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Eight years. Eight years without her hands on me, without her scent in my lungs, without her musical voice in my ears—and I’m no less smitten than before. If anything, it’s worse.
But you know what? Alba is right. This was an insane idea. Because I’ve carried a torch for this woman for all this time, hoping and planning that one day we’ll be together, glued to each other’s sides, but meanwhile she…
She’s forgotten me. Moved on.
Ouch.
Doesn’t she know that I did it all for her? The music, the riches, the world tours, the constant exhaustion—doesn’t she know it was all so I could give her the kind of life she deserves?
I’m a chump. And this is humiliating.
If the press ever got hold of this… I scrub my face, swallowing bile. My life is not my own anymore, and my heartbreak is the perfect headline. And Alba…
They’d torment her too. They’d tear her to shreds. No one can know.
My childhood best friend blows out a long breath, then starts pacing back and forth on the striped, woven rug. A red backpack bumps against her ass as she walks, the seams frayed and bristling with loose threads. She’s muttering to herself—something about rock stars and breakdowns and rehab.
What’s that now?
“I don’t need rehab.” My only addiction is her. Can rehab cure me of that? I don’t think so. “I’m fine, Alba. Forget it. Go home and pretend I never asked you here.”
She huffs and paces faster. The evening sunshine spills through the windows and licks at her golden brown skin. She looks softer than silk.
Listen, if Alba wants to move on, I won’t stop her. I’ve always known this girl is miles out of my league, so far above me I could barely see her—but I thought becoming a world famous rock star might tip the odds in my favor.
Bad plan.
“Well.” My knees crack as I stand up. When did I get so damn creaky? I’ve aged a decade in the last ten minutes. “It’s been good to see you. Sorry to drag you away from everything, Hernandez. Hope you have a good life.”
My tone is light but the words ring false, even to me. Guess you can’t really hide when you’re dying inside. Alba snags my elbow as I stride past.
“Dalton, wait. I’m here now,” she says. She’s still frowning, concerned. Christ, those big, brown eyes will haunt me to my grave. “Don’t you want to get dinner at least? Catch up?”
If I had my way, we’d be husband and wife by now.
But sure. Dinner’s fine.
* * *
Sweet Cherry Cove may not have tons of restaurants, but the Rockin’ Rockpool Diner more than makes up for it. Decked out with red vinyl booths and old records on the walls, the wait staff zooming around on roller skates, at first glance you might call it tacky. Then you try the food, and believe me—you forgive all the retro 50s shit in a blink.
Alba snorts as we step onto the checkerboard tiles. She flicks a giant painted statue of Elvis Presley on the shoulder as we pass. He’s by the entrance, posed like he’s sitting at a table, meant to lure folks in. The paint has worn off his knees from everyone sitting in his lap for photos.
“It’s busy,” she says, throwing the words over her shoulder. Can barely hear her over the din. Everyone in the Cove has come out to eat. Alba’s chattier now that we’ve left the hotel, and now that I’ve walked a hundred yards without keeling over or declaring my love. Guess both of those things can be stressful. “Where do you want to sit?”
I nod at two high stools at the window, both facing out to sea. Better that we don’t face each other. Better not treat this like a date.
We pass the best booth to reach the seats, the little reserved sign set out like always, and I want to tell her about it. Alba was always such a gooey romantic, and she’d lose her mind over that reserved sign and what it represents: the grumpy, handsome chef saving the best table for his favorite girl, just on the off chance she comes in. Day after day, night after night.
I keep my mouth shut. It’s too close to my own tragic pining; too close to how I wrote every song for Alba, dreamed of her for eight years, and meant every word of that wedding invitation. And now here we are, no better than strangers, and she thinks I need rehab.Rehab.
This is no breakdown. This was just a terrible idea. What was I thinking?
It was nuts inviting her to her own wedding. A ballsy move. Iknewthat. But Alba used to like it when I sent her on crazy treasure hunts around the suburb we grew up in, and she always loved romantic movies where the guy makes a grand gesture. Turning up on a lawn mower with a boom box or whatever. Thought I was on to a winner.
Hollywood has a lot to answer for.
“The fries are really good. And the burgers. All of it, really.”
