Tonight I’m in Miami, staying at the Fontainebleau in a room with a view of the rolling Atlantic. A group of local readers took me out for drinks and salsa dancing tonight. My feet are covered in blisters and my head is still buzzing from the liquor and loud music, but I had a blast.
I flip to the next page of my book, to the part where Reed asks Ariana to marry him and professes his undying devotion. He presents her with a ring. It isn’t a diamond. She’s not into that. It’s just a simple gold band meant to symbolize eternity. Their initials are carved on the inside along with the date they met.
The proposal is simple and sweet because I imagined Rhett—the old Rhett—would’ve stuck to something simple and sweet. He was no frills. Straightforward. He didn’t make grand gestures because he didn’t need to.
The words on the page feel fresh again, every emotion still raw and magnified. The joy. The sorrow. The hope that no longer resides in my heart.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand to my right, and I glance over, bleary-eyed, to see a short text message displayed across the screen.
There’s a hitch in my breath, and for a second I think I’m imagining it.
Next to Rhett’s name are the words, “Call me.”
My heart races and flutters, and I feel myself getting all worked up, like my body has no idea if it should be happy or sad or nervous.
I read the message again, biting my thumbnail as I try to steady my breathing.
This is going to hurt, but I have to ignore it.
I have to ignore him.
It’s the right thing to do—to end this once and for all, because I’m not getting through to him. We’re not on the same page.
I have no choice but to love the memory of him, the version of Rhett Carson that no longer exists. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll love him quietly, from afar, because what choice do I have? We can’t keep going in circles.
And he’s right. I won’t survive him again.
Forty-Five
Rhett
* * *
Ayla’s second to last book tour stop happens to be in Minneapolis at the same time as my game in St. Paul, and I decide I have to see her. This could be the last time our paths will ever cross, and if I don’t tell her what I need to tell her now, I might never get the chance again.
The second I’m showered and heading out of the guest locker rooms, I text her. It’s late, and she’s probably in bed, but I don’t care. I tell her I’m in town, and I know she is too. I tell her I could get to her within an hour. I tell her to listen to what I have to say, and if she never wants to see me again after that, I’ll let her go once and for all. I tell her I’ve been thinking—about her, about us, but mostly about her. And I tell her I’ve come to a conclusion.
It takes twenty minutes, but she responds with: JUST THIS ONCE. DO NOT KISS ME. DO NOT TOUCH ME.
I tell her I can’t promise I won’t try to kiss her, but I can promise I’ll be gentler this time. She says nothing, only texts me her hotel information, and as promised, I show up at her door an hour later.
Her arms are folded across her chest, and she keeps a careful distance from me. She’s guarded, and I realize I have my work cut out for me. I want to tell her this is just as hard for me as it is for her, but it’s not about me tonight.
It’s about us.
“It’s hard for me to accept the fact that you’re his sister,” I say. “And I hate that you kept that from me during one of the blackest periods of my life. I hate that I fell for you so hard, so fast, and that you let me down.”
She presses her lips together, her eyes averting to the floor.
“But I can’t hate you,” I add. “I’ve tried. And I can’t.”
Ayla drags her finger beneath her eye, looking away.
“It’s only ever going to be you for me,” I continue. “And the way I see it, I’ve got two choices. I can either live with this gaping hole in my heart for the rest of my life, resenting you for it. Or I can figure out a way to make it work with you.”
She looks up, our eyes locking.
“I’m still angry with you,” I say. “But I still love you.” I swallow the hard lump in my throat and ignore the tight squeeze in my chest. I wish I could read her, but her expression is more curious than excited. She’s not running to me, throwing her arms around me. She’s keeping back. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Ayla doesn’t move. This isn’t going the way I thought it would. She isn’t running into my arms, pressing her lips onto mine or crying tears of joy. She’s not jumping at the chance to try to make it work. Instead, she seems hesitant.
I release a steady breath. “All right. That’s all I came to say, I guess.”
It isn’t until I turn to leave that she tells me to wait. When I face her again, she’s walking toward me, her eyes dancing between mine.
“You have to promise me something,” she says, brows furrowed.
“Anything.”
“You can’t hold this against me for the rest of our lives. I want to put this behind us. If you forgive me, if you want to move forward, don’t ever bring it up again.”
I pull in a lungful of air, contemplating her request.
“Even when we’re fighting,” she says. “Never, ever bring it up.”
She brushes her dark bangs from her eyes and clasps her hands at her chest, waiting patiently for my answer.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll never speak of it again. But I need one thing from you.”
“What is it?”
“Never keep anything from me,” I say. “Even if you think you’re protecting me. Even if you think it’ll hurt me. Even if you think it’s the right thing to do.”
“I promise.”
I move to her, circling my hands at her waist and bringing her close. Breathing her in, I feel my body relaxing with each passing second. Cupping her cheek, I lift her chin and deposit a slow kiss against her pillow-soft lips.
Ayla’s hands slide up my chest, hooking behind my shoulders as she kisses me back. Pulling my mouth from hers, I take her by the hand, to the nearest bed, and we take our time peeling off our clothes. I unbutton her shirt, and then I kiss her. She unzips my pants, bringing her mouth to mine again. Her velvet tongue slips across mine, and within moments, we’re naked and my body is hovering over hers in the middle of the bed.
Her breasts are swollen, her nipples peaked, and I circle my tongue around a pointed bud before running my fingertips down her center. Pressing her thighs apart, I slide a finger inside her wet pussy before bringing it to my lips and tasting it.
God, I’ve missed this.
I didn’t exactly enjoy her the last time…
Not like this, anyway.
Ayla pulls me against her, until her body is pinned beneath mine and her legs anchor my sides. My cock is full and throbbing, rubbing against her seam as she writhes beneath me.
I kiss her full lips again and again, taking my time, and she reaches below, sliding her hand between us until her hand wraps around my shaft, pumping the length in her hand before teasing her clit.
“Tell me,” she pleads, breathless and running her hands up my sides, “have you been with anyone else?”