“Hailey . . . I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can you wait for me?”
My lips part, but the call drops before they can form an answer. One dead battery, and he’s gone—thousands of miles away again—and all I can do is try to breathe in spite of the overwhelming hopelessness digging its claws into my chest.
I don’t change out of my pajamas after getting off the phone with Mike. I don’t shower. I don’t go to my classes. If it wasn’t for Phoenix, I wouldn’t even get out of Mike’s bed.
I text Rowan and Dee to tell them I’m okay and that I need to spend the day alone, and since they have no idea I’m camping out at Mike’s house with my vagabond dog, they have no choice but to honor my wishes.
Thanksgiving is tomorrow, when I’ll have to put on a brave face and spend time with family, but for today, I’m off the map, and time passes slowly. I spend countless hours watching daytime TV and old cartoons from Mike’s bed, and he does call just like he promised he would, but for only two short minutes. Just long enough to ask me how I’m feeling, listen to the lie I tell him, and then have to run again.
I’m curled up under his heavy comforter when the sun sets, its yellow halo around his curtains fading to dark blue, to gray, to black. With Phoenix sleeping in her usual spot out on the living room couch, I’m alone in the dark. I close my red-rimmed eyes against his pillow, wondering how I got here.
When I moved to Mayfield, the plan was simple: do my best to get along with Danica, excel in all of my classes, try to make sure she didn’t party her education away, make something of myself. A boyfriend was never part of the picture—much less my cousin’s rock star ex, who I have fallen madly, irreversibly, desperately, soul-crushingly in love with.
I’ve never been this girl—one to cry herself to sleep in the same pajamas she wore to bed last night. But here I am, completely raw. My eyelids have been rubbed sore from all the crying I’ve done today, so I can’t even touch them when more tears begin to spill onto Mike’s pillow.
I wanted sparks, and I got them, in the form of a man who kindled an inferno inside of me. If I let it burn, it will destroy everything. But if I put it out . . .
I’ll miss his warmth. I’ll miss his heat. I’ll miss the way he consumed me, the way he made me burn.
I can’t give him up, but I can’t keep him, and in ten days, I won’t have a choice.
Under Mike’s covers, I think about playing princesses with Danica when we were little girls—how we dressed up in tiaras, wore sparkly dresses, and planned to marry our one true loves . . .
They were always princes—they were always princes.
But what happens when they’re not princes? What if they’re a rock star—just one rock star—and we both want him for ourselves?
Chapter 48
It’s late when the bed stirs, and my mind is fuzzy from sleep when comforting arms wrap around me—big, strong arms that snake around my waist and pull me close.
“Mike?” I rasp as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of my shoulder, his stubble abrading my skin. I’m sure I must be dreaming . . . but I can feel him—his rough jeans against my bare legs, his hard chest molding against my back. I can smell him too—a familiar scent that makes my heart slam against my ribs as I turn in his arms. In the soft glow of a nightlight I brought from home, I find his warm brown eyes, and my breath catches in my lungs.
Mike smiles and tucks a long curl behind my ear.
“How are you here?” I whisper, a flood of emotion washing away my voice as my eyes begin to water.
“I told you I was coming home, didn’t I?”
At the warmth in his eyes and the soft curve of his smile, a sob escapes me, and Mike pulls me tighter against his chest. I grip the back of his T-shirt, terrified he’s going to disappear. “I told you not to,” I cry, holding him tight enough that I can feel his heart pounding against my cheek.
“Nothing you could have said would have kept me from you,” he promises, his chest rumbling against my ear, and quiet sobs escape me as I tremble in his arms. My body still aches from the crying I’ve done all day, and now a new wave of emotion racks me from the inside out.
Mike rubs my back. He kisses my hair. He hushes me as he picks up all of my broken pieces and tries to put them back together. It’s like he took my heart with him when he left, and now he’s put it back in my chest. In his arms, it can finally beat again.
It took him all day to fly here—I know, because I’ve spent countless hours these past few weeks looking up flights to wherever in the world he was, and I’ve daydreamed about being able to afford visiting him. Twenty hours to South Korea. Twenty-seven hours to Indonesia. Twenty-four hours to Australia.
Ten hours from London, not counting the time it must have taken him to purchase tickets, get through security, wait for his flight, drive home.
“How’d you know I was here?” I ask with my ear still pressed against his heartbeat.
“I didn’t,” he admits, trailing his fingers over my back. “I came home to change clothes, and then I was going to throw little rocks against your window or climb your lattice or something romantic.”
I smile against his shirt. “My room is on the ground floor.”
“Then I’m glad I found you in my bed,” Mike says, combing his fingers gently through my hair.
“What about your tour?” I ask as I let his closeness make the past five and a half weeks disappear. In this moment, nothing else matters—only that he’s here. That he’s holding me. That I can touch him. That I can feel him.