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“I went to Chicago to try and distract myself while you were gone,” he says in the face of my silence. “I tried and failed. Because it hit me that where you are is where I want to be.”
God. My toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath me, as if somehow that will keep me upright. They’re the right words. What every woman wants to hear. And yet those words, the sentiment behind them, cut into my air.
Rye sighs, his gaze pained. “It’s not just sex. Not for me. I know that was the plan. But the moment I actually put my hands on you, everything changed—”
“Rye.” He’s breaking my heart. I don’t know how to tell him…
“No, just listen.” He rounds the bed to stand before me. He’s so close, I can smell the scent of his skin, see the spark of earnest need in his eyes. “I’m not playing around. I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t want to hide or wait for a certain fucking day just to see you. That is bullshit—”
“I’m taking the job,” I cut in, the words bursting past the fist of regret clutching my throat.
Silence rings out for an agonizing moment as we stare at each other. I see him struggle to be happy for me. And that hurts worst of all. He lets out a slow breath. “That’s…that’s good. I mean, you should follow—” Rye swallows audibly. “But I don’t see why we can’t still try to be together.”
Head throbbing, I press the heel of my hand to my eye. I don’t know how to make him understand without hurting him. But I can’t lie either. He deserves the truth. Lowering my hand, I hold his gaze, even as mine blurs.
“My whole adult life has been about Kill John. I’ve lived and breathed your world, your music. I go to sleep thinking about all of you: what I need to do for you the next day, week, month, year. I hear your songs in my head. I dream of Kill John. The band has become my air, my heart and soul. And, for so long, I loved it. Loved that you all gave me the opportunity to lift you up.”
His jaw bunches as he nods in understanding. But he doesn’t say a word, just stares at me with eyes that are slowly going red at the edges.
I force the words out. “But Kill John no longer fills me up the same way. I find myself resenting that it takes all of my time, my attention. There’s a restlessness in me, an emptiness. I thought…I thought sex would fix it. That maybe if I felt that human connection, I’d be okay. And it has. To a point.”
Rye licks his lips, and when he talks, his voice crumbles like rust. “It will be better when we’re together for real. I’ll be here for you, Bren.”
My breath shudders. “It’s not enough.”
He blinks. Such a small movement. And yet it’s as though his entire body flinches.
The lump in my throat grows so large it hurts. “I need a clean break.”
“You…” His breath hitches. “You don’t just want to leave Kill John. You want a break from us. From me.”
I don’t want to leave him. But I have to. “My entire life is so entwined with all of you—”
“From me, Bren. Please don’t lump me in with the guys for this. I can’t—” He grips the ends of his hair and turns his head as though the sight of me is too painful.
“Of course, I don’t think of you the same way as the rest of our friends. But it doesn’t change the fact that, if I’m with you, I’m still with Kill John. I’ll still think about the band, worry about all of you. I’ll still want to cling.”
“Shit,” he says with a harsh laugh. “I can’t win here, can I?”
“Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”
He cuts me a look. “I didn’t think asking for us to be together would be a difficult decision.”
“I can’t think when I’m with you; I put the rest of my life to the side. I can’t keep doing that. I need to think…”
“Think?” His jaw pops. “What is there to think about? You either know or you don’t.”
“Well, I don’t know!” I raise a helpless hand. “I want to be sure. I need time.”
His nostrils flare. “Why is this so hard for you? It shouldn’t be hard, Bren. This should be easy.”
“And the fact that it isn’t? Maybe that means something, Rye. Maybe we should take a step back and…and…”
“And what?”
“And evaluate things!”
“It’s a relationship, not a marketing plan!”
We’re snapping at each other like we used to. I want to cry. And I never cry over relationships. I’ve been a party of one for my entire adult life; I don’t know how to be part of a pair. I’ve forged myself in iron, unwilling to rely on anyone else, until it became a shield that I can’t seem to set aside. But I want to. Part of me wants that so badly. But my whole sense of worth has become the band. If I don’t take this chance, I might never know who I am on my own.
