Chapter Forty-One
Maddox
She’s curled up, hair splayed across the pillow, lips parted slightly as she sleeps. One hand is twisted in the sheet where I used to be, the fabric still warm, the other tucked by her side.
I should stay, or wake her up, be honest with her, be better. But all I can think about is the sound she made when I kissed her, the way she looked at me when she stood at her hotel door, like I was something worth believing in.
But I stand here like a fucking coward, watching her in the dim light bleeding through the sheer curtains, memorizing the shape of her. The way her breath lifts the comforter with every slow rise and fall of her chest.
Have you ever wanted something so badly, and then the second you get it, guilt and shame and something dark and sour claws through your chest like it wants out? Like something inside you curdles and turns on itself because wanting was easier than having?
I know what it’s like to touch her, taste her, be with her in a way I don’t deserve. So, I turn into the asshole I know she’s always thought I was.
I run.
The hallway is too bright, the clicking of the door as it shuts behind me ricocheting through my bones, breaking the stillness of everyone asleep in their rooms. I lean against the wall, hands braced on my knees, nausea swelling in the pit of my stomach.
What the fuck did I just do?
“Maddox?”
I look up, guilt lacing with a fresh edge of irritation as Beau appears in the hallway, like some personification of all the parts of me I don’t want to face, dressed in sweatpants, a hoodie with bedhead. Gatorade in one hand, protein bar in the other, utter disappointment taking over his face.
“It’s done,” I mutter. Saying it out loud tastes like blood and rust.
Beau’s eyes flick to the closed door behind me. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick. You know that, right?”
I shake my head, not because I don’t believe him. Just… I’m tired. “Don’t.”
He takes a breath like he’s going to keep going, explain or justify or whatever.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, pushing off the wall and walking away.
“Maddox?” he calls after me. “Dude? Seriously? I’m only trying to protect you.”
I stop, lowering my head, my shoulders sagging with the weight of just about everything.
“Yeah?” I say, voice flat. “Well, thanks.”
“Maddox—”
I spin around, my pulse pounding in the side of my neck as I stalk toward him. “Don’t, Beau. Don’t say another fucking word. I did what you wanted. I ended it. I ended the only thing that’s felt good in a long damn time.”
His mouth opens, then closes again, like he’s finally got the sense to shut the fuck up.
I press my tongue into the side of my cheek.
It’s easier to be pissed at Beau than admit he’s right.
Easier to lash out at him than face the truth I’ve been avoiding—that this thing with Paige stopped being just about us the second it started.
That it can’t be just about us, not when the entire band is on the line.
We bled for this dream, we starved for it, stayed up too late, worked shit jobs, and said no to everything else because the music was more important. Because we believed that one day it would be worth it.
I didn’t end things because he told me to. I ended it because I had to. Because the second I stop putting the band first, I stop deserving it.
Swallowing the rest of what I want to say, because this isn’t Beau’s fault, I turn and head toward my room. No dramatic storm-off, no slammed doors. Just footsteps fading into the carpet.
Away from him.
Away from her.
Away from whatever the hell I thought this could have been.