Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“So did I.”
“Are you sure he left? Maybe he’s getting breakfast.”
“I haven’t been out there, but his truck is gone. His stuff …” From my room. Can’t say that. “Like, all the things he had lying around the house are gone.”
“Maybe he tidied.”
I cock my eyebrow like Really?
“Right. Good point. Okay, I’ll go check.” He tries to walk off, but I grab his arm.
“Don’t bother. He’s not out there.”
“How do you know?”
I know because my heart aches the way it did every moment I lived without him before. I know because that connection I’ve always felt for him is severed. I know he’s gone because if he was here, I’d still have hope.
I have nothing to hold on to, and it feels like I’m drowning.
That’s how I know.
“I just do,” I say.
“What are we going to do?”
I want to give him up. I want to say we should let him run away. But I’ve done that once before, and I won’t let it happen again. “We fight for him.”
It’s as easy as that to make up my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mason
After being intimate with Denver in a way I never thought would or could happen, saying goodbye is fucking hard. Too hard. It’s why I slip out of his room and out of his life before the sun rises.
I need to leave. I can’t … I can’t be here.
The hard truths of the industry and the chaos isn’t worth the pain. I used to be able to handle them, but after coming back with fresh eyes, I see this lifestyle for what it really is: the cruelest form of manipulation. I refuse to play Hollywood’s games anymore.
And sure, there were only about a thousand times last night, while Denver was moving inside me, while he was breaking down afterward, and silently begging me to stay by holding on to me so tight, that I thought I could stay.
I could live with him in his Malibu home and hide just as well as I do back in Montana, but I’d know every time I’d step outside that house, I’d be drawn back in, and the public would ridicule me the way they’ve always done.
There’s absolutely no doubt that I love Denver Smith for who he really is—Denny Mariano, a damaged boy from South Los Angeles who craves to be wanted. I love him for the artist he’s become, for his work ethic, and for his strength.
I love all of him. But love doesn’t stop people from leaving, love couldn’t stop my father or Cameron from dying, and love can’t make everything magically better.
Love is a useless emotion that only brings heartache, and even though the thought of losing Denver crushes my soul, I have to do it. I have to protect myself.
I only wish I’d thought to save driving these agonizingly long hours until I’d had a better night’s sleep.
When I drove to LA, I was on a mission. I was focused, determined, and it’s how I made it to LA in sixteen hours with only a couple of breaks for the bathroom and to fill up on gas.
This time, I’m running away from someone I don’t want to leave, the evidence of our love still there in the way my body aches. Leaving feels wrong and right at the same time, and I find myself wanting to change direction over and over again.
I want to go back. I want to keep driving north.
I want to find a way I can have both—my quiet life and Denver.
I’m about an hour from hitting Utah when I have to stop. I’ve only been on the road for six hours, but I can’t take it anymore because it feels like there’s a solution, but I can’t quite grasp it yet, and the farther I get from LA—from Denver—the more it seems out of reach.
There are a few hotels and casinos in Mesquite, Nevada, so I choose the least sketchy-looking one and check in. Considering it’s barely lunchtime, I have about eighteen hours to fill. Other than telling myself to stop doubting my decision, maybe I’ll try to get some sleep. And if I get to sleep now, I might be able to check out later and drive the rest of the way tomorrow. It should only be another ten hours or so before I’m back where I feel safest.
I’ll be safe to be myself and safe from all the bullshit.
Safe from being hurt.
I groan. That’s the real reason I’m running away, isn’t it? Denver was right. This has nothing to do with the LA shit.
If I throw myself fully into this Eleven reunion, I’m terrified I’ll end up where I am right now.
Alone.
Which is why I’m doing it first. I’m protecting myself from reliving the hurt by doing it on my own terms and not theirs.
Maybe I should go back. If I leave now, I’ll be back in LA before dinner. I can swallow my pride and pretend I didn’t have this grief-induced panic attack.