Maybe it's cowardly of him, but he can't tell her. He can't admit that he'd gotten those texts and had waited until it was too late to decide that something might be wrong. He can't admit that he hadn't applied his typical amount of thought and analysis to what he'd been sent in favor of focusing all of his attention on Joel. He'd wanted--needed--this weekend away so badly, he remembers saying as much to Joel as they'd put their arms around each other, because after everything that's happened with Mark, with coming far too close to death in that lighthouse, something inside him had been desperate for an escape. The wine weekend had seemed like the perfect idea and now...
Now, Spencer has to face the guilt of knowing that he should have paid closer attention. He should have been here to help his friend. He's so caught up in trying to work out what to say next that he almost misses her confession but once it processes, he frowns and tilts his head at her in confusion.
He nearly recoils at the bruises on her face, bruises that nearly mirror his own that are finally starting to yellow and fade and bring back a flash of Mark smashing that whiskey glass against the side of his head in his own library. He lowers his head again for a moment, worried that he might actually be sick because all he can think about in this moment is how he hopes whoever had done this to Emily--not Emily?--had paid the worst kind of price. He'd stopped Joel from killing Mark, only because he'd known that if Joel had used that dark magic again, he might not have been able to come back from it. He wonders what it means, though, that the thought of Emily's assailant suffering that sort of fate feels so satisfying.
"What do you mean your name's not Emily?" he asks, suddenly exhausted as he rubs at his temple. He feels a headache coming on, which hasn't been unusual considering the concussion he'd sustained, but he'd obviously like to prevent it if he can. He wants to be alert for her sake. "What happened, what's going on?"
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Now, Spencer has to face the guilt of knowing that he should have paid closer attention. He should have been here to help his friend. He's so caught up in trying to work out what to say next that he almost misses her confession but once it processes, he frowns and tilts his head at her in confusion.
He nearly recoils at the bruises on her face, bruises that nearly mirror his own that are finally starting to yellow and fade and bring back a flash of Mark smashing that whiskey glass against the side of his head in his own library. He lowers his head again for a moment, worried that he might actually be sick because all he can think about in this moment is how he hopes whoever had done this to Emily--not Emily?--had paid the worst kind of price. He'd stopped Joel from killing Mark, only because he'd known that if Joel had used that dark magic again, he might not have been able to come back from it. He wonders what it means, though, that the thought of Emily's assailant suffering that sort of fate feels so satisfying.
"What do you mean your name's not Emily?" he asks, suddenly exhausted as he rubs at his temple. He feels a headache coming on, which hasn't been unusual considering the concussion he'd sustained, but he'd obviously like to prevent it if he can. He wants to be alert for her sake. "What happened, what's going on?"