“I’m such an asshole,” Beckett says, smearing his hands down his face. He rests his palms on his thighs, then shakes his head at me, apologies in his eyes. “I assumed—I shouldn’t have assumed—that you didn’t have history with Donnelly.” I’m startled. “It’s not like I can remember it.” “Exactly,” Beckett says. “It’s not like you could defend yourself against the shit I said to you.” Guilt impales his face, and his hand returns to his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Luna.”
