Now I’m sitting on a cruise ship, chasing a girl who doesn’t want me, wondering what the hell it was all for.
I really fucked this up, didn’t I?
I stare at Coach’s message and read it a few more times.
I know what I have to do.
To: C. Masters
Subject: RE: Commitment
Coach,
Booking a flight out tomorrow morning from Nassau. I'll be in Rome by tomorrow night. Won't make any more excuses for the time I missed. I'll work to earn—
I stop typing the second Honey’s balcony door opens.
Shit.
I should go inside, but I’m a heavy motherfucker, and if I move, she’ll hear the chair screech across the floor.
Holding my breath, I hear her footsteps as she pads across her balcony, only seeing a tiny glimpse of her hair because the partition blocks most of my view.
I clench my hands together, stopping myself from doing something stupid like reaching forward and running my fingers through the strands.
Not fucking stalker behavior at all...
She stands there for a minute, her shoulders rising and falling with her breath.
I swear I hear it hitch.
Don’t move. Don’t go over there and be the savior.
That’s when her shoulders start shaking, and fuck, my resolve is being tested right now. My poor Honeycomb is still broken, and I’m just like everyone else. Watching.
Before I can move from my chair, she turns, catching my eye immediately.
“Oh,” she lets out in a little squeal.
I push my chair back. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out here for a while. I would’ve moved and gone inside, but you were—”
I don’t finish that sentence, knowing it will hurt her even more if I admit I saw her crying.
She takes a deep breath, wipes her eyes, and smiles. It’s not genuine, though. No. I know her real one. This is the one she uses to placate her family, and the people around her.
“No problem.” Her voice cracks. I pretend not to notice. She flits her hand in my direction. “You stay there. I’m just going to sit over here anyway.”
She backs away from the partition, and even though I can't see her, I hear her settle into the chair on the other side.
Well, this is awkward. Should I go inside and leave her to cry—or do whatever she was planning on doing—alone?
Probably. I don’t, though. She told me to stay here, and I’ll do anything she tells me to.
I settle back into my chair, and we sit there in silence for a moment, separated by a four-foot divider.
My phone buzzes with a message, and before I can turn it off, it starts to ring. Dave’s name flashes on the front, and I quickly divert the call, not wanting to talk to him right now.
“You’re popular tonight,” she says with this sad edge to her voice.
