18. Everytime
Everytime
My life has become a blur of cities and stages—landing in one place just long enough to unpack, perform, and leave again. Every venue melts into the next. Every morning, I wake up wondering where the hell I am.
But I’ve never felt more inspired.
Life on the road gives me the chance to see more of the world, play my music, and connect with fans. For the first time, it feels like I’m not just existing—I’m actually living. The way my mother always wanted me to.
Not hiding in my room, wishing and hoping for an adventure. But seizing the day. Living in the moment.
And now, with a few rare days back in New York, I finally get time to relax—and spend it where it counts: with Riley.
Food and drinks in hand, I knock on the steel door of her Bushwick studio. Music blares from inside—aggressive, chaotic. Yep, she’s deep in the zone.
The door rattles open and there she is, grinning, wild-eyed.
“Honey, I’m home!” I sing.
“Babe!” she squeals, bouncing like a caffeinated jackrabbit. She’s got paint brushes in both hands and a paint-speckled apron. Classic Riley.
Inside, canvases lean against the walls like dominoes, sculptures in progress clutter the floor. That maroon leather lounge chair sits dead center, surrounded by overlapping Persian rugs we’d thrifted and half-finished dreams. It smells like paint and potential—I love this place.
“How was Seattle and LA? When did you get back?”
“This morning. Broderick picked me up at the airport—we hung out for a bit.”
A flash of heat surges through me as I think of our morning ‘workout’. I bite my lip.
“So, things are going well in that department?” she teases, rinsing brushes in the basin.
I nod. “Yeah. I thought it would fizzle by now with how busy we are, but…he’s showing up. Really trying.”
“You’ve got him hooked with your magical fairy fanny,” she cackles, drying her hands.
I roll my eyes. “I brought you food. Gotta keep those creative juices flowing.”
“Burgers and fries?” she asks hopeful, stripping off her apron.
“I wish.” I snort. “Mexican protein bowls and artisanal lemonades. Ava’s got me hooked on them!”
“Ah, yes. Ava. Your new fancy pants bestie.” She says it with a playful lilt, but there’s something just a hair too tight in her smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She waves me off. “I’m just being a little shit. I barely see you anymore now that you’re touring. It just…sucks.”
I close the space between us and crush her in a hug. She smells of paint and cinnamon, grounding me instantly.
“It doesn’t matter how long or how far I’m gone—you’ll always be my best friend. Hell, you’re basically my sister. No one knows me like you do. No one I trust more.”
She inhales beneath me, her heartbeat shifting.
I hold her at arm’s length, and her eyes flick down—just for a second. She swallows. Her jaw tightens, like she’s holding something back.
“We good?” I ask gently.
She pulls back, smirking. “Alright, stop flirting with me. Don’t you do enough of that with your hunk-a-spunk boy-toy?”
“Sometimes,” I say blushing as I dish out the food as we settle into catching up—tour life for me, work drama with her annoying boss for her.
“Is this the piece for Madam Sinclair?” I ask, pointing at the tall, narrow canvas where a woman’s face is outlined as flowers and feathers burst out of her forehead. It’s abstract and gorgeous—different from her usual pieces.
“Yeah, I’m trying something new. This is the third piece. She loved the other two.”
“Show me.”
Excitement sparks in Riley’s eyes as she gulps her drink and heads toward a rack of stacked canvases. She pulls them out one by one—a collection of women with half their faces replaced by random objects: one with shoes and jewels, another with vibrant tropical birds.
“Riley! They’re incredible. Now, what do I have to do to get one commissioned for me?”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m dead serious. I want one with musical shit coming out of her head—for that white wall in my music room.”
“No, that’s reserved for all the awards coming your way!”
“Maybe. But I want a piece from you up there—pwetty pwease, with sugar on top,” I beg in a mock-baby voice.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but I won’t charge you for it.”
“Over my dead body. I’ll have Mark contact you and arrange it properly.”
“I already live with you—rent-free, might I add.”
“Don’t even mention that—your art is worth every bit of the effort and heart you put into it. Don’t sell yourself short.”
She waves me off as if ending the conversation. If there’s anything Riley hates, it’s being told how talented, brilliant, and special she truly is. I wish she could see what I—and everyone else around her—see: her unwavering loyalty, her bright ray of sunshine that chases the darkness away.
“Ready to head off?” I ask, treading onto safer ground.
“Yeah—you got your hot security detail waiting downstairs?”
“No, it’s Tony today.”
“Pity. Luca’s nice to look at,” she says wistfully. “Though, he’s being a tease—so maybe he’s interested in you?”
“All yours, babe,” I quip back, linking my arm with hers as we head down the stairs.
“Yeah, you’re too preoccupied getting snapped in half by that fucking bear.” She giggles. “He definitely gives off big-dick energy.”
My cheeks heat.
“How big is it?” she asks, holding her hands out and widening them as we walk toward the car waiting curbside.
Tony opens the door for us.
“Tell me when.” She widens it more. “Are you fucking serious?” Hopping into the back seat, she slides over, and I climb in.
“No comment.”
“You and Luca edging me—you’re both such grumps.”
Tony hops into the driver’s seat.
“Hi, hot stuff, how are you this delightful afternoon?” Riley says.
“Miss Fisher. Good.” He nods politely.
“Geez, dude, don’t talk my ear off,” she teases back at him.
Leave him alone, I mouth, slapping her shoulder playfully. Riley could talk the hooves off a horse—sober.
“Just home, please, Tony.”
He nods again.
“Christ, how do you manage to get a word in with Mr. Chatterbox over here?”
I chuckle. How I’ve missed her.
“How are things going with Broderick, anyway? Is he shopping for rings already?”
If my cheeks were hot before, they’re scorching now.
“Riley, stop. It’s not even like that between us.”
“Please. He’s clearly so smitten with you—bet he jumped at the opportunity to smash your brains out.”
I roll my eyes. “Actually, I convinced him. He was reluctant because of Alex.” I shrug. “But I knew he wouldn’t say no.” A little smugness creeps into my voice.
“Ugh, don’t say that jerk’s name.” Her tone sharpens, and she rubs her arms as if brushing away the thought of him.
If only it were that easy. The only time I don’t think about him is when I’m with Broderick.
“Anyway—enough about him.” I pull my phone out. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not really. I pity-fucked James from the wedding. Can confirm Avery was right—he’s pretty average in bed…” She keeps talking, launching into an in-depth assessment of James Sinclair’s sexual ineptitude.
I only half listen. My attention snags on the hundreds of notifications lighting up my screen—until my thumb freezes mid-swipe.
There it is. Alex’s post.
A black-and-white photo.
Of me.
Sitting on a windowsill in Sweden, wearing nothing but his white dress shirt—half unbuttoned, shoulder bare, knees pulled to my chest, staring out at the view.
You can only see the side of my face. It could be anyone.
But it’s the kind of photo no one was ever supposed to see.
Part of me feels ashamed and overexposed, but another part is yanked back to that moment when I shared the most vulnerable parts of myself with him.
His caption is simple: EJM.
My initials.
What the fuck.
The comments flood in, hot and fast:
“Is that Elena Montgomery?”
“Did they get back together?!”
“What about Madison?”
“What does this mean?”
“Omg I KNEW they weren’t over.”
My stomach twists.
It’s been months since Alex and I were photographed together at the Hamptons.
Weeks of pretending that call didn’t exist. Weeks of trying to cauterize the memory. And now—here he is, ripping me back to that moment in time—
His arms wrapped around me from behind as I sat on the window ledge, small flakes falling from the sky, peppering the forest as they danced in the wind.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I leaned into him, feeling his warmth. “It’s beautiful here.”
“You’re beautiful here, darling,” he whispered, planting a kiss on my bare shoulder that sent a shiver down my spine.
“I wish I could bottle this feeling,” I sighed as he kissed his way up to my neck.
“What if we just stayed here, the two of us?”
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. His fingers traced lazy circles over my bare thigh.
“I’ll think about it.”
Before I could offer another teasing remark, he pressed his lips into mine, consuming any doubt—every stroke of his tongue convincing me of his perfect, impractical proposal.
The two of us. No noise. No obligations. No pressure. Just us.
My heart swelled, so full it could burst.
Pulling away, he cradled my face in his hands, gazing at me with pure devotion. It was enough for me to throw everything away. For him. All for him.
“Let’s stay,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Be with me.”
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead to his. “Always.”
I felt euphoric. Untouchable. There was no feeling like being wanted absolutely. Irrevocably.
My chest heaves, dragging me back into the present. His words—his quiet devotion—burn like acid on the scars of my heart.
Just as I was starting to heal, to move on—even if slowly—he yanks me right back into his web. That familiar ache flares, addiction pulling me under. Like a drug only he could supply.
“Elena.” Riley’s voice cuts through. “Are you okay?”
I tilt my phone toward her.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to burst into tears. Instead, I lean my head on her shoulder, and she wraps her arm around me, cradling me from his storm.
When we get home, I slump onto the couch, and Riley makes me tea.
“Why would he do this?” The words tear out of me before I can stop them.
“Some guys just love messing with our heads, babe. That’s why I root and boot. I’m not giving them a chance to get into this noggin.”
“You might be onto something. I don’t get it. He breaks up with me, goes back to her, and then does this.”
“I know—it’s a mindfuck.” She settles beside me with her own tea.
“Please tell me you’re okay,” she says quietly, nudging her shoulder into mine.
I don’t answer right away. Because I’m not sure if I am. I run a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.
Kylie’s name lights up the screen of my phone.
I stare at it, heart pounding in my ears, before swiping to answer and putting her on speaker.
“Hello?” My voice comes out small. I already know this isn’t going to be a pleasant call about schedules and appearances.
“Oh, thank God. Elena.” Kylie’s voice is sharp, clipped—controlled in that way that makes my stomach twist tighter. “Have you seen it?”
“Unfortunately.” My teeth grind the word.
“Well, it’s already trending.” I can practically hear her pacing—heels tapping out her frustration, probably with a latte cooling untouched on her desk.
“It’s everywhere. Everyone’s speculating—if you’re back together, if you’ve been secretly seeing him—it’s catching like wildfire.
People are pulling up old interviews, tour clips, fan edits—they’re going full FBI. I saw a thread with timestamps.”
I close my eyes and press my fingers to my temples, as if I can keep the pressure from crushing me.
“I’ve already reached out to his team,” Kylie continues. “I’ve asked them to take it down. But…” she hesitates, “he’s taken full control of his social media. He’s refusing. Elena, you may need to call him yourself.”
The words hit like ice water.
“Me?”
Riley bolts upright, cursing as she stalks across the room.
“Yes,” Kylie sighs. “He might listen to you, because he’s sure as hell not listening to his team.”
Silence stretches.
“Elena?” she prompts.
I bite hard on my lip, jaw locking, eyes finding Riley as she shakes her head.
I draw in a shaky breath, clinging to what composure I can. “Even if he takes it down…the damage is already done.”
Kylie says nothing. Riley applauds me silently, and I thank God she’s here, helping me navigate this bullshit.
“They’ve seen it,” I say, louder now. Steadier. Something sharp burns in my chest—anger, maybe. Defiance. “They’ve already made up their minds.”
I take a breath. Force myself upright.
“I’m done letting everyone else decide how I should feel. Or what I’m supposed to do.”
Kylie exhales—softer this time. Like she hears it too. The shift in me.
“Elena…”
“I’m not calling him,” I say, putting my foot down. “You, of all people, wanted me to end things. It’s ended. I’m not calling him. End of story.”
“Okay,” she says finally. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is. Post a tour photo—anything to show I’m nowhere near him or New York. Let them see I’m out here, living my life, focusing on the music.”
“It’s a good approach. Well done, Elena.”
We end the call, and my shoulders slump into the couch.
“I’m proud of you for standing your ground,” Riley says, sitting beside me again. “I mean, we love Kylie—she’s badass—but this is your life. You have every right to push back when you need to.”
“Thanks, babe. But she’s the expert. What if she’s right?” Doubt creeps into my chest. Maybe I should have listened.
“Sure, but you’re the owner of your own destiny. Her job isn’t to dictate—it’s to guide.”
Riley’s light cuts through the haze, scattering the shadows before I can spiral.
“Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?”
“Not nearly enough.” She chuckles, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Okay, but for real—are you going to call him?” she asks gently, though her tone braces for an answer she doesn’t want.
“I don’t know. No…I guess.” The words leave my mouth, but I’m not sure I believe them. Part of me doesn’t want to hear his voice or whatever he might say. But a weaker part of me can’t help but want to know.
Ugh. Pathetic.
“Good,” she says instantly—fierce, sharp. “Because fuck that. He doesn’t get to drop a steaming pile of shit and walk away again, leaving you to deal with it.”
My throat tightens, marinating in indecision.
We sit quietly for a moment, nothing but my ragged breaths and the sounds of the city below filling the space.
“But…if you wanted to, I won’t judge,” she adds. “I mean, I’d rather you do some damage to him instead, but either way, I’m fully on board. Baseball bats, brass knuckles—call him or beat him. Choice is yours.”
A breath of a laugh escapes me. “Thanks, babe.”
“You know I’ve got you, right?”
Her words radiate through me, filling me with confidence. No matter what, I’ll always have her to catch me in the fall.
It’s my life. And I decide.
“Thanks, Riley.” I stand, the choice solidifying in my mind.
I don’t say anything else. I throw on my oversized hoodie and sunglasses, grab my keys, and head for the door.
“Elena?” Riley calls after me, rising to her feet.
“I need some air.”
And in this moment—right now—I decide I need to see him.