“You know, I had a realization last night.”
I blink. “You did?”
She turns to me, grinning, as she swings a leather jacket over her shoulders. “I realized that more important than my dates liking me is that I like myself.”
“Of course you should.” It kills me that she might not have.
“Finally.” Her laugh is relieved. “Hold still, okay?”
I dart her a startled glance as she steps forward, reaches up, and presses a kiss to my cheek. My heart is rioting in my chest. Her arms come around my neck, and she molds herself to me. Her soft exhalations are warm and damp against my shoulder, the way they were before we kissed against the wall.
A fine tremor runs through me, but she’s already pulling away.
“Thank you,” she says again, then gives me a sunny smile and starts for the door.
I trail her, watching her walk away, her hips swaying, hergait confident in the heels she claims to hate. It’s not the hair or the eyes or the outfit that make me press my forehead to the door after she shuts it. It’s her.
“Fuck.”
It’s her confidence and her loyalty and her quiet honesty. She’s sogood, so wholesome, so precious, in a world that breaks precious things. I want to wrap her up in a blanket and take her home and demand that she never, ever leave me.
My palm tenses against the cool metal. “Fuck.”
She needs this. She needs the dates and the dreams. All of them will take her farther and farther away from me.
Katie’s becoming the woman she’s meant to be and it feels like I won’t be there to see it.
I slip out of her apartment and walk home with tight, quick steps. When I get there, I’m breathing hard, frustration climbing my throat and pushing at my tongue, the way I feel every time I’m in front of the board at work. I am not enough and I know it better than anyone.
I tear off my shirt, but it’s my skin that’s too tight, not my clothes. Before I can think better of it, I pull on black jeans, a black shirt, and black boots, then settle a ball cap over my head.
Katie needs this. And I need to deal with myself before I try to do something insane, like lock her in the security center so she doesn’t get a boyfriend.
Don’t be selfish, Tristan.
This is bad, but it’s better than the other option. Like I have so many times in the past, I run.
34
KATIE
After one drink at a hotel bar—a Diet Coke only for me—Seth suggests we check out anamazingopen-mic night. I tell him “amazing” and “open-mic night” should not be used in the same sentence.
We approach the bar around nine p.m. It’s a quaint, gray-shingled building with a metal door that’s covered in stickers. Even from here, I can hear music pulsing. Seth raises both brows, then pulls open the door.
Hot, beer-scented sound pours out. The music is a tangible thing. I step inside from cool June night to thick, humid darkness. I inhale, then grin at Seth. This is a bar for doing shots and getting into trouble, and I’ve never done that, but maybe I’ll start. Maybe I’ll make out with Seth on the dance floor.
The memory of how well Tristan kissed me zips through me, but I push it away. I don’t want to think about Tristan right now.
The man on stage croons about how he hopes he doesn’t fall in love with the person he’s singing about. I nearly tell Seth I want a real drink, but before I can speak, theperformer strums the final lines and murmurs, “Thank you.”
I freeze a half step to the bar, where Seth is getting us drinks, then spin slowly, which is satisfyingly crisp in my heels. I know that voice. My eyes find the man on the small stage under the single spotlight. His ball cap is pulled low and his outfit is one I’ve seen him wear exactly once before—faded jeans, a black shirt, and black boots.I can’t see his eyes, but I can see the full tilt of his mouth, the shadowed edge of his jaw, and the set of his broad shoulders.
When he lifts his eyes to the crowd, he doesn’t see me with how we’re tucked in the back, but I see him.
Tristan fucking Prince.
35
