A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3)

by Heather Lyons

  I finally look away. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to not just ugly cry, especially since he’s looking at me like I’ve just killed a whole bag full of adorable kittens and puppies right in front of him. “I thought that maybe if I were out of the equation, you two wouldn’t be so angry at one another anymore. So I left. I wanted to give you guys a chance at a normal life. I just thought—” Okay. I give in. I’m totally ugly crying now. “I know you probably don’t believe me, but I thought I was doing the best thing for you. For Kellan. And, if I’m being honest, for me, too.”

  Both palms press against his eyes now.

  “I was nineteen, Jonah, and all I could see ahead of me was a lifetime of guilt and stress. I know you two felt those things, too. How was that fair?” I wipe my cheeks. And then I take a deep breath. My heart hammers harder than ever. Because I finally tell him what I should have told him a long time ago.

  I tell him I cheated on him with his brother, and it happened more than once.

  Jonah’s quiet for a long time. He leans back against the couch and stares up at the ceiling, his hand clenching in and out, and a million scenarios play out in my mind over what he’s finally going to say to me. How it can go so many different ways—in anger, in fury, hysteria, anguish, or sadness. All will further serve to break my heart, because he never deserved what I’ve done to him, never once.

  I desperately want to get a tissue, but I’m too scared to leave my chair. Because what if he leaves while I’m gone, even for a minute? So I wipe my nose and cheeks with my sleeve and sniffle and continue to ugly cry as silently as I can. I wait, even though it kills me to do so. I’ve made him wait over six months. I’m willing to wait for him for as long as it takes.

  He’s worth it.

  Just when I start worrying I’m going to flood the apartment with my tears, he says, still staring at the ceiling, “I already knew you cheated.”

  I stop crying long enough to gurgle out, “What?”

  He laughs quietly, but there is no humor in his pain. “I’ve known for a long time.”

  I am the worlds’ first person to exist without a beating heart.

  He finally looks at me. There is so much hurt in his face that I wonder if coming home was a mistake. He’s in anguish, and it’s because of me. “I know a lot of things. For example, I know you hid your emotions from me for months behind some kind of shield that some hider—Kopano, most likely—taught you how to construct. I never said anything to you about it, because I figured you needed it and would tell me about it when you felt it was time. My father used to use one against us when we used to live together, so I know what one feels and acts like. I knew it had to be difficult to live with an Emotional, and I regretted being so in tune with your feelings all the time, but I also knew there was no way I could ever turn that part of me off—at least, not when it came to you. I knew about the deaths you’re talking about, but I didn’t know you knew. They were accidental, by the way. Not that that diminishes how you feel, but selfishly, I hoped you’d never know, because I worried it’d gut you. I knew you’d be angry with me if you found out I knew and never told, because you hated being kept in the dark—even though I watched you increasingly keep everyone in your life in the dark, too. Ironic, isn’t it, that you hated all the secrets your parents kept over the years and accused me of holding things back and you did just the same.” He blows out another hard breath. Runs his hands through his hair, yanking the strands. His point, valid as all hell, is painful. “I know you and Kellan . . . that something happened in Costa Rica. And on that damn yacht he took you out on in Kauai. I knew you were falling apart. I knew that every single one of us was self-destructing—you with your ulcer and depression, him with his efforts to reassign his pain, me—” He looks down at his hands. “The thing is, I knew all of this, but I didn’t know how to fix any of it.”

  I have to search for my voice. Jesus. I’d been so very blind. “How were you self-destructing, Jonah?”

  He stares out of the window on the far side of the room, silent for a good twenty seconds that leaves me even more anxious than before. And then—“Did you know that sometimes my brother and I release memories to one another without even realizing it?” When his focus returns to me, it’s accompanied with a bittersweet smile. “It happens when we’re dreaming. I don’t know why, or how, but sometimes he sees my memories and I see his. For Kellan last year, the more he held in what had happened between the two of you, the more it ripped his soul apart and the more frequently I saw it all.”

  Oh, gods. I’m back to ugly crying. “You . . . you saw what happened?”

  He nods, his barely-there smile so incredibly sad and rueful.

  I have to close my eyes. I have to focus on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Because he knew, he saw, and suddenly, it all makes sense. He stopped talking to me toward the end because . . . he knew. I’d hurt this man, the one I love more than anything in all the worlds, and all I could focus on then was my own pain. And then I left him without a single word, which had probably been an entire ocean’s worth of salt on the wound I caused. It would’ve been absolutely understandable if he believed I’d never truly loved him at all, Connection or not. Or that I didn’t love him enough, which is even worse.

  “I know it probably means nothing to you now, but I am so sorry,” I choke out.

  He’s silent again, simply watching me with that awful agony in his eyes.

  I love him so much that it’s ridiculous, but my love is not the kind he deserves. At least, it wasn’t then. Maybe one day it will be, though. If I’m lucky enough.

  “Jonah—”

  “When I found out we had a Connection, I was . . .” He leans forward, his elbows against his knees. “Relieved, I think. Because I knew it would be forever. What I felt for you—what I wanted, what I hoped for—forever seemed like a blessing. But in reality, forever is a really long time when your heart wholly belongs to a person who doesn’t reciprocate in kind.”

  My cheeks are soaked.

  “The thing is, logically, I understand. Because you’ve got a Connection to him, too. But I guess I’m the failure of an Emotional my father warned I’d turn out to be, because in the last six months, I learned that I can’t always live logically. I can’t pretend, either. You deserted me. I’m not okay with that, even though you thought you were doing the right thing. I know you think that; I feel it in you.” He pauses. “I guess I’d thought—hoped—I’d meant more to you than that.” Another pause. And then, “I’m not okay with you having a relationship with us both. It’s not who I am. It’s not what I want. At one point, I wondered if maybe I could, if I could just learn to control my feelings better. If I could just pretend better. Be the better person. Be who you two needed me to be.” He shakes his head. “I’m not that guy, Chloe. I’d rather live with the pain. I’m sorry, but . . .”

  He stands up. My legs jerk me up, too, but then refuse to move anywhere else. And all I can think is, oh my gods, oh my gods, this is not happening.

  Now that I know what I want, this cannot be happening.

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His hand must be cramping by now. And then he takes my heart out of my chest. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m . . .” He swallows hard, and then, voice barely loud enough to hear, “Done.” Louder, “I—I have to go.”

  The urge to scream, plead, fall to his feet and beg for forgiveness, another chance, anything at all, clamors against my skull and rib cage. But in the end, I simply nod, because if he needs to go, I have to let him. All I’ve ever done is take from him. It’s time to give. If he needs me to let him go, I must do it, even though it’s the absolute last thing I want.

  When he passes me, he slows down, the pull between us vicious and unforgiving. He must feel the love I have for him. It’s impossible to hide any longer. But his feet are better than mine, stronger, too, because they keep moving. Down the hallway, out the front door.

  Out of my life.

  Will and Cameron, accompan
ied by Erik, come home from their walk to find me still standing exactly where Jonah left me. I’m not sure if I’m still crying. I don’t know how much time has passed. I vaguely hear Erik telling Cameron words like shock and time, and then Will pushes me toward my bedroom and gets me into bed. He offers to stay with me, but I send him away. I need to be by myself right now.

  I lie here for the entire night, awake, thinking about what I’ve done. I want to fight for Jonah, for us, but if he’s done with me, would I be only prolonging the festering wounds I’ve inflicted upon his soul? They need to heal. All of the injuries we’ve developed this last year need to heal. Scar tissue needs to develop. But it’s hard to give him that room now that I know what I want.

  I don’t know what to do and it terrifies me. I won’t run, though. I’ll never run again. I’ve got to prove to him that I’ve changed. That I understand things better now. Running doesn’t solve anything.

  But I’m helpless right now. There’s nothing I can create that will fix this. Only time, and time is the most brutal of all solutions, because there is no way to manipulate it in your favor.

  Kellan shows up the next morning as I listlessly roam around the apartment. Dark purplish smudges under his eyes tell me right away how his mission went, and old habits die hard, because guilt festers in the bit of my belly for asking him to come over so I can explain why I abandoned him last year when he clearly ought to be resting. Nothing says loving support like breaking someone’s heart after a grueling day at work.

  We linger at the door for several minutes, him right outside the threshold, me right inside. Our awkward conversation goes like this:

  Me: “You look tired.”

  Him: “I’m fine.”

  Me: “We can do this tomorrow, if you want to go sleep first.”

  Him: “I said I’m fine.”

  Me: “Want to come in?”

  Him: “Who the hell owns this place anyway?”

  Me: “Cameron. It’s—I guess it was his wife’s. And his. I mean, they were married, so—”

  Him: “I can’t believe you’re living with these guys. Why are you living here? You have an apartment of you own. It’s still there. Everything’s still there.”

  Me: “Oh. I’d wondered. Want to come in?”

  Him: “Fine. Whatever.”

  And now we’re in the kitchen, me making him a cup of coffee because I genuinely fear he’s going to pass out from exhaustion and him leaning against the counter, watching me.

  The thing is, as I study him, I can’t help but acknowledge just how much I love him. But now that I’m here—we’re here—and after everything that went down yesterday, it crushes me to know that, despite everything, despite my feelings for him, his for me, how good we are with one another, and how I still dream at times of a life we could have together, I need his brother more.

  And I don’t hide it from him. Maybe that makes me a bitch, but I can’t do this anymore. I have to be honest. We have to be honest.

  “I fucked up,” is what I tell him first. Thankfully, with him here, with at least this Connection being satisfied by being around its match, I’m no longer the zombie I was just minutes before.

  “No shit.”

  He’s got every right to be angry, and I know it. I try not to let it get to me. “I’m sorry I left without saying anything.”

  Will chooses this moment to come into the kitchen. And, just my luck, he’s shirtless, with a towel hanging from his neck. “Chloe, you’ve got to—” He stops when he sees Kellan. “Oh. Apologies. I didn’t know you had company.”

  Kellan glares at my friend, no doubt remembering the antagonism between them yesterday during the worlds’ most awkward Family Secrets Reveal Day.

  “Yeah, um,” I move a hand between them. “Will, this is Kellan. Kellan, this is Will. You guys didn’t get to formally meet yesterday.”

  At Kellan’s name, Will’s eyebrows shoot up. He knows how devastated I am with what happened with Jonah. I can see the question in his eyes, and how he wonders if I’m sliding back into bad habits.

  And it kind of hurts, coming from him of all people.

  But Will sticks his hand out, because he’s that kind of guy. I hold my breath, waiting to see if Kellan will reciprocate in kind, and it takes a good three seconds, but he finally does. And I let the breath go, relieved that I’m not going to have to referee a fight between these two today.

  “You were saying?” I prompt Will as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Nell comes trotting into the kitchen; it warms my heart to watch Kellan automatically bend down and pet her satiny head.

  “Right. I need you to call Frieda when you have a moment and tell her to take her head out of her ass. Obviously you haven’t been checking your messages this morning. She’s called me a good five times, the last two asking where you are and whether or not I’ve lost you in Glasgow already.”

  My eyes slide over to where Kellan is. He’s sipping his coffee, watching us curiously, which is admittedly a much better turn of events than searing anger and disappointment. “Frieda is a friend I used to work with in Alaska.”

  This surprises him. “You had a job?”

  His incredulity makes me do one of those breathy exhales of a laugh. Talk about a surreal situation. “Yes, Kellan. How do you think I afforded to buy food? Pay rent?”

  Well, okay. I don’t quite tell him everything, because I’m holding back that I afforded a lot of things thanks to the money I stole from him and his brother.

  Some of the old easiness between us resurfaces, though. “Just what kind of job did you have?”

  “She was a waitress,” Will supplies. “With a vicious cleaning fetish. We had the cleanest diner in all of Anchorage.”

  My cheeks burn. Kellan laughs, though—it’s quiet and small, but it’s a laugh. “I never pictured in my wildest dreams that you would ever be a waitress, let alone one with a cleaning fetish.”

  My lips tug up at the corners. “Why am I calling Frieda, Will?”

  He pulls a box of crackers out of the cupboard. “Paul proposed.”

  “Shut. UP.” My cup slams onto the counter.

  “I know this will come as a shock, but Frieda is outraged. I’m tired of her bloody rants. If I have to listen to them one more time, I’ll be doing more than telling her to bugger off.” Will grabs a jar of Marmite out of the fridge; he’d found a small grocery store last night that actually carried it. “It’s your turn.”

  “Why isn’t Ginny dealing with the fallout?”

  He points his knife at me. “Our dearest Gin has already planned out the entire wedding. Frieda has disavowed her as a traitor. She somehow thinks you or I will talk sense into Paul. I’ll be honest, I sent Paul a text and told him to insist he was joking and find a nice girl who’ll appreciate him, but you know Paul. Said he sees loads in her the rest of us are blind to or whatever.”

  I pass him a plate. “Turn off your phone. It’s an easy solution.”

  And . . . he looks so sad. Lost. Which means only one thing. I snatch the plate back. “Will—”

  Now he feigns innocence. “Give me back my plate. Do you want me to starve?”

  “Of course not. It’s just—”

  Will rips the plate out of my fingers and glances at Kellan, who is not hiding his amused interest in this conversation. “This is neither the time nor place for such a conversation. Don’t you have a mea culpa to commence with?”

  I’m a dog with a bone. “Will—”

  “Chloe,” he mimics in falsetto.

  We have a stare-off for a good five seconds before I relent. Finally, “I refuse to apologize for caring.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” He nods toward Kellan. “It was good to finally make your proper acquaintance. And now, I’m off to go watch the hockey game I taped, because at least that will be normalcy in this madhouse of family horrors.”

  When he’s gone, Kellan asks, “What was that about?”

  “It’s a long story.” I rub the spot between my e
yes, leaning a hip against the counter and trying desperately not to remember in vivid detail us being in another kitchen during another lifetime. “I’m sorry, Kellan. I really am.”

  He sighs, setting his coffee cup down.

  I tell him what I told Jonah—about how I hated hurting them, how I didn’t know if I could live with it, about the weight of work, about being sick all the time. And then I tell him I told Jonah about the two of us and what we did behind Jonah’s back.

  “He knew,” is what Kellan finally says.

  It’s my turn to sigh. Oddly, I’m not on the verge of tears, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m numb or in denial or because if I let myself go, I’m afraid I’ll be right back to where I was.

  I’ve only blacked out twice since Jonah walked out yesterday. I figure that’s a victory of and in itself. But then again, it’s hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.

  “I realize I didn’t ask you ahead of time if I could tell—”

  “Chloe.” He takes a step closer, and I can finally smell him. It’s spicy and warm and sexy and it makes my senses and resolutions go fuzzy. “It’s not like you needed my permission to tell him.” He swallows. “We already had that discussion months ago.” His half smile that I love quirks, but it’s sad. “Technically, we fought and nearly tore each other’s throats out, but in the end, we talked, and he told me he knew, and I told him the truth.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. But I force myself to take a step back.

  He runs his hands through his hair and steps away, too. There’s a space between us now, one that I think we both understand is necessary, if at least for today, even if it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to just launch myself into his arms. “I get why you left. It pisses me off you did it, but I understand.”