Chapter 30 #2
Our eyes linger on each other, and then we both look away. I’m aware of Gia’s sweet perfume lingering in the room, but she’s still the most beautiful thing in it. All the words I’ve held onto for weeks suddenly spill.
“Do you think I don’t love you? I’m losing my mind over what you do to me.”
Her lips part slightly, the rest of her face caught in stunned disbelief. “Then why haven’t you said it?”
“Because I’m different from you. I keep things locked up.
I’m careful. Maybe too much.” I scrub my hands over my face, feeling grungy and beat up.
“There’s a lot I haven’t told you about my past, but I grew up in a fishbowl, under scrutiny from day one to fulfill my father's expectations, not allowed to be just me.”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
“I had to live like a cardboard cutout in the shadow of my father. Be successful, but not more successful than him. The nepo-baby bullshit didn’t help either.
And when things blew up between him and Rhys, I lost my best friend.
After that, touring was the only place I could breathe.
My safe space. Then that implodes, and suddenly I’ve got nothing. ”
I blink away the tears that have been threatening to fall, and something stirs in Gia’s face.
“I’m not a TikToker sharing every tear. What happened with Amber was private and painful for both of us. And I didn’t tell the truth because it fucking hurt too much. You haven’t been through this kind of loss yet, so maybe it's hard to understand why I kept it close to my chest.”
Gia, whom I’d never categorize as a world-class listener, has, I can tell, carefully tracked every word.
She guides me to sit on the bed, coming to kneel at my feet.
Her hands cup my knees in a gentle squeeze.
Wetness gathers on her lashes. “You loved, and she broke you. That’s okay.
But you’re still here, still alive. And you’re right, I haven’t been in love.
Not until you. But I feel like we’re soulmates.
Yes, we’re different, but that’s good. I kick your ass; you kick mine. That’s how couples work.”
She gives my knees a shake. “Don’t be scared of us or let your past swallow you whole. Your scars are poetry. Turn them into music. Anything else is a waste of you. Please forgive me. I won’t do anything like that again. And let me love you. Please.”
I feel stripped raw. And Gia looks young, fresh, and so pretty at my feet, laying herself bare. Everything about her, her entire being is a provocation. She’s softening me; I want to spend all day wrapped in her arms.
And she’s right, I am scared. Because I’m older and know what commitment means.
And suddenly my mind spins backward to last December.
I drove Gia home during a snowstorm. Parked in her driveway, we kept talking as the hood of my car disappeared under a blanket of snowflakes.
When our words dried up, she looked at me.
The urge to kiss her threw my brain out of sync.
But I let all my repressed feelings puddle onto the floor of my Porsche.
I pecked her on the cheek instead, wished her a Merry Christmas, and drove home in a state of utter misery.
Pure cowardice.
I didn’t trust the moment.
I feel my eyes burning. More than a decade braced against the world, and this spitfire slices straight through it. It’s unsettling, intense, and liberating.
“Since when did you become the older, wiser one?” I dare to ask.
The smallest smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Nice try. You’re the old one in this relationship. Now and forever.”
I smooth her hair back, thumb away her tears, and tip her chin up with one finger. “You make me want to risk it all, Gia.”
I hadn’t planned to say the words. But there they are, hanging in the air.
“I’m right there with you,” she says, her voice equally soft. “I promise.”
I let the silence settle between us. There are still questions and conversations to have, but for one suspended beat, everything aligns—our mistakes, our truths, our grief, our desire.
Then her stomach growls, and it dissolves the last whisper of tension.
We both sputter a laugh, touched by the absurdity.
“No time for breakfast,” she admits. “I’m starving. Can I raid your minibar?”
Just like that, we’re us again. Gia moves on fast, too fast sometimes. Maybe there’s a lesson in that for me—to not marinate endlessly. But deep down, my cowgirl needs to learn something too.
“I have a better idea,” I say, keeping my tone perfectly casual.
“I’ll eat anything you put in front of me. Chicken feet. Organ meats. Not picky.”
“Gia,” I say quietly, standing and offering my hand. “You can order everything on the room service menu and charge it to Sawyer’s room, but first, follow me.”
She studies my face, trying to read my intentions. I can see her calculating. “What are you thinking?”
I expect her to push back, to question like she always does. But she reaches for my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. The momentum shifts into something inevitable and urgent, and we can’t stay where we are, not for another moment.
Not with sound check in three hours and a lifetime of need scorching my blood.