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He sighs. “I know. They won’t let me go back there right now. I thought maybe I could get you to steer her in my direction at some point before the night is over.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.” Not sorry.
“She won’t answer my calls. I just need five minutes where there are no cameras.”
I scoff. “No cameras?” Teddy is an attention junkie, so now I’m even more suspicious of his motives.
He holds up his hands. “I just want to talk to her. Honestly, it isn’t what you think.”
It doesn’t matter what I think. “The main reason she asked me to come was so I could keep you away from her.”
“She said that?” His lips turn down, and I feel like I kicked a puppy. I have no idea how he does it, but he almost makes me feel bad for him.
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he looks like he is going to cry.
Shit. I glance around. I do not want to make Teddy Lance cry. I’m supposed to de-escalate the situation for Amber, not make it worse.
He fucking sniffles, and I’m not going to lie—he is remarkably good at looking pathetic. Sympathy stirs. I ruthlessly squelch it. He broke my best friend’s heart. “It’s too late for you and Amber.”
“No. I mean, yes. I know that. But I still need to talk to her.” He blinks and his eyes glitter with tears.
“No can do.” I start to turn around when he reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Will you at least give her a message?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Will you tell her I’m sorry about Paris? I broke my promise and”—he lets go of me and runs his hands through his perfect hair—“it won’t happen again.”
“Don’t you mean Charlotte?” I ask.
He snorts and shakes his head before he slips away.
Paris. What did he do in Paris?
I watch him as he moves through the arena. He gains attention from everyone, and while I know he’ll get to Amber at some point, it won’t be tonight. I’m going to stick to her like glue.
She’s up for eleven awards, all on her own. She deserves to celebrate her success, and I’m not letting Teddy Lance take anything else from her.
SEVENTEEN
ELLIE
As expected, my mother’s house sells quickly. In forty-five days, it’ll belong to someone else.
With quiet efficiency, she begins packing up her life and arranging to put everything into storage. She appears completely composed, which frustrates me. This is a massive change, and it would be so much easier if she exhibited some emotion.
My heart is heavy as I trudge up the front steps and through the front door. I silently climb the stairs.
“You’re here,” my mother says when I walk into my old bedroom.
“You asked me to come,” I respond, with more bite than necessary.
“I know.” She nods slowly. “I didn’t hear the door.”
I shrug and look around. I didn’t knock. I just walked in—a small act of defiance that didn’t offer me any comfort. My eyes lock on the stack of flat boxes at the end of the bed, and a shuddery breath escapes me.
