“No, I don’t.” Just the idea of another guy made my blood boil.
“And you like her books, right? I mean, you were reading ’em. So what’s the problem? She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. If some reporter asks you if you liked her writing, what are you going to say? ‘No comment’?”
“Of course not,” I said, starting to feel like the scummy crud on the bottom of my hiking boots. When did Dev become so…rational? At the moment, he seemed more centered than me. “I’d say I liked them.”
“So let it go. She might not have thought it would be a problem. And she might not have thought you’d care. People knowing that you liked her books isn’t a violation of your privacy. Trust me. Coulda been worse. I had a dick shot posted once. And the bitch didn’t even have the courtesy to take it while I was hard. Took the damned picture while I was sleeping.”
I put a hand over my face. It had been outright horrifying and ridiculous, especially since the girl had also tagged the band in the picture and sworn she’d get the rest of our dicks as well.
Dev yawned. “So anyway, man, just enjoy what you got. And chicks. And let the chips fall wherever. You can be uptight about stuff.” Another yawn. “Okay, I gotta get some sleep now. Tell your girl I’m going to post the pic later today. And go kiss and make up. Otherwise Bianca’s gonna get mad.”
“Who’s Bianca?”
“The blonde from Spain. She’s hot, and we’re going to hook up again when we’re in the same town.” Then he mumbled something I couldn’t catch and hung up.
I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. Dev might be right. I could’ve been overthinking everything. And after he’d given his sleep-deprived analysis, I wondered if I’d gone overboard. He was right—I didn’t want to hide our relationship, or that I read her books.
I thought back on our interaction. Emily hadn’t recognized me. She didn’t check her social media profiles first thing in the morning to see how many likes and new followers she’d gotten the previous night. She didn’t post endless selfies, or obsess about every like and comment and share. What she was concerned about was writing, eating like a kid an
d having fun with me.
To her, I was just a person—Killian the guy next door, not Killian the rock star. She’d still be with me if I didn’t have the trust fund from my parents or fame from the band.
And wasn’t that what I’d been looking for? Somebody who loved me for who I was, not what I was?
Dread curdled in my belly like milk gone bad. I’d broken something that a lot of people spent a lifetime looking for. All because I’d been so busy thinking about all the ways Emily could be like my exes. How could I have been so stupid? I wasn’t a fucking rock star. I was a fucking rock. IQ of granite.
I recalled the angry words from yesterday. I’d actually been more upset about her turning down my offer of help than seeing that picture on her account. If she’d asked, I would’ve likely said yes. If I was really honest with myself, I might not have thought much about it at all if she hadn’t turned me down two days earlier.
Yeah, I had definitely let my past color my interaction with her.
An image of Emily’s furious face flashed through my mind. She’d accused me of trying to take credit for her accomplishment—and beating her dad. Abby had said he liked to boast that Emily would be nothing without him. Did my behavior remind her of her shitty father?
I needed to explain that wasn’t what I meant at all. Then convince her to give me another chance. And not just to move to Dallas. But be mine forever. I’d be damned if I was going to lose her. I’d do whatever it took to win her back.
Decision made, I showered and had a coffee. I was going to talk to Emily as a well-caffeinated, civilized person.
I’d apologize first. Tell her I’d been an idiot. Then I’d ask her to give us another go, because what we had was too precious to leave broken. It was fixable. It totally was. I’d grovel, too. I’d never done that, but how hard could it be? My coffee-pumped brain would think of something.
But when I went over to her house, the door was locked and she didn’t answer. Was she too pissed off to talk to me? I looked around and saw her car was gone.
I pulled out my phone, then paused. I don’t know her number.
It stopped me cold. We’d never exchanged numbers. What an idiot move. But it just never seemed necessary, and gave me a reason to come by when I wanted to talk to her. Seeing her pretty face was a bonus.
But now, it was terrifying I couldn’t call or text. I couldn’t figure out where she was so I could fix things.
I squinted through a window. Her furniture was still in the living room, so she probably hadn’t moved out. She might’ve gone to Sunny’s to grab some stuff. I just needed to be patient.
I went back home and wrote a note: Can you come by when you see this? Or call me. I added my number—the one I gave out to my family and close friends—and scowled. I should’ve written it on a sticky note. Except I didn’t have any, because how often did I have to write someone a note?
Did I have any tape? Rummaging through the drawers only yielded a roll of duct tape. Better than nothing.
I returned to her house. The driveway was still empty. I taped the note to the door, then stepped back. There. No way she’d miss it.
When she called me, I’d come over. And do the apology. Might actually work out better, because it’d give me time to compose a good “I’m sorry” speech.
I went back home, sat at the dining table, pulled out a piece of paper and started to write out what I should say.