As though Zach is a wound I just haven’t dressed properly yet. Zach isn’t a wound. He’s the band-aid that I’ve been using to hide all my problems underneath.
Honey:that’s not how healing works, Liv.
Olivia:Isn’t it? Because from where I was standing at that wedding, the only time you looked like yourself was when he walked into the room.
Honey:I was terrified when I saw him.
Olivia:Exactly. You felt something. That's more than I've seen from you in months, Honey.
Here comes the Olivia hate train. I’ve been her friend long enough to know when I’m about to get a succession of texts coming through. All lecturing me on what I need to do with Zach. I know what I need to do. I don’t need a heavily pregnant bestie to tell me, so I put it on silent and stuff it in my robe pocket.
I’ve done enough thinking about Zach to last a lifetime. It’s time I started focusing on what I need.
I reach down beside the chair for the book I packed when I genuinely believed this was going to be a trip about me. Not me running from Zach.
It’s a craft book on writing that I bought months ago while with Olivia. She’d dragged me out of the house and said I needed some perspective—and a hobby that didn’t involve wallpapering her house since she’s running out of walls.
I’ve been carrying the book with me ever since, reading it whenever I can.
I open it to the last page I was on.
Your main character’s motivation is straightforward. It’s why your character acts. What’s harder to write is the gap between what motivates them and what they actually do about it. A character can be fully aware of what they want and why they want it and still find a hundred reasons not to reach for it. That gap is where the story actually lives.
“—yeah, I know, Dave.”
I freeze when I hear Zach’s voice drifting through the dividing wall between our balconies. I’m pretty sure Tiff has mentioned Dave is Zach’s agent. My ears prickle with interest.
“I said I’ll be there,” he continues, the frustration clearly rising in his voice. “Yup. Uh-huh.”
I lean back, ready to push my chair out and go inside, but something stops me.
“I’m out for less than two weeks now. Just tell Coach Masters I had a family thing, and I’ll be back in time for the start of training.” There’s a pause. “Fine. I’ll call him myself tomorrow.”
He’s lying to his coach about where he is. All because he wants to wait for me in person.
I sit back, frustrated that he’s not only lying to his agent but also his coach and team just to be here.
What the hell is he doing?
Anger and guilt course through my veins because he shouldn’t be here. He’s the first overall NFL draft pick. He should be training with his new team, getting to know Rome, Georgia—his new home for the foreseeable future. Instead, he’s risking it all to follow me around on a cruise ship.
That is crazy. It’s reckless. It’s so Zach it’s infuriating.
The chair scrapes across the balcony floor and I’m on my feet, stalking through my cabin before I’ve thought better of it. When I’m in the hallway, I head straight for his door.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
I step back, folding my arms and tapping my foot as I wait for him.
“Coming,” a muffled voice from inside says.
When the door opens, I catch my breath.
Gray sweatpants. No shirt.
I repeat: no shirt.
His phone is still pressed to his ear as he takes me in slowly, the way he always does when he’s reading a situation before deciding how to react.
