friendships. Half the people around me are only there hoping to make it big.
Fuck. I can’t do this. Why’d I pick her up? I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Her voice is soft, as if she thinks I’m close to breaking. “Don’t do that. As it is, you have the start of a nasty black eye.” I don’t move. I remain slouched back against the Italian leather of the limo, my chin tipped up toward the roof, eyes closed. I can’t look at her. Not now, not tonight. As the fog from the pain meds clears, that feeling comes creeping back. It claws at my neck and steals my air. My heart races like I'm running from a mob of fans and it won’t slow down.
Her voice breaks through my thoughts. Her hand touches my forearm, and those small fingers delicately brush against my skin. Each hair feels her presence and stands on end, shooting an inhuman charge up my arm and into my heart. I jerk away without meaning to, without wanting to. I drop my hand and look at her. Those dark curls are wild, forcefully tamed into a sloppy ponytail, small ringlets escaping to hang by her temples.
She’s the same, but she’s changed too. Instead of soft round cheeks, her face has become angular and more defined. I remember her skin being freckled, but now I see only a spattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose as if she'd been in the sun yesterday. Her neck is thinner and seems more alluring than I recall. My gaze drifts too far south and for half a beat I’m ogling her breasts, wondering what they’d feel like under those scrubs. They’re bigger, rounder. I’m not too sure why since she’s thinner than when we were together. I hope she didn’t get a boob job because she didn’t need one. Mari was already perfect. I lift my gaze to meet hers and realize I’m in deep shit.
I clear my throat and break our locked gaze. I don’t want her reading me so easily. She’ll figure out what I did and then all that pain will have been for nothing. “When we get back to my place, we can separate. The press won’t see you leave. You can go home without having them in tow. I’m sorry about this.” That last part comes rushing out, and I immediately wish I hadn’t said it.
Mari snaps, “Sorry about what exactly? Nearly killing yourself? Potentially killing someone else? Or just being incredibly stupid?” She works her jaw as if she has so much more to say, but bites it back.
I stare at nothing and wish I felt nothing, but I don’t. My heart is dying inside my chest. I’ve lost too many good people. I can’t… I press my eyes together tightly and swallow the scream that’s building inside of me. I reach for the crystal tumbler at the bar and the decanter filled with amber liquid.
Mari laughs and swats my hands. “Are you insane?”
“You don’t understand.” I glare at the dark carpet, trying not to yell at her.
“Then tell me. Talk to someone, but don’t get drunk again. God, Trystan, what the hell happened to you? It’s like you’ve lost yourself or something.”
Nope, my heart is alive and still beating in my chest because her words put a knife through it. I didn’t think I could hurt more than I already did. I was wrong.
Mari is sitting across from me on the long bench and scoots to the edge. She takes my hand in hers and rubs her thumb on the back of my wrist. She tips her head to the side until I meet her gaze. “What happened tonight?”
I sit there like that, wishing things weren’t the way they are, but I can’t change it no matter how much I want to—my first instinct is to lie, but I can’t, not to Mari. My lip trembles, I feel it quiver as I try to grin and make up a bullshit story.
She sees it coming and squeezes my hand. “Trystan, don’t lie to me. I feel it. I know something horrible happened. Telling me can’t make it worse.”
Our gazes lock and I can’t look away. I can’t lie to her or blow off her concern. I can’t charm my way around her question either. She knows what
Fuck. I can’t do this. Why’d I pick her up? I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Her voice is soft, as if she thinks I’m close to breaking. “Don’t do that. As it is, you have the start of a nasty black eye.” I don’t move. I remain slouched back against the Italian leather of the limo, my chin tipped up toward the roof, eyes closed. I can’t look at her. Not now, not tonight. As the fog from the pain meds clears, that feeling comes creeping back. It claws at my neck and steals my air. My heart races like I'm running from a mob of fans and it won’t slow down.
Her voice breaks through my thoughts. Her hand touches my forearm, and those small fingers delicately brush against my skin. Each hair feels her presence and stands on end, shooting an inhuman charge up my arm and into my heart. I jerk away without meaning to, without wanting to. I drop my hand and look at her. Those dark curls are wild, forcefully tamed into a sloppy ponytail, small ringlets escaping to hang by her temples.
She’s the same, but she’s changed too. Instead of soft round cheeks, her face has become angular and more defined. I remember her skin being freckled, but now I see only a spattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose as if she'd been in the sun yesterday. Her neck is thinner and seems more alluring than I recall. My gaze drifts too far south and for half a beat I’m ogling her breasts, wondering what they’d feel like under those scrubs. They’re bigger, rounder. I’m not too sure why since she’s thinner than when we were together. I hope she didn’t get a boob job because she didn’t need one. Mari was already perfect. I lift my gaze to meet hers and realize I’m in deep shit.
I clear my throat and break our locked gaze. I don’t want her reading me so easily. She’ll figure out what I did and then all that pain will have been for nothing. “When we get back to my place, we can separate. The press won’t see you leave. You can go home without having them in tow. I’m sorry about this.” That last part comes rushing out, and I immediately wish I hadn’t said it.
Mari snaps, “Sorry about what exactly? Nearly killing yourself? Potentially killing someone else? Or just being incredibly stupid?” She works her jaw as if she has so much more to say, but bites it back.
I stare at nothing and wish I felt nothing, but I don’t. My heart is dying inside my chest. I’ve lost too many good people. I can’t… I press my eyes together tightly and swallow the scream that’s building inside of me. I reach for the crystal tumbler at the bar and the decanter filled with amber liquid.
Mari laughs and swats my hands. “Are you insane?”
“You don’t understand.” I glare at the dark carpet, trying not to yell at her.
“Then tell me. Talk to someone, but don’t get drunk again. God, Trystan, what the hell happened to you? It’s like you’ve lost yourself or something.”
Nope, my heart is alive and still beating in my chest because her words put a knife through it. I didn’t think I could hurt more than I already did. I was wrong.
Mari is sitting across from me on the long bench and scoots to the edge. She takes my hand in hers and rubs her thumb on the back of my wrist. She tips her head to the side until I meet her gaze. “What happened tonight?”
I sit there like that, wishing things weren’t the way they are, but I can’t change it no matter how much I want to—my first instinct is to lie, but I can’t, not to Mari. My lip trembles, I feel it quiver as I try to grin and make up a bullshit story.
She sees it coming and squeezes my hand. “Trystan, don’t lie to me. I feel it. I know something horrible happened. Telling me can’t make it worse.”
Our gazes lock and I can’t look away. I can’t lie to her or blow off her concern. I can’t charm my way around her question either. She knows what
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