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The man looks hungry as he stares at Dalton, but he glances at me too, assessing. He unzips his puffer jacket slowly as we get closer.
“We should walk apart.” Dalton sounds so tired—like he wants to sleep beneath the earth for millennia. “If he gets a photo of both of us, everyone in the world will know we’re linked.”
“Would that be so bad?”
That guy’s paparazzi? Sure enough, he draws an ugly black camera from inside his jacket, fumbling it up to his eye.
When I glance down at my sundress, the damp bikini patches have dried. Thank god.
“Move away, Alba.”
“No.” On impulse, I grab Dalton’s hand. The camera clicks over and over, the man grinning with sickly satisfaction, and I hate makinghisday, but this feels important somehow. I can’t let Dalton face this alone.
“This your girlfriend?” the man calls. A seagull hops near his foot, and he kicks out with a scuffed boot. The bird flaps away, unhurt but squawking.
God, I hate this guy. And all he’s done is stare at us, take some pictures, and ask Dalton a question—but I feel so freakingviolated.My best friend has lived with this and worse for eight years. Alone.
“Now you’ve done it,” Dalton says, but he doesn’t sound mad. He’s bemused, tugging me faster toward the Daybreak Inn. “They’ll figure out who you are, Alba. They’ll hound you for this.”
Shivers coast down my arms, but I raise my chin. “Fine.”
“You say that now, but they can be real assholes. Is your apartment secure? Would you let me hire a bodyguard? Only until the press lose interest—”
I squeeze Dalton’s hand, and he clams up. We squeeze through the hotel door together. “I said it’s fine.”
The redheaded receptionist waves as we enter, a delicate glue brush in her hand, her ship-in-a-bottle spread over the counter. Dalton goes to warn her about the paparazzi outside, and I stare down at my suddenly free hand. My palm is tingly.
Did I just do that? Did I just publicly claim a rock star? Like it’s no big deal? Like it’sfine? Even though I’m about to fly out of his life forever?
Nice job, Alba.
“Come on.” When I glance up, Dalton is waiting, stone-faced. His square jaw is taut, his shoulders tense. “Lindsay won’t let him in, but that jackass will follow you if you step foot outside again today. Good thing you’re leaving, right?”
“…Right.”
Ouch. Should that sting so much? Lindsay shoots me a sympathetic smile as we pass her counter, but I don’t deserve her pity.I’mthe one who waved a white flag here—I’mthe one who freaked out in that plunge pool and declared I was leaving forever.
You know, for someone who loathed being left behind so much, I sure do it to Dalton a lot too.
First ghosting his letters. Then threatening to leave yesterday, and again today. No wonder we’re climbing the hotel stairs in thick silence, Dalton’s hands shoved in his pockets where I can’t reach for them again. He must be sick of me flip-flopping.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly as I unlock room thirteen.
“What?” Dalton frowns, leaning one shoulder against the wall. It’s so shockingly familiar: even as a teenager, Dalton wouldn’t stand upright if there was a good surface to lounge against. It’s instinct to him, and I used to tease the crap out of him for it, reaching up to ruffle his blond hair. “Why areyousorry? I’m the one who’s caused you nothing but trouble.”
“That’s not true.” The door creaks open, and I step inside. Dalton doesn’t follow.
My heart splits open down the middle. “Please,” I whisper, turning the key over and over in my hands, stranded in the middle of the woven rug.
Still frowning, Dalton follows me inside and shuts the door behind him.
“Do you want help packing?” He scans the room for my backpack and finds it slumped on the chaise lounge. It’ll take all of thirty seconds to stuff it full again.
“No.”
I don’t want to pack. You know why? Because I don’t want to leave.
I want to erase the last few hours and do this morning over again—and I want to be braver this time. No lashing out at the first pinch of fear.
