I leave the sentence unfinished. The final words are too thorny to get out of my throat.
Freya doesn’t have the same hesitation, though. “You’re scared that you’re in too deep. That you might actually fall for him.”
She looks unnecessarily stunned by that fact, which does nothing to help alleviate the shame that’s wracking me since the Plaza debacle.
Anton was right about me: I crave the drama and the excitement and the rush of the unknown. And if I want that to change, I have to do something different.
“I know it’s a lot.”
“I’m just glad you’re telling me instead of pulling a Harry Houdini,” says Freya, patting the back of my hand.
“What did you think I would do?” I ask. “Just up and leave? Irish goodbye?”
She shrugs. “We haven’t been friends that long. You don’t owe me an explanat
