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by Laurelin Paige

  And I get that.

  I’ve been scared before. Terrified. I’ve stood on a stage in front of thousands of strangers, debuting a new song, and I’ve nearly shit my pants. I’ve had therapy for anxiety. I’ve medicated in every form. Fear is universal, and I am completely empathetic to that restless, nervous uncertainty about what comes next. I know how it feels to be spiraling out of control of your own life. I know how hard it is to let go and go with the flow.

  So it’s okay that she’s scared of what we might become. That means she realizes, like I do, that we’re on the verge of something big. Something that’s going to change our lives forever.

  She’s already changed me forever, and for the record, I’m not scared of us at all. I’m bursting with excitement. It’s like we’re taking all the curves at high speed, but I’m not afraid of crashing, because whatever happens, it’s happening together. Maybe control is overrated. Maybe just hanging on and letting the surprises come as they may is the big secret to life. Either way, I’m fucking thrilled to be on this ride. Bring it on, world, bring it on.

  Hopefully, I can be brave enough for both of us. I need to have enough courage that she feels nothing but strength when she takes my hand and buckles in beside me. I can do that. I’m sure I can.

  Right now, that means confronting her. It means making her face this thing going on between us head-on. It means showing her that mere words are meaningless in the face of this, that talking to me never needs to be anything to fear. I’ve been awake since before the sun came up, watching her sleep, planning what things I need to say, what kind of approach I need to take.

  Around seven-thirty, I decide the approach involves caffeine.

  Careful not to wake her, I sneak out of bed, throw on some sweatpants, and slip downstairs to the kitchen. First I pull some fresh beans from the freezer to grind. After I get the pot brewing, I check out the fridge to see what my housekeeper has stocked it with. A few broken eggs later, I have two cottage cheese and tomato omelets—one of her favorite special occasion breakfasts—two cups of fresh ground coffee, and a bowl of mixed berries laid out on a tray to take up to her.

  She’s awake and thumbing through her phone when I walk in. When she sees me, she visibly lights up. My heart leaps at the sight.

  “You’re awake,” I say, placing the tray on the bed in front of her.

  “I smelled coffee.” She sets her cell down on the nightstand and pulls herself to a sitting position, keeping the sheet wrapped around her breasts as she does. As though I haven’t memorized every square inch of her body. “This looks fantastic, Nick. Thank you.”

  I slide into the spot next to her and watch her while she digs into her breakfast. She’s quiet, which could be because her mouth is busy eating, but I also sense a disconnected tension between us.

  It’s like last night didn’t happen, like I imagined the communion we’d shared with our bodies to make up for the words left unsaid.

  She’s letting those words create this barrier, I’m sure of it. She’s trying to build a wall around herself to protect her heart, a heart that I have every intention of guarding with my life. Logic might say that this is the time to go slow with her, but my instinct is to jump in. If I don’t, she’ll run away before she even understands all that I have to offer.

  And I plan to offer her everything.

  It seems to take an unusually long time for her to eat, but I’m patient as she does. I chatter idly, keeping our conversation light and careful, hoping to put her at ease.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask as she breaks from her meal to take a sip of coffee.

  “You mean, how is my ass feeling?” There’s a little of her usual spunk, peeking out from around her walls, and it makes me grin.

  She shifts her hips around, seeming to want to be sure before she answers. “Huh. Surprisingly, it feels okay. I can tell that you were there, but it’s not a bad feeling. It’s actually kind of a good feeling.”

  She blushes and bows her head, focusing on her next bite.

  “Good.” It’s impossible not to be cocky, so I don’t even try. “I’m glad last night isn’t forgotten too easily.”

  “Not forgotten at all.” Her smile disappears quickly, and she’s somber while she finishes her eggs, washes them down with coffee. Finally, she pushes her plate away and stretches her arms over her head. “That was fantastic, thanks again.”

  “My pleasure.” I remove the tray and put it on the nightstand on my side of the bed then turn back to face her. “Hey, baby, we need to talk.”

  At the same exact moment, she says, “Nick, can we talk about—”

  We laugh, and my pulse goes up a notch. Maybe she’s braver than I thought, and she’s preparing to say exactly the same thing I am.

  She’s not that brave, though, because she nods toward me. “You first.”

  “Okay.” All of the words I so carefully prepared are lost from my mind. I’m staring deep into her eyes, hoping she can see my heart, and I have no fucking idea what to say. What I’m doing. So I just take a deep breath, open my mouth, and put it out there. “I’m really happy with what we have between us. It’s been hands down the best time of my life.”

  “Me too,” she says. “It’s been absolutely incredible.”

  Fuck, yes.

  Her reassurance makes it easy to say what’s next. “As good as it is, I’m ready for more.”

  Her brows furrow, and instantly I feel her pulling away. She can barely look at me as she chimes in quietly. “Ah. I didn’t think that was where you were going with that.”

  The euphoria I felt just a moment ago deflates. “Where did you think I was going?”

  “I thought . . .” She trails off and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t think it was that.”

  I try not to sound irritated. “Okay, well, it is that. Do you have any reaction to me telling you I want more?”

  “You had my ass. What else can I possibly give you?”

  I cough, surprised by her flippancy. “It was awesome. I loved it. Thank you. I’m in love with you.”

  I’ve said it now, and it feels so good to get it out that I wish I’d said it weeks ago. Maybe in a slightly different manner. Or maybe this was perfect. Unexpected and sudden, just like us.

  Until she covers her face with her hand. “Please don’t say that, Nick.” Seeming to not feel hidden enough, she stands up, taking the sheet with her. “That’s exactly the opposite direction of the one we should be going.”

  “Really? I think it’s exactly the direction we are going, and I’m not imagining that you feel it too. I know I’m not.”

  She finds her pants in a heap on the floor and ditches the sheet to put them on. I can only watch as that perfect body, the one I owned so completely last night, slowly disappears from view. Slowly dons its armor against the world, which now, it seems, includes me.

  “Well, I’m sorry you think that’s where we’re headed. I’ve been clear from the beginning what this was, and it wasn’t that.” She pauses for just a second before pulling her shirt over her head. “This was never going to be that,” she says when her head pops out again.

  I’m hurt, definitely. I’m hurt that her reaction to my love is to throw it away, but I’m not deterred. I haven’t been imagining our closeness, and she can’t even deny it. These words, this declaration that we’re still just fuckbuddies, are coming from her fear. I have to remind myself of that and stay strong for her. She might be wearing armor, but I’m the one who’s ready to fight for this.

  I jump out of bed and cross to her. Putting my hands on her upper arms to still her, I bend to meet her darting eyes. “Natalia, stop. Stop trying to hide from me, I know what you’re doing. You’re scared, but you can’t hide from this.”

  “I’m not hiding from anything.” She pulls away and scans the room, beelining to her shoes when she spots them.

  “You are. You’re hiding from the way I feel, which is silly because it doesn’t change anything about what’
s between us, and you just said what’s between us is good. I’m putting a name to it is all. So listen again while I say it, Natalia. I love you. Okay? I love you.”

  “Stop it,” she says, sliding her feet into her ballet flats.

  “Stop loving you?” I knew this was going to be tough, but she’s more stubborn than I realized. “I can’t stop, baby, even if I wanted to, and I know you feel it too. You’ve told me in so many ways that you feel it without saying the words.”

  She grabs her bra off the bedpost and stuffs it into her pants. “You’re wrong. I haven’t said any words because I’m not feeling anything except disappointed that this has gotten out of hand.”

  “I don’t believe that. You have to talk to me.” I cut in front of her, an obstacle in her path to the door. “You aren’t leaving until you do.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re keeping me prisoner now?”

  “No, I’m not . . .” It had been an impulsive, immature statement on my part. “I don’t mean you can’t leave. I mean I think, after what’s transpired between us this summer, that I deserve to hear why you’re acting like this. I can’t read all your mixed signals to make sense of them. One minute you’re telling me our time together has been incredible, you’re offering me something you’ve never given anyone else, and the next you’re telling me I’m wrong for having feelings about you, telling me to be quiet about them.”

  “Nick!” she says flailing her hands out to her sides with frustration. “I can’t believe I have to say this because it’s so obvious—I’m thirteen years older than you! I’m approaching forty! It just can’t work!”

  Even while I knew deep down that would be her excuse, it’s still a knife in the gut. It’s the first time we’ve really discussed the elephant she seems to think is in the room, because it never mattered to me. Never for one minute did I ever worry about her being older, having more life experience—not that I actually think she does—and it fucking sucks to hear her put it between us. To make my age feel like a defect when I can never fix it.

  I have no defense against this. It’s unfair.

  And why the fuck should my age even matter when we have what we have? “I’m the same age I was when we got together, and it’s suddenly an issue?”

  “It’s always been an issue. It’s why we were supposed to keep this no-strings.”

  I’m so fucking annoyed that my tone has sass in it. “Because I’m too young to have real feelings?”

  “Because you’re too young to have the same life goals as I do! How can I have a serious relationship with you? For a thirty-six-year-old woman, serious looks totally different than it does for a twenty-three-year-old man. I’m talking kids and you’re just agreeing not to fuck groupies!”

  I ignore her remark about the groupies—being faithful to her is not, has never been, and never will be an issue—and go straight to the comment she’s made that matters. “But I want to have kids with you.”

  For half a second, I see the hope in her eyes.

  Then it’s gone. “I mean like in the really near future. My clock is ticking.”

  “I’d have a baby with you tomorrow. You want me to put one in you right now? I can lose the condoms. I’ll stop pulling out.” I think about it all the time, actually, her belly fat with my baby. It’s the sexiest image of her I can conjure up, and I’ve come up with some pretty dirty fantasies where she’s concerned.

  “You don’t mean that,” she counters.

  I narrow my eyes, pushed off at her dismissal. “How can you decide what I mean?”

  “Because you don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. You have a very successful career to focus on. You have many years of trying out relationships and finding the one that fits. You don’t want to suddenly put the brakes on and stick around to be a family man.”

  “I do want that! Exactly that!” I’m so frustrated that my voice has risen. “I’m my own producer. I don’t need to tour if I don’t want to. I can write music no matter where I am or what’s going on. I’m the best at my job when I’m happy and inspired in my life. And right now I’m goddammed happy and inspired, and you know why? Because I have you! Why wouldn’t I want more?”

  She purses her lips together tightly. “You never had me, Nick. We were messing around. It was a fling, and it’s time this is over between us.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” One fight and we’re suddenly over?

  But then she takes that knife in my gut and twists it. Hard. “I’d already planned on talking to you about this today. I let you talk first because I thought you were going to bring up that song from yesterday, and then it would be an easy bridge to telling you that while I’m flattered that you consider me your muse, it’s gone too far. We’ve run our course. I signed up for the experience, not the emotions.”

  “No one ever thinks they’re signing up for the emotions when they start something, but these things happen when they happen. You can’t plan your feelings.”

  “No, but I can prevent the feelings from getting out of control by telling you we can’t let this go on any longer.”

  “Then you’re not denying you have feelings.”

  “Nick, this isn’t helping.”

  She does have feelings, and she’s so close to admitting it.

  I push harder. “You’re just going to put your emotions in a box and bury it deep inside you?”

  She talks over me, raising her voice to be heard. “The press has already found out and so now the longer we drag this out, the messier it’s going to be in the media.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the media!” I yell, frustrated. Though I sure know she does.

  “Believe me when I tell you that’s not what I mean, Nick. But how many months do you want to look at tabloid headlines about our breakup? Because they’ll smell blood in the water and broadcast everything we’ve kept private, amplify all the pain you’re feeling.” Her voice is a calm counterpoint to mine.

  “But I love you. Does that not count for anything?” I sound like a broken record, or maybe an inept magician, repeating over and over the magic words that have somehow failed me just when I needed their power the most. Because loving her counts as everything to me. Everything I do and think and dream about lately is focused around how much I love her.

  The look she gives me tells me that it doesn’t count for shit, and that wrecks me.

  Her eyes suddenly soften, and her tone matches her new expression. “Look. You’re so sweet, and you’re such a passionate guy, which is what I lo—” She catches herself and amends quickly. “Which is what I appreciate about you, but I’m sorry. I knew what this was when it started, and you apparently didn’t. It has to end now. We’re over.”

  She’s gutted me with her patronizing cruelty. I can’t even move to stop her when she crosses for the door this time, I’m too devastated by what she’s said.

  But I do get in the last word, just before she makes it out of the room. “You know, this is the first time we’ve been together that you’ve made me feel thirteen years younger.”

  It’s a bullseye. It’s written all over her face, how the truth stabs at her. How the wound she’s dealt me also wounds her. She blinks at me once, eyes full of something unknowable, before she turns and runs.

  And then I might as well be the kid she thinks I am, because when she’s gone, I get in the shower and cry like a little boy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hard Words

  Natalia

  Nick: I miss u.

  Nat: Don’t say that. It just makes this harder.

  Nick: I’m trying 2 make it hard.

  Nick: Being away from u like this is killing me.

  Nick: I want 2 feel like it’s killing u 2.

  I stare at the screen in my hands and try to breathe through the tightening in my chest. It’s been six days since we broke up. Six days since I’ve heard his voice on the phone. Six days since I last felt an ounce of happiness.

  But that hasn�
��t meant we’ve given up texting. Our conversations are shorter and more mournful now, but he’s like a drug. I know I have to give him up, but I’m not capable of going cold turkey. Texts are a patch I need to get over the withdrawal.

  “You’re still talking to him, aren’t you?” Hadley asks, peeking up from her book.

  Leave it to her to not only notice, but call me out.

  She’s been a savior, of course, as she always is. This morning she showed up in my room—I totally regret giving her a key—and dragged me out of bed with the promise of a perfect prescription to brighten my mood.

  “Sunlight and script-reading!” she’d said with an enthusiasm that should never be attached to reading through the stack of shit that I get sent on a weekly basis.

  I moaned. I groaned. But soon she had me outside on a lounge chair by the pool with the most recent pile of scripts my agent had sent me.

  The sun has been a nice change from the Netflix cave that my bedroom has become this past week. I must’ve lit a hundred apple-pie candles, hoping to recover the sense of rightness and empowerment I felt the night we shredded my magazines, but all I’ve reclaimed is a headache. The fresh air is good for that, too. As for the reading material . . . I only make it through four pages of the first one before turning to my phone for comfort. Or misery, as the case might be this time.

  Nick’s hurting. I’m hurting too, but the fact that he’s hurting and I’m the one who has caused the hurt fills me with a self-loathing I’ve never felt before.

  I read his last message once more. I want 2 feel like it’s killing u 2.

  It is. Trust me, I type and press SEND before I regret telling him, regret giving him the hope that there’s a chance for him to change my mind. Then I put my phone face down in my lap and turn so my cheek is pressed against the cushion and sigh at Hadley. “Yes, I’m talking to him. A little. I can’t help myself.”