I haven’t seen him since last weekend when I walked into his apartment. He was facing a wall, his back to the door. Frozen. At first I was confused, so I made my presence known. And then I saw the hole in the wall and the penetrating way he looked at me with this intense pain in his eyes.
My heart sank.
And I knew.
“Ayla, on behalf of the New York Spartans hockey team,” Coach says, “We’d like to present the Bryce Renner Foundation with a check for thirty thousand dollars.”
The guys half-heartedly applaud—except for Rhett, and I thank them all, taking the check from Coach’s hands.
“Ayla, you let us know anytime you need us. We’re here for you,” Coach says.
“Thank you.” I turn toward the table, eyes catching on Rhett’s again. He’s staring so hard it makes my stomach drop. I’d give anything for him to look at me the way he used to; before he hated me.
“All right, we’re done here. Suit up. I want you on the ice in thirty minutes. Strength and conditioning today. Hope you guys have been working out this summer.” Coach grabs his notebook and the guys rise from their seats, making small talk.
I glance across the room at Rhett for the millionth time. I can’t stop looking at him. Every time I gaze his way, I hold onto some irrational sliver of hope that he’s going to break that hardened expression.
I search for a sign of life; a sign that the Rhett Carson I know and cared about is under there somewhere. But he’s still stoic, and his eyes are still the coldest shade of ice blue I’ve ever seen.
The guys file out of the conference room—all but Rhett, and I follow. Shane stops me in the hall, asking how I’ve been, and I assure him everything is good and well. He gives me a smile and nod and heads down the corridor to the locker room.
I’m standing in the hallway, waiting.
Rhett’s still in there, and this might very well be the last chance I’ll ever have to tell him how sorry I am one final time.
When he emerges from the room, his back is rigid, his fists clenched at his sides and his lips forming a straight line. He looks in my direction, but he’s looking through me—like he doesn’t see me.
And I get it.
He doesn’t want to see me.
“Rhett,” I say, reaching for his arm as he passes by. Just like that, he keeps walking, so I follow. “Give me one minute of your time, and I’ll never bother you again.”
Rhett takes long, heavy strides. We’re getting closer to the locker room. I won’t be able to follow him past that point, and maybe that’s his intention.
“I’m sorry. I was selfish and falling in love with you, and I was only thinking of myself,” I say, words airy and breathless as I clutch at my heart. If he would turn around and look at me, then maybe he would see the sincerity in my eyes because the desperation in my tone is clearly not coming across in a way that makes him pause and reconsider.
I deserve this.
I know.
“I’m not going to justify what I did,” I say. “It was wrong. And I’m sorry for hurting you. But I don’t regret it, because that would mean regretting the time we spent together. And I wouldn’t trade those weeks for anything. They were some of the best weeks of my life.”
We’re twenty feet from the locker room entrance. He hasn’t slowed down yet. My heart is heavy, and my eyes well with thick tears that distort my vision.
He’s turned cold again—colder than before, and it’s all my fault.
I did this.
“Goodbye, Rhett.” My words are a thin whisper on my lips as he disappears through the door.
It’s been a week since I last saw Rhett at the Spartans’ arena.
I check to ensure my flight is on-time for the tenth time this morning and order a ride to the airport. The movers took the last of Bryce’s things to a storage facility an hour ago. My bags are packed. The apartment is empty. The keys are on the kitchen counter.
A small part of me thought maybe Rhett needed time to cool down; that maybe by the grace of God this would blow over and he’d find it in his heart to hear me out. But I’ve been met with a deafening radio silence. His message is loud and clear.
It’s over.
So I finished up the rest of Bryce’s affairs, booked a flight home, and let go of the last little thread of hope I’d been clinging to.
I take a seat on my suitcase in the middle of the empty living room while I wait for my cab, resting my chin in my hands as I take in this million-dollar view one last time.
When I told Rhett I regretted nothing, I meant it. I’ll forever cherish our time together. I’ll burn it into my memory, tuck it into the tiny corners of my heart and hold it near and dear until the day I die.
Maybe he was never mine to begin with; maybe deep down I knew I was only borrowing him. But my heart doesn’t know the difference, and losing him hurts just the same.
Eighteen Months Later
Thirty-Two
Ayla
* * *
“You ready?” My friend, Seth, stands in the doorway of my bedroom as I sit on top of my overfilled suitcase. I’m going to be living out of this thing for the next three months. Last week Hard Hearted officially launched, and my publisher is sending me on a three-month, twelve-city book signing tour.
“Yep.” I tug the zipper all the way around and climb off.
“We’ve got to get going.” Seth motions for me to hurry up. “Flight leaves in three hours and we have to take the 405, which is crazy this time of day.”
“I know, I know.”
His bag is at the door, and his car keys jangle in his hand. I take another look around at the modest-yet-comfortable condo I purchased last year with money from my advance.
Millions of dollars sit untouched in my bank account. I’ve still yet to spend a single penny of Bryce’s inheritance with the exception of the money I gave my mom so she could retire early. That woman worked her ass off to provide for me, sacrificed everything, so it’s the least I can do for her.
I plan to put some of the money back into the foundation and give some to charity. For now, I’m letting it grow, and according to my accountant, it’s growing like crazy right now. He says if I don’t touch it, it could double within ten years, then double again ten years after that.
All I know is I want to do as much good with it as possible.
My eyes rest on the gray velvet living room sofa where I penned the sequel to my first book. There were days I barely moved from that spot, the words flowing from my mind to my fingertips on a tidal wave of messy emotions—all of which were inspired by one person.
“You excited?” Seth asks.
I nod, my stomach filled with butterflies, but not the good kind.
“You’re nervous,” he says a minute later, loading our bags into his trunk. “That’s why I’m coming. Everything’ll be fine.”
I’m glad he’s coming. I didn’t want to go alone, at least not this first time. I’ve never done a book signing, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’m grateful for my one-man entourage.
I met Seth at a writer’s workshop in West Hollywood two Christmases ago. We’re one hundred percent platonic, but I can tell he wants more. Don’t get me wrong—Seth is extremely attractive. He’s a hair over six feet with chocolate brown hair, hooded, honey-colored eyes, and ridiculously sexy tortoise-shell glasses. He wears cardigans and skinny jeans and leather Chucks and he’s not even trying to be a hipster. He’s just ... Seth.