Page 95 of Robbin’ the Rich

I just stared at him, my mouth gaping. “How could that possibly be true?”

"I wanted to tell you," he said quietly. "I really did."

I almost hated that he sounded sincere. It would have been easier if he was arrogant or defensive. Instead, he looked devastated. And somehow that only made everything hurt more.

"Not badly enough to actually tell me."

His eyes closed briefly.

I kept going. Because once the anger started moving, I couldn't seem to stop it. "You let me walk into that."

"Robin—"

"You let me sit down at that table."

"I didn't know." The frustration in his voice finally surfaced as desperation filled his voice. "I swear to you, I didn't know. I spent the entire afternoon fighting with them. I told them I wasn't coming back to the church. I told them I wouldn't support what they're doing anymore. I didn't know what families were meeting us."

That made me hesitate. Just for a second. The image of the conversation flashed through my mind of Micah arguing with his parents. The picture fit everything I knew about him. I hated that even now part of me wanted to listen.

Then another realization surfaced. One so obvious I couldn't believe I'd missed it. I stared at him. "Wait."

His expression shifted.

"What?"

"You still go?"

Confusion crossed his face. "What?"

"You still go to that church."

The words tasted bitter. I think about the way his phone blew up the Sunday when he got my McDonald’s because I was hung over. Then to that very first night when he’d left after making me breakfast.

All the moments I'd never questioned because I'd trusted him… but now.

"Robin—"

"No." The pieces kept falling into place. "You were leaving my bed on Sunday mornings and going to that church."

His face went pale. I saw the exact second he realized how that sounded.

The silence stretched. My stomach twisted.

"Nothing to say, huh?"

"Robin, please." His voice broke. "I'm so sorry."

I looked away because hearing the pain in his voice was making this harder.

"Please just talk to me."

The plea hung between us. For a moment neither of us moved.

Thanksgiving traffic drifted through the parking lot behind him. Restaurant patrons passed by without paying attention. The entire world kept moving while mine had been obliterated just like the Death Star.

The worst part was that I still loved looking at him. I still knew the exact shade of blue in his eyes. Still knew how safe I'd felt wrapped in his arms beneath a meteor shower. None of that had disappeared. That was the problem. And I didn't know what to do with that.

I swallowed hard.