“The truth.”
“That’s rich coming from the woman who told me not to tell him.”
Lottie winces. “Fair.”
“I lied to him.”
“You left.”
“After sleeping with him.”
Her brows lift.
I cover my face. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
“I can. Guilt makes women weirdly honest with other women and pathetically dishonest with men.”
“That is horrible.”
“Again, truth.”
I drop my hands. “I hurt him.”
“Yes.”
The answer is clean.
No softening.
No rescue.
Just yes.
“I thought leaving would save him,” I whisper.
“Maybe it will.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you deal with what it did.”
I look toward August, who is now running in circles with Princess Chomp’s owner and two other kids, all of them armed with glow sticks someone handed out after dinner.
“He looks happy,” I say.
“He looks like a kid.”
That is worse.
Better.
Everything.
Lottie hugs me then.
Hard and quick.
No warning.