"How noble," I say sarcastically, but my voice wavers.
"It wasn't noble. It was the easy choice. The one that let me tell myself I was protecting you while really just protecting myself from having to stand up to them."
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. "Why didn't you tell me? After? Why let me think you were just cruel?"
"Because you hated me and I deserved that hatred. Telling you would have been asking for forgiveness I didn't deserve." He looks at me finally. "And honestly? I was still scared of them. Still am, in some ways. They have money, connections, power. I was terrified that if you knew the truth, you'd try to fight them and they'd destroy you anyway."
"So you let me spend three years thinking you betrayed me for no reason."
"Yes. Because that was easier than admitting I betrayed you for what I thought was a good reason. At least the first version made me a simple asshole. The truth makes me a complicated coward."
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to process this.
"I don't believe you."
"I have the emails. The texts from my mother outlining exactly what they'd do if I didn't comply. I saved everything." He pulls out his phone. "I can show you right now if you want proof."
"I don't want your proof. I want—" I stop. What do I want? For this to not be true? For the past three years to make sense again?
"You want it to be simple," he says quietly. "You want me to be the villain who hurt you because I'm selfish and cruel. Because that's easier than believing I hurt you while trying to protect you."
"Don't you dare make this about me wanting simple narratives. You had three years to tell me this. Three years where I built my entire college identity around moving past what you did to me."
"I know."
"You let me hate you. Let me think I was nothing to you."
"Because you were everything to me." The confession comes out raw. "And I destroyed that and I'd do it again if it meant keeping your family safe. I'd make the same choice, knowing it would cost me you, because you were worth saving. Even if you never knew I was trying to save you."
I'm crying now. Angry tears, confused tears, tears I've been holding back for three years.
"I hate you," I say, but it sounds less certain than before.
"I know."
"I hate that you made that choice."
"I know."
"I hate that you thought you had to."
"I know."
"And I really, really hate that part of me understands why you did it."
He's quiet for a moment. "You don't have to forgive me."
"Good. Because I don't."
"But maybe you could hate me a little less? Eventually?"
"Maybe." I wipe my eyes angrily. "Or maybe I'll hate you more for making me question everything I've believed for three years."
"That's fair."
We sit in silence. The barrier of pillows between us suddenly feels more symbolic than physical.
"Did you really have feelings for me?" I ask finally. "Or was that just part of the explanation?"