Chapter 40 Annalise #2
“I get it,” he says. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”
Harnessing a soft smile, I unzip my suitcase and rummage around for a pair of pajamas. Out of my periphery, I watch as Chase pulls out his phone, starts to scroll.
I clear my throat. “Everyone’s down at the bar. I’ll be fine for a few hours if you wanted to join them. There’s a lot to celebrate.”
His eyes lift through dark, fanning lashes. “I’m good.”
“Groupies are probably flocking.” I laugh lightly, though the thought clogs my throat with something sharp and ugly. “Could be fun.”
“You want me to ditch you for groupies?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, you can. If you want. I wouldn’t blame you.”
He slips his phone into his pocket. “I’m where I want to be.”
I curl my hand around a silky pink sleep set. “Have you thought about that?”
“About hooking up with groupies?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, stomach pitching. “Comes with the rock star life. Beautiful women throwing themselves at you.”
Chase leans forward, props an elbow on his knee. He rubs a hand over his jaw, watching me, turning a response over in his mind.
He doesn’t reply right away, so I keep babbling. “Surely you’ve considered it. I mean, you’re single. Hot. Talented. The way you sing, engage with the crowd…”
“Yeah. It’s crossed my mind.”
The lump expands in my throat. “You basically have your pick of the litter. You can—”
“I don’t have my pick of the litter.” He cuts me off, tone gruff. “If I did, things would be a lot different right now.”
His truth slips through the cracks. Bruises on the way down.
He gives me a look like it cost him something to admit that.
I pull to a stand. Stare at him, all out of words. My palms sweat around the pajamas.
“Go change. I’ll get the pullout ready.”
Mouth dry, I watch as he moves to the other side of the room, fumbling with the bed.
Ducking my head, I escape into the bathroom with flushed cheeks and a thumping heart. The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back to it, exhale hard.
My fingers shake as I change into the pajama set, pale pink with black piping, soft as a sigh.
I let the fabric slide over my skin like armor, giving myself time to breathe.
Time to not think about Chase on the other side of the door, folding a pullout bed like it’s the only thing he can control right now.
When I move toward the counter to wash my face, I go still.
Amber prescription bottles clutter the space around the sink. Four of them, some open, labels peeled. One’s knocked over, little white pills spilled like teeth across the marble.
My stomach sinks.
“Chase?” I step out of the bathroom, voice tinged with concern. “What are those pills for?”
He’s still shirtless, all corded muscle and blue and black ink, hunched over the unfolded couch as he tucks a fitted sheet over the flimsy mattress.
Faltering, he looks up, over my shoulder, then back at me.
A muscle in his cheek ticks. “Nothing. Just something for my headaches.”
“All of them?”
“Hard to perform with a migraine tearing my skull apart.” He changes the subject, forcing a smile. “You hungry? I can order room service.”
“No, I…” Swallowing, I glance back at the bathroom. “I’m fine.”
He nods.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I inch toward him, unease blooming in my gut. “That’s a lot of pills.”
“It’s just pain reliever. Some are preventive. Don’t worry about it.”
Of course I’m going to worry about it.
I care about him.
He’s been suffering, and I had no idea. While he complains about headaches sometimes, I didn’t realize it was to the extent of carrying around a travel pharmacy.
But I’m getting the impression he doesn’t want to talk about it. So I let it go.
I slide onto the king-size bed. Crawl underneath the covers. Flip off the nightlight beside me.
A few tense minutes roll by as I gaze up at the ceiling.
Chase turns off the remaining lights. “Good night,” he says.
“Good night.”
The sheets are cool against my skin, crisp in the way only hotel linens are. I curl toward the center, my back to the door, and stare into the dark.
Beside me, I hear the soft rustle of blankets. A squeaking box spring.
I close my eyes, but I already know sleep won’t come.
Not with everything rattling inside me. Intrusive thoughts.
Weeks of insomnia and adrenaline. Loneliness, grief, strobes, and solos.
For a moment I forget I’m not curled up on the bench seat of the Sprinter with crooked, twisted limbs, a cramp in my leg, and my brother’s hoodie tucked around me.
My mind wanders, recalling the bed I slept in for years. Familiar. Dishware clinks in the far corners of my mind. The scent of fried food lingers in my nose, hot stoves making me sweat.
“I’ve never cheated, never even looked at another woman.”
I slap a hand over my face, willing the ghosts to scatter.
This damn guilt. I can’t shake it. Can’t let it go.
It’s there, assaulting me, every time I close my eyes.
My thoughts spiral, latching onto that moment in the rain. His hands all over me, pressed against my throat, palming my breast. My spine digging into the railing.
Cold water from the sky. Hot, wet kisses. Moans, sighs, gasps.
Another man. Betrayal. Evidence that maybe Alex was right about me.
“I don’t know how to carry this, Chase.” The sound of my voice is weak and frayed, but loud enough to carry over to him. I hear him shift. See his shadow move as he sits up, a few feet away. “I’m sorry. I…” A little sob falls out. A croak of mourning.
I yank the blankets over my head, burying my face in the dark. Hiding from him. From myself.
I stay like that for a long time, knees tucked to my chest, breath uneven. The ache is everywhere. Between my ribs, behind my eyes, deep in my throat.
That’s where he finds me, shriveled up and broken.
The blanket lifts slowly, and the air brushes cool against my skin. My eyes adjust to the faint hotel glow leaking in from the hallway, just enough to catch the outline of his silhouette. Broad shoulders. Tousled hair. Bare skin, chiseled and inked.
I want to see his eyes. Want to know what’s in them when he looks at me.
His knee sinks into the mattress. Then the other. He climbs in beside me, his movements cautious, like he’s still deciding whether he’s allowed to be here. But he must know. Somehow, he knows I need him more than I can say.
“Annie,” he says softly.
Just my name. My nickname. The one only he uses, like a secret unfolding between us.
I should have known right then what I was getting myself into.
My chest caves. I curl tighter, my voice crumbling. “I thought…I thought leaving Alex meant choosing me. But what if there’s nothing left of me to choose?” It spills out like poison, thick and unforgiving. “What if I already lost myself?”
He just lies there, close but not crowding, the heat of his body warming the air between us. A small shift, and then his hand brushes mine. A solace, an offering.
I take it.
Our fingers link together.
“You didn’t lose yourself,” he murmurs. “You’re still you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“I do. You do too. And I know what it’s like to hate yourself for something you can’t undo. To relive it on loop. To think maybe the worst version of you is the real one.” His thumb traces a gentle path along my knuckles. “But it’s not. It’s just a version. Just a piece.”
A tear slips down my cheek, soaking into the pillow.
“I see the way you carry everything. Always have,” he says. “The way you try to protect everyone but yourself. You’re not broken, Annie. You’re human.”
I roll toward him, our faces now inches apart. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
“It’s not about fixing it. It’s about learning how to live with everything, the good and the bad. How to love yourself despite the flaws, despite the mistakes. It’s about giving yourself grace.”
My throat closes. “There’s just this awful part of me I can’t shake. Like maybe Alex was right,” I confess. “What if I hurt you? What if I do ruin people?”
“You don’t ruin people,” he says with conviction. “You’ve just carried more than you ever should’ve had to. And yeah, sometimes that weight makes you stumble. But that’s not the same thing as breaking someone.”
The words melt into me, gentle and soothing. My grief ebbs, little by little.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe it isn’t about perfection or destruction, about choosing between saint or monster. Maybe it’s about being human, flawed and fumbling, and still being worthy of love anyway. Maybe I don’t have to keep punishing myself to prove I’m good.
I let the thought crack something open in me. The tiniest sliver of light.
I shift closer, until there’s no space left between us. “I’ve missed you,” I breathe.
I hear his breath waver. A slight hitch.
Then his arm comes around me, gathering me to him like a magnet, an impossible draw. “I’ve been here,” he whispers.
“I know.”
I tuck my face against his shoulder, every nerve ending alight. My hand drifts to his chest, fingers splayed across warm muscle. He stiffens. Breathes in hard.
Our legs twine together. My lips whisper against his collarbone.
We stay like that, tangled in silence, for what could be seconds or eternities.
Then he breaks the quiet, exhaling deeply into my hair. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he rasps, voice low and strained. “Wanting you when I couldn’t have you, or right now, feeling you wrapped up in my arms, and knowing I still don’t.”
Something jagged tears through my chest.
Pain, want, need, grief.
“I want you too,” I say, voice paper-thin.
“Then I’ll wait.”
I close my eyes. Let myself sink.
Wrapped in his arms, held so tightly the pieces stop rattling, I finally fall asleep.
Ten hours pass in a blur of breath and dreams. The deepest sleep I’ve had in months.
When I wake the next morning, the bed is empty. For a moment, panic prickles through me, that old fear of being left behind, of not being good enough, strong enough, brave enough. But then it fades, replaced by something quieter.
I remember his arms around me, steady and sure. His voice cutting through the chaos in my head.
You’re not broken, Annie. You don’t ruin people.
I start to believe it.
Alex’s voice doesn’t get to be the loudest anymore. I don’t have to keep carrying his definition of me.
It’s time to write my own.
I sit up and glance beside me. On the nightstand sits a vanilla latte, still warm. And beside it, a plastic cup, overflowing with maraschino cherries.
The sight pulls a tear from me, but it’s different this time.
Not grief. Not guilt.
Something closer to hope.