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“I recognized you,” I reminded her, ignoring his inquisition. “Remember? I thought … I thought you were famous, an actress or something, but …” I shook my head, disbelieving. “That's how I know you. I-I remembered you from that show. I could see you in my head. I never forgot your face. Holy shit. I just couldn’t place it.”
I sounded insane, talking quickly and stammering like a bumbling idiot. But I remembered her. I never forgot. That image of her illustrious face never left my memory. Not while I had been at the hospital, not all these years later. It was what had drawn me to her in the first place. At that party, she had walked in, looking like someone I knew, someone I remembered, and I had gone to her like a moth to a flame.
How the hell had it taken me all this time to realize that it was actually in facther?
Realization swept across her face in a slow-moving wave. “Oh my God,” she uttered quickly, awestruck. “Tarryn … Tarryn said you were looking at me. I thought she was insane.”
“Oh, no, baby,” I replied, shaking my head and fighting the insatiable ache to reach out and clasp that gorgeous face in my hands. “I was. I fuckin’was.”
In a flash of repressed memory, I recalled the drive home from that show. I’d wanted to sleep in my own bed at my parents’ house, warm under my favorite blanket, and as I sped down the Long Island Expressway in a torrential downpour, I thought about her. The look of unabashed amazement on her face. The true, unfiltered appreciation. She’d worshipped me, and it stood out among the rest. God knew I’d seen beautiful women before, but the way she had looked at me was unlike anything I’d seen before.
The way I’d felt, looking at her, was too.
Part of me had wanted to pluck her out of the crowd. I could’ve easily told a security guard to grab her, but I didn’t. I’d let it go, brushing it off like it was nothing. But, man, driving home that night, I knew it was something. I knew I’d thrown it away, and I felt like a fool.
That was when I hydroplaned—the very moment I berated myself for being such an idiot.
That was the last thing I’d remembered before waking up.
Lennon looked up at me now, disbelief creasing the lines between her brows. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. I knew what she was thinking. That this was insane. That this was somehow bigger than either of us had imagined. That somehow, someway, fate had played a bigger hand than either of us had expected. It was the type of moment where time stood still, and the only appropriate response was to hold on to each other tight and make out like the end of the fucking world was imminent.
But there was Peter, the douchebag, standing in the way.
“We really have to get going,” he said, that stone-cold glare never leaving his face.
“Yeah, sorry,” I replied for some stupid reason. I didn’t owe him an apology. “I’ll let you guys go.”
“Text me,” Lennon nearly whispered, her voice hoarse.
“You know I will,” I replied, reaching out to gently tug at the soft, sheer fabric blossoming at her wrist. “I’ll see you soon, witchy woman.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding as Peter was already leading her away.
This time, I watched her leave my view, leg aching and heart screaming. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, especially now. Peter wasn’t supposed to be in the way—he never should’ve been at all. And I wondered how long it would be before morality was thrown out the window and I made the conscious decision to forget he was even there at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lennon
Every feeling of foreboding I’d had about the night had proven to be right. In hindsight, I should’ve known better. I should’ve kept Dylan away from Peter—or was it the other way around?
But even as Peter drove us silently to his place, the air thick with accusation and anger, I couldn’t keep what Dylan had said from penetrating my mind.
Hehadnoticed me. Before the after-party and one-night stand … he had seen me—and I had made an impact on him. So much that he remembered. He had insisted he’d seen me before, and not once had I thought it could’ve been the truth.
What does it mean?
“You have to tell me what to think right now, Lennon.” Peter finally spoke, breaking a ten-minute-long silence and slicing through my thoughts. “Because what I saw tonight … that’s not how friends act.”
“Wearefriends,” I told him while trying to convince myself.
Peter pulled his lips between his teeth, shaking his head. “Yeah, no. I know that’s what you’re saying, but I don’t believe it. There’s more to it than that.”
The fingers of my left hand ran over the braided guitar string coiled around my wrist. “I’m telling you the tru—”
“Bullshit, Lennon,” he interjected, raising his voice over mine. “Maybe you don’t fucking see it, or maybe you’re just choosing not to. ButIcan see. I’m not the one who’s fucking blind.”
It was an underhanded insult, and I didn’t like it.
