I rip my hand from Andrea’s and sprint for the exit. Lyrics I've memorized float behind me like phantoms. I don’t stop until I’m bursting into the warm spring night. My dress shoes crunch through mulch and grass as I stumble around the side of the gymnasium. My staccato breaths morph into choked, dry cries.
“Just listen. It’s us.”
The first tear escapes.
“Remy!” Andrea calls, her footsteps getting closer. “What’s wrong?”
I’m trembling, staring out toward the well-lit football field. The bleachers. The secrets in their shadows—everywhere. I’m haunted by stormy eyes, shy smiles and stolen kisses.
“Out of all the fucking songs, they just had to play that one,” I croak. The air is made of toxic fumes, suffocating me. “It’s been two years and I still can’t listen to it.”
Arms circle my waist from behind. My fingers tangle with hers and hold on for dear life. I’m breaking and it’s so fucking unfair that once again, she’s trying to keep me together. She should leave me in these shattered shards.
“I’ll be fine,” I lie. “Go back in and have some fun.”
Her forehead rocks against my back.
“Please, Drea. I’m ruining your night.”
She hugs me tighter. “Shut up and let me comfort you, asshole.”
With a wet laugh, I twist to hug her back, the tears flowing faster and faster. Music seeps through the building's walls like ghostly whispers as we cling to each other. Eventually, we begin swaying to the gentle melody.
As the song comes to a close, Andrea pulls back, mascara trickling from the corners of her wet eyes.
“I know I can’t fix it, but I’m here for you.” she whispers. “Always.”
Reeling her in again, I rest my cheek on the top of her head.
“Right back at you.”
43
Remy
“Hey, it’s Win. Not here… obviously. Leave a message if you want.”
Oh hell no.
“Winston motherfucking Rhodes, call me back right this fucking second and explain why the hell you just broke into my fucking apartment or I swear to god I’m never touching your pretty dick again!”
With a growl, I instantly redial.
Voicemail.
Again.
I’m going to castrate him.
Slamming on the gas pedal, I whip my truck out of Andrea’s complex. Thank fuck her place is right up the road from mine. My phone vibrates in my palm. I pull it away from my face, eyes darting to the screen.
Not an incoming call— another fucking doorbell notification.
“Asshole!” I howl and yank the wheel right, cutting off a slow Honda. My thumb clumsily taps at the screen, bringing up the video.
Someone honks.
I swerve back into my lane and cringe.
