Chapter 6
I don’t go home.
I should, but I don’t.
Bringing myself to leave just feels impossible.
Then there is the little problem I am having: Reagan is forcing me to go to Travis’s show tonight.
Okay, well, she’s not forcing me, I agreed to, but I am starting to think it’s probably a bad idea.
I’m quite certain he doesn’t want me there, and yet here I am, dressed to the nines in a sparkly black dress, my hair flowing, wondering what the hell I’m doing.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say, as I twirl my lashes up with mascara.
Reagan, who is wearing a gorgeous red dress, snorts. “Girl, I told you if you really don’t want to go...”
“Yes, I know, and I’m still going so I can only blame myself if it goes bad. God, why can’t I just pack up and go home, just leave all of this behind?”
“Because that isn’t your home, and you know it.”
I hate it when she’s right.
We drive to the show with Reagan hyping me up enough that I am starting to think she is doubting our decision.
The venue is as big as they always are when Travis plays.
A huge stage, thousands of people, and an atmosphere that is unmatched.
We get ourselves a few drinks and then find our seats—good ones, of course—and look down over the stage, waiting for the show to start.
My leg bounces nervously as I watch, just waiting.
The lights drop, the stage comes to life, and the crowd goes silent as we watch, just waiting for the moment the show begins.
It is the best moment, if you ask me, the one right before the artist comes on stage, and you can feel your heart in your throat.
The entire crowd pushes forward with a collective intake of breath, a sound you can feel in your soul.
I grip the edge of my seat so tightly that my fingers hurt.
Then he’s there and the silence is no more.
Now, oh now, they’re screaming.
The spotlight follows him, and he stands center, black jeans clinging to his legs, no shirt, tattoos on display.
The silver chain hanging around his neck glistens under the spotlight.
Travis’s presence is so intense it distorts the air around him, and everyone in the crowd feels it.
He keeps his expression impassive as he scans the crowd, and then he grins and I can’t hear myself think over the women screaming.
Travis moves differently than I remember, but better, more purposeful, every gesture meant to scoop up the gaze of everyone in the room.
He has a way of anchoring the song with his body, like every muscle is linked to the words.
I can’t tell if he sees us. He doesn’t do anything to suggest he does, but my skin prickles every single time he gets close.
I watch him sing, every song as captivating as the first.
God, I forgot how fucking beautiful he was on stage.
He ends the set with a song I’ve never heard before, and a hush runs over the crowd when he tells them that it’s a new song, and he hopes they like it.
When he starts singing, there’s a rawness to his voice I have never heard, a pain that runs so deep it slices through the air and penetrates me right into my chest. The lyrics punch right through me.
There are bits that are beautiful, as he sings about a love so pure it set his soul ablaze, but then he gets to the painful parts.
The parts about breaking. About dark nights.
About being left behind in the world. About drowning.
About me.
He notices me just as he is wrapping up the song, and I am probably the only person in the crowd who can hear it, but his voice hitches just a touch.
Everyone in the room is watching him, maybe feeling the pain, but they don’t know the truth behind the lyrics, or the meaning of the girl he’s singing about, the way she ran, the way she never let him say goodbye.
The way she fucking broke him into a million pieces.
He finishes with a yell, so loud it makes me flinch.
I can’t stop the tears, I can’t. They burst forth with a painful sob that has me shoving my hand over my mouth.
His eyes meet mine, and for the longest moment, we just stare at each other, then he slings the guitar behind him and walks straight offstage, not one single bow, not even a thank you. The crowd goes mad.
I push to my feet, not hearing Reagan when she calls out to ask if I am okay.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
Shoving through the crowd, tears running down my face, I barrel into a bathroom stall. The crying isn’t pretty. It’s loud, ugly, mascara running down my cheeks.
I hear some commotion, then Reagan’s voice. “Vi, open up. I know you’re in there.”
I open the door.
She takes one look at the mess on my face and doesn’t say anything.
Just hugs me tight, her hands cold from the air-conditioning, and tells me she’s got me, always.
I believe her. Then, she cleans up my face, even though my tears won’t stop, and tells me we’re getting out of here.
She leads me through the crowd, in search of an exit.
It’s misting rain when we step outside. Not a full-on storm, but that weird sideways drizzle that sticks to your skin and makes your clothes cling to you.
“I’m going to get the car, stay here, don’t move,” Reagan orders.
We’re out in a back parking lot, quieter, more secluded.
I wonder how she knew to go out that exit?
Maybe Harley told her. He got her the tickets, after all.
I watch her go, then press my back to the brick wall, hearing the commotion still happening inside the arena as the next band comes on stage.
Most people would stay for that, but not me, no, I’m out here crying like a damn baby.
As if the universe is laughing at me, the back door swings open and then he’s there.
Right there.
He’s got that look on his face—the one he used to get after getting into a fight and having to decide whether to punch back or just walk away.
It’s a mix of angry and confused. For a second, we only stare at each other, and then he flicks a cigarette onto the ground and crushes it under his boot.
He knew where to find me, I have no doubt about that.
“You gonna tell me why you came?” he says, voice hoarse from the set.
I laugh, though it sounds like a cough, and cross my arms over my chest. “You want me to lie or tell the truth?”
He narrows his eyes. “I want the fucking truth, the same thing I’ve always wanted, Violet.”
I look up at the sky. "That fucking song hurt, Travis.”
He steps closer, the rain making his hair stick to his forehead. "I didn’t ask you to come."
“Yeah.” I close my eyes, then open them again, because every time I try to walk away, I end up right here, in front of him. “Did you mean it?”
He doesn’t answer at first, and when he finally does, there’s a rasp to his voice, like the words hurt him. “Only song I’ve ever fuckin’ written that destroyed me.”
I swallow, then meet his gaze. “You really think I’m the one to blame for everything?”
“No,” he says, his voice low. “I know I fucked up, I have lived with that choice every single fuckin’ day but when you left, and you just cut me off, it was like a fuckin’ piece of my soul died. I have never needed something in my life the way I needed you, Violet, and you just left me hanging.”
The air goes thick between us. “Then why didn’t you find me? Come for me? Fight?”
He swears, low. Then, “Because you made it very fuckin’ clear you didn’t want to see me again. It broke me. Fuckin’ destroyed me. I had nothing left.”
He’s right.
I know he’s right.
“It wasn’t easy, you know,” I whisper. “Walking away from you was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but I was fucking drowning, Travis. All the lies, the secrets, they were crushing me. I couldn’t breathe.”
“I know,” his voice is low, broken, so full of pain it hurts. “I fuckin’ know and I’ll hate myself until the day I die for destroying the most precious thing in the world to me.”
Something inside me snaps, maybe it’s alcohol, desperation, grief, pain, or a million memories I have tried to push away.
I grab his shirt, rainwater running down my arm, and yank him towards me so I can press my mouth against his.
It’s not gentle. It’s a collision. He lets his body fall into mine, slamming my back against the wall as his mouth consumes me.
This moment.
It is everything I have thought about for the last two years.
I forgot how good he tastes, how hot his body is, how perfectly he fits against me.
He lifts me, palms under my thighs, and my back scratches against the brick wall, cold and jagged but I don’t care.
He kisses me like he has been underwater for so long that the air is a blissful relief.
I gasp against his lips, tongues tangling, and it is a kiss that they write about in books or put in movies.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world stop spinning.
His hands push up under my dress, fingers rough and greedy.
He hooks my knee higher and our bodies fit together the same way they always did, good or bad or ugly, like two puzzle pieces matching together just right.
His hands are everywhere, in my hair, on my hip, pinning me to the wall.
I grab his belt and fumble it open, desperate, frantic, like maybe if I take enough from him, it’ll fill the empty space he left behind.
The rain picks up, harder now, drenching us, and I let my head fall back.
He kisses down my neck, open-mouthed and hungry, and then he’s inside me, hard and fast, a mix of pain and pleasure that has a moan escaping my throat that is loud enough to be heard over the rain.
It’s not romantic. It’s not even pretty.
It’s hard and it’s brutal. All the feelings we have kept pent up for the last two years, all the anger and the hate, but mostly the hurt and the loneliness.