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"Recovering addict."
My stomach drops. Miles. Is. A. Drug. Addict. Recovering, sure, but still a drug addict. And he didn't fucking tell me.
"I'm not watching you relapse, Miles. I'm not going to spend my nights wondering if you're in some hotel room choking on your own vomit. I'm not going on tour with you in that self-destructive bullshit state."
"I won't."
"You want to be another 'Rock Star Dies of a Drug Overdose' tabloid headline?"
I lose track of their words. The same sentence keeps running through my brain. Miles is a recovering drug addict.
It's a lie of omission.
That night in Malibu, I was crying about my sister, and he said nothing.
The next day, I asked if there was anything I needed to know, and he said nothing.
He had a million chances to tell me, and every time, he said nothing.
My legs wobble. I hit the floor with a thud. Shit. That's loud.
The door opens and Tom steps into the hall.
He offers his hand. His green eyes fill with a mix of sympathy and concern. "You hear everything?"
I nod. "I need to go home now."
Miles steps out. His face is filled with dread. It's an expression I've never seen on him before. Regret, anguish, something like that.
Maybe he's actually sorry.
"Wait." Miles reaches for me.
"Wait? What for? I'm 'some girl' and this is all casual. What does it matter to you if I leave?"
"Meg…"
"Don't 'Meg' me. We had one rule, and you broke it." I push myself to my feet and take a step back.
They're both staring at me, nervous, like I'm that girl in Detroit who threatened to kill herself.
I could promise my mental fortitude, but screw that, Miles deserves to worry. He deserves the same sinking feeling in his stomach that's in mine.
"Fuck you both," I say. "Don't call me again. And don't write any more songs about me!"
I don't wait for an explanation. There isn't one coming. I turn and rush down the stairs.
Damn. I miss a step. I grab onto the banister, only barely managing to catch my balance.
Someone runs after me. Maybe it's Miles. Maybe it's Tom. But I don't care. My suitcase is in his car.
Screw the suitcase.
I rush down the stairs, grab my purse, and get the hell out of there.
Chapter Thirty
The bus takes forever. All I want to do is scream, but I'm surrounded by strangers. Screaming would get me a quick trip to the police station or maybe the psych ward.
