24. I Feel Like I’m Drowning
I Feel Like I’m Drowning
The crowd roars as the last chord rings out. My fingers clench the mic, chest heaving. Sweat clings to the back of my neck, down my spine—but I’m grinning like a lunatic.
“More!” someone screams from the pit with their whole chest.
“Elena, we love you!”
“I love you too, guys!” I shout back, voice cracking a little—and the crowd loses it, thousands of cheers fusing into one.
I squint against the lights, letting the sound crash over me. Arms raised. Phones flashing. My name echoing off the walls. I drink it in—the static fizz in my veins, the way it buzzes under my skin.
“Atlanta,” I call, breathless, “our first date was incredible.” I pause, grin stretching wide. “Let’s meet under the mistletoe and kiss at midnight.”
Screams.
One last glance at the crowd—spotlight blinding, but I see them. Their faces.
I’m so lucky to have this life. To feel their adoration. It’s a feeling unlike anything else.
I blow them a kiss and turn, platform boots thudding against the stage as I disappear into the wings. My ears ring. My throat’s raw. My pulse doesn’t know the show’s over.
The last stop on this tour.
I’m glad for it, adrenaline staves of the exhaustion but I cannot wait to take a hot shower and crash out in bed.
I barely make it two steps before arms wrap around me.
“Jesus, pretty lady.” Ava laughs into my shoulder. “You trying to make it impossible to follow that?”
I pant, still catching my breath, and pull back to see her grinning. Her in-ears dangle loose around her neck.
“Stop it,” I say. “They’re yours now all warmed up.”
“You didn’t warm them up, you set them on fire.” She presses a water bottle into my hand, beaming at me.
I take a long swig. My hands still shaking.
Her expression softens. “Seriously, though. That was electric. You owned it.”
“Thanks,” I gasp, my heart rate starting to settle. “Means a lot. Coming from you.”
She bumps my shoulder. “Next tour, I’m opening for you, huh?”
I laugh, wiping sweat from my brow. “Deal. But I want a bigger rider next time.”
“Oh, don’t worry, diva.” She winks. “I’ll get you four brands of coconut water and those weird Australian cookies.”
“Tim Tams,” I deadpan. “Show some respect.”
She grins, stepping back as her cue comes through the comms.
“You crushed it,” she says again, more serious now. “Don’t forget that.”
I nod, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “Go kill it.”
She’s already walking but tosses a smirk over her shoulder. “Try and stop me.”
Then she’s gone—into the lights, into the roar.
And I’m alone in the wings, heart full, knees weak, adrenaline still clawing through my bloodstream.
I make my way toward the dressing room, footsteps echoing against concrete. My breath’s just starting to level out when I see them.
Two stagehands whispering. Eyes darting. Looking at me awkwardly, then away—fast.
Weird.
I frown and keep walking, I round the corner toward my dressing room.
My heart stops when our eyes meet.
Alex.
The floor tilts. The oxygen disappears. One blink, and he unspools every thread Broderick had carefully stitched into place.
I want to run.
Into his arms. Into the ocean. Into the nearest fucking wall.
Anywhere but here.
“Hello, ?lskling,” he says, voice like a cool breeze cutting through heat. Smooth. Controlled.
Months.
It’s been months since I’ve seen him. How many nights I imagined what this moment would be like.
And now he’s here.
Dressed in a gray T-shirt and jeans, his hair a little longer than the last time I saw him, stubble coating his face.
He looks tired. Older even. As if the time apart had been hard on him, or maybe I was just imagining things.
Foolish thoughts, trying to romanticize our time apart like he was Gatsby and I was Daisy. Didn’t end well for them either.
“Can we talk?”
My skin prickles at his words. The aftershock of the show still radiates through me—and he cuts through it like water over flame. I don’t trust myself.
I muster up every confidence I have and will my legs to move, waltzing right past him with my chin high.
I don’t look back. Just shove the door to my dressing room open, hand clenching around the handle, ready to slam it shut.
But I don’t. Holding it open like the idiot I am. That sliver of curiosity getting the better of me. Would I finally get answers tonight?
His face. His voice. That look.
A thousand bricks laid down, and in one second, they come undone.
Alex’s footsteps are quiet. Hesitant at first as he walks inside slow, gaze skimming the room. It’s modest, a vanity, with all the things needed to prepare me for the stage, a lounge, mini-bar fridge, racks of clothes, my bags and another door leading to the attached bathroom.
“What are you doing here Alex?” I ask after a moment.
His hand rakes through his hair—nervous. That telltale move he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say.
Despite our time apart, despite the tired look on his face, he is still stupidly beautiful.
Still tall, still glowing like he’d been dipped in some sort of divine spotlight.
Even after all this time, he looks at me like I hung the moon.
“You were amazing tonight,” he says finally. His face searching mine for a reaction.
I drop my gaze, unwilling to offer that part of me that shows how badly he gutted me the night he tore my heart to pieces.
Only to re-emerge like a cruel reminder whenever I let Broderick too close to the place he once—still—occupies.
I turn slowly away from him, gripping the back of the chair to keep from shaking. Digging my nails into the fabric.
“You didn’t answer my question.” It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my voice steady, to prove to him and maybe even myself that he doesn’t have a hold of me like he used to.
“Elena, I miss you.”
Those words, hit me like a tidal wave—knocking the wind and resolve from my lungs.
I miss you, too.
My soul screams it. Feeling it everywhere, in my chest, the corners of my eyes stinging, my heart and mind at war with one another.
I clamp my mouth shut, jaw tight enough to ache. I risk a peek at him and I instantly regret it.
“I’m miserable without you,” he breathes, pacing now, dragging both hands through his hair. “I can’t sleep. I can’t think.”
Miserable?
He’s miserable? The word hits me like a slap. I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
“Alex you ended things with me,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You only have yourself to blame for your misery.”
He flinches. “I know. I know—it’s complicated.”
A laugh breaks out of me. Bitter. Unamused.
“Yeah,” I spit, “that’s the tagline of our relationship, isn’t it? It’s complicated.”
He exhales hard, raking a hand down his face, before sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking every bit the tortured broken man. I’m caught between feelings of anger and concern.
Because despite what he did to me, there is still a big part of me that still cares for him.
Alex looks up at me, his stormy gray eyes, pained. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?” My voice pitches up, sharp with hurt.
“What am I supposed to do with this, Alex? You show up, backstage, like a fucking ghost—after you abandoned me on my birthday, broke my fucking heart then disappeared, only to end up plastered everywhere hand in hand with her?” I pace the small space like a madwoman.
“I made a mistake.”
Breaking up with me?
Getting back together with her?
He doesn’t clarify, the silence between us thickens. I stand there, breathing like I’ve run miles, the dressing room too small to hold the history between us.
“Shouldn’t you be with Madison?”
“I’m here filming in Atlanta, but she doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Aren’t you together? You can’t do this to her Alex, she’s going to be the mother of your child.”
“I am not with her,” he spits the words out like they’re poison.
I’m not stupid, I saw the photos. Their teams made a joint statement.
Then it comes back to me, how easily his PR teams manipulated the narrative before—was that it? Was him being with Madison a calculated media stunt?
But if that was the case, why doesn’t he just say that. Why does he keep skirting around the reason. None of this makes any sense.
“Then why are you here?” I ask—yet again.
“I needed to see you, I can’t take it anymore.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
I bite the inside of my cheek ‘til I taste iron.
“I’d hoped you’d reach out—but you never did.” He rests his elbows on his knees, looking up at me, eyes hopeful.
He was doing that to get my attention.
“Alex.” My voice drops. “Why should I, after what you did to me?”
“I know. I don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you—but—” He stops himself, holding back whatever he’s about to say, and I don’t know why he can’t just come out with it.
“Stop with the late night calls, the posts. The photos. The flowers. All of it. Please.” My throat catches. “It’s hurting me.”
“?lskling, no—please.” He steps closer. “They’re not meant to hurt you. That’s not what this is. I need you to know I still think about you. All the time. You’re always on my mind.”
And just like that, I’m back there.
My birthday. Sitting in that dress. Waiting. Alone. The call. His voice, empty. Flat. Like we never mattered. Like I didn’t matter.
“Well, now you know how it feels,” I spit. “But it’s over now.”
“Is it because you’re with him?” he says through clenched teeth.
My eyes narrow.
“That…real estate guy?” he adds.
As if Broderick’s name isn’t worth remembering.
My spine straightens. Something burns in my chest—protective, certain.
Broderick is the salve. The steady hands. The safety net. The man who never once asked me to shrink. And he didn’t deserve to be belittled to feed Alex’s fragile ego.
I step back, jaw tight, the space between us suffocating.
He has no idea.
Not anymore.
The bandage I wrapped around myself to stop the bleeding.
That’s what Broderick was. He held me when I couldn’t hold myself.
“So, what if I am?” I shrug.
Alex doesn’t flinch. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.” My words slice through the air, sharp and fast. “You lost the right to have an opinion the minute you dumped me.”