

It doesn’t feel a fraction as bad as my heart.

“Ethan,” I whisper. “I know we’ve had it rough lately. We’ve made mistakes, and—and I’m sure you’re hurting. But whatever it is, this isn’t healthy.”

He looks at me and laughs harshly as he pulls out another unopened bottle to resume his self-destruct sequence.

My heart sinks.

“Ethan…”

“Hattie, enough.” His hands shake as he pours himself another glass.

“I won’t. I need to know what’s going on. Why are you back? And why the hell are you trying to poison yourself?”

Lightning spears the sky and thunder rips a second later.

Ethan stays silent, his chest rising and falling like he’s just finished a long run.

“You won’t understand. You can’t,” he answers finally, as decisive as slamming a door in my face. Again. “You’ve always known who you are. A woman who gets to live with most of her drama confined to the fuckingpageswhere it belongs.”

Until now, I want to say.Until you.

“I like the drama,” I whisper. “It’s boring if you only live a life where books have all the action.”

Ethan doesn’t seem to hear me, raking a hand through his hair in a desperate gesture that makes my stomach flip and my heart squeeze.

“I’m sorry. Sorry as hell I ever let that lying old goat inject more drama than you needed.”

What?

My heart pounds, slamming my ribs and sending tremors into my fingers. “What are you talking about? Who do you mean?”

He throws me a disdainful glance that tells me I should already know. “Who do you think?”

Leonidas.

I just don’t know how or why.

And the confusion, the sensation of everything turning upside down, sends this weird stabbing pain through me.

Leonidas was a good man—I think.