Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“I need to know why you lied to me,” I say, pacing and breathing, breathing and pacing. “You were sleeping with Donovan. He was leaving your house the night he died. But that’s not what I’m upset about right now, crazily enough. It’s the fact that you made a genuine effort to befriend me, to insert yourself into my life, knowing damn well you didn’t belong there. And you lied, Berlin. You told me you hadn’t spoken to Donovan in years . . .”
Her eyes turn glassy, and her attention flicks to the tiled floor.
Is she crying because she hurt the one friend she had, or is she upset that she got caught in this twisted little web she wove?
“Why did you pretend to be my friend?” I ask. “What was your goal? What were you expecting to get from this?”
“Anneliese, first of all, I was never pretending to be your friend.” Her voice is jagged, but I don’t buy the crocodile tears sliding down her rosy cheeks. “I was your friend. And I considered you mine. I still do.”
“I confided in you,” I say. “I trusted you. I shared very personal things with you. And the whole time you knew. You knew what you did, and you played me.”
“I’m so sorry. I know it’s wrong. And I don’t expect you to understand it,” she says. “I came into the shop that day, and I recognized you from the funeral. And then you were so kind. And I felt so awful. And then you offered to help me name my flower shop, and I thought, What kind of person would do such a generous thing for a complete stranger? Out of the goodness of their heart? I genuinely liked you from the first time we spoke, Anneliese. I swear to you, I wasn’t expecting to get a friendship out of this. Believe me when I say the last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”
There’s no way to know if I should believe her or not. All I know is that it seems like everyone in this town has a tendency of lying and taking advantage of people without thinking better of it.
“Why’d you sleep with him?” I ask. “After everything you claimed he put you through . . . the narcissistic abuse . . . the horrible things he said and did . . . or were those all lies too?”
Berlin shakes her head. “No. All of it was true.”
“Then why did you go back to him?”
“First of all, I had no idea he was engaged. I ran into him at the store one day, and we reconnected. It felt . . . different this time. He was older, wiser, calmer, kinder. I thought maybe he’d matured. Changed his ways. Anyway, we started hanging out again,” she says. “Next thing I knew, he was promising me the future I always thought we were going to have. He said he was fixing up his childhood home—which was his reason for never inviting me over—and as soon as it was done, he was going to propose. I had no idea you existed until the funeral, Anneliese. He never talked about you. I guess I know why.”
“He stole my life savings . . . so he could fix up the house . . . that he was using to bait you with the happily ever after.”
“God, he was the worst. Truly. But he had his moments. I try to focus on the good over the bad. It’s easier that way. Ruminating on all the negative doesn’t change what’s already been done.” Berlin’s gaze grows distant. “But honestly, when I look back at everything, I feel like the biggest fool for not seeing through it all. I’m embarrassed. I should’ve known better than to trust him after everything we’d been through before. And if I could take it back—my involvement with him this past year—I’d do it in a heartbeat. Again, I’m so sorry.”
As much as I wish she’d come clean sooner, I try to put myself in her shoes—there never would’ve been the perfect time to drop a bombshell like that. If she truly saw me as a friend and cared about my feelings, her avoidance of sharing this information is understandable. She wasn’t deceiving me to gain an advantage over me—she simply didn’t want to hurt me.
“Thank you,” I say. “For coming clean. For sharing all of that with me. For owning it.”
She places her hand over mine. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one of these days.”
I offer a pained yet appreciative smile. I’ve never been a grudge holder, and the fact that she opened up about everything instead of gaslighting me puts her miles above Donovan in my book.
“If it makes you feel any better, odds are as soon as he ditched you and went back to me, he’d drop me as soon as the next exciting catch came along. Knowing him, he only wanted me because he couldn’t have me. I’m the one who broke it off with him last time. Maybe he wanted to be the one to break my heart this time,” she says. “Either way, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead. And he died driving from my place back home to you—which is poetic justice in a sick sort of way.”