Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Damn it,” he says with a sigh. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
I shake my head, wanting to reach out for him but knowing it won’t help. “It’s on me. It wasn’t fair of me to have started something with you when I was feeling this way. This is what I was afraid of. Everything is more complicated. And if we got closer, did this for real right now…”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. We never took that step.” His gaze narrows as he runs a hand over his chin, the sound of his beard rasping. “Yesterday was a goodbye, wasn’t it?”
My heart thumps painfully. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just wanted to enjoy you before—”
“You said goodbye,” he answers bluntly.
“I didn’t think of it like that,” I whisper before huffing out a pained laugh. “I was trying my best not to.”
“But now time’s up, isn’t it? And we want different things.”
I can only stare at him, afraid to move forward, afraid to stay where I am.
“It’s okay, Bren. I get it. You need this chance to figure shit out. Don’t worry about me. You’re free and clear to…” His breath hitches, harsh and loud. “You’re free.”
“Rye—No. Don’t. It can be a small break. I’ll go to LA, see how I feel—”
“Bren. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be the one who holds you back. Not after all we’ve been through. You’re right. We should end this now before it hurts too much.”
“Rye—”
“No. There are things I can’t do either. I can’t do this half-assed anymore. Find yourself. Find that happiness. And…and if you ever…” He smiles weakly, the forced gesture fading fast. He dips his head, swallowing hard, but then seems to give himself a mental shake. When he looks back, his gaze is flat. “You know where I am.”
And then he leaves me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rye
Well, that was a disaster.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Brenna
What have I done?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brenna
The phone goes off in the dark, clanging and vibrating under my head. Jerking awake, I fumble around, trying to grab it. Whoever it is has my personal number, and I’ve learned never to ignore a call in the dead of night.
“Hello?”
“Brenna?”
The second I hear my mother’s voice, I curse inwardly and grind my teeth. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” The ever-present censure in her voice scrapes across my nerves. “Why can’t your mother call you without something being wrong?”
God, why did I answer the freaking phone?
I rub my eyes and fight a sigh. “Because it’s the middle of the night?”
She pauses. “It’s eight in the morning, Brenna.”
Again with the reproach. The slight tone that says I’m a total dumbass.
“I’m in California, Mom. It’s…five here.” Which might as well be the middle of the night, as far as I’m concerned.
“Well, how was I supposed to know you’re in California? It’s not as though you ever tell me about your life.”
My life. I almost snort. My life is shit right now. All of my own making. I rub my aching chest and try not to think of Rye. It’s been a week now. A week of me making excuses to the rest of the band and hiding out like a coward. I left his house and found an Airbnb. A necessary step. One that still hurts.
“Why do you keep whispering?” Mom demands. “Do you have someone with you?”
As though the idea of me being in bed with someone is something I should hide. But I’m alone. Again. My fault. This time I do snort, a long scathing sound. It’s directed more at myself than my mother.
Unable to sit still any longer, I slide out of bed. “No, Mom. There’s no one.”
Out in the hall, where the windows lack curtains, it’s lighter, the sky beyond a steel gray blanket settled over the dark horizon. I take a breath and walk toward the little sitting area at the end of the upstairs hall. The hardwood is cool against my feet.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she says darkly.
“Is it? I find it a tragedy.”
“It would be if you choose someone working in that dreadful music business.”
Gritting my teeth, I take a seat on the soft Womb chair by the window. “Why would it even matter, given that I work in the music business?”
I don’t know why I’m asking, or why I’m still on the phone. I should hang up. But I can’t. I never can. Where my parents are concerned, I am a glutton for punishment.
“You should have something more than that,” my mother says with a gentleness that disarms me. “You’re so tangled up in all of them. It isn’t healthy when your happiness hinges on just one area of living.”
I flop back against the chair, my heart beating too hard and fast. Oh, the fucking irony. Hadn’t I said the same thing to Rye? Holy hell, have I become her? My throat closes up in a panic. I need to get off the phone.