Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Avery
M y boots thumped as I walked away, each step a small victory over the magnetic pull of him. The wind whipped my hair around my face, carrying traces of his cologne that made my throat tight.
"Wait!" His voice carried that rough edge, the one that usually made my stomach flip. "We need to figure this out before one of us dramatically boards a plane to Timbuktu or something equally cliché."
Really? Now he wanted to talk? After forcing me to jump off a fucking tower? My hands were still shaking, my heart still racing—though whether from the jump or from him, I couldn't tell anymore.
I kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Don't turn around. Don't look at him.
"Avery, please."
I froze, cursing my traitorous body for responding to the raw need in his voice. The residual adrenaline from the jump mixed with anger in my veins, making me feel drunk and furious and terrifyingly alive.
"There's nothing to figure out." I didn't turn around, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "You got your content. Your views. Your likes. Isn't that what this was all about? What’s left to talk about?”
His footsteps approached, and I tensed. "Everything. Us. This mess I've made."
A laugh escaped me, bitter as day-old coffee. "Us?" Now I did turn, letting him see exactly how done I was. "There is no 'us', Brody. There's you and your cameras and your stunts, and there's me, the idiot who thought…" I cut myself off, refusing to admit how much I'd started to believe in this thing between us even as I was actively shunning it.
"Just hear me out." He gestured toward a nearby park. "Five minutes."
"Like you heard me out when I said I didn't want to jump?" The words came out sharp enough to draw blood.
He flinched. Good.
"I deserve that," he said softly. "I deserve worse."
"Yeah, you do." But my feet weren't moving away anymore. Stupid, stupid feet.
The park stretched out beside us, all perfect grass and blooming flowers, completely oblivious to my emotional meltdown. A bench sat empty under an oak tree, private enough for the conversation I absolutely shouldn't have with him.
"Five minutes," I said finally, hating myself for giving in. "But if you suggest one more adrenaline-fueled activity, I swear to God, Brody…"
He held up his hands in surrender, those eyes of his so earnest it hurt to look at them. We sat, and I positioned myself at the far end of the bench, ignoring how much the space between us felt wrong.
“I'm sorry, Avery. I'm so sorry for pushing you into that jump. I was scared and hurt, and I lashed out in the worst way possible. I thought… I thought if I could just get a reaction out of you, any reaction, it would prove that you still cared. Clearly, my brain took a vacation and left a potato in charge.”
My heart squeezed painfully as I watched him struggle with the words. The light caught the stubble on his jaw, highlighting the tension there. Part of me wanted to reach out, to smooth away the worry lines creasing his forehead. I dug my nails into my palms instead.
"Brody, I?—"
He lifted his hand. "Please, let me finish." His voice was rough… sad. "I've been so caught up in my image, in maintaining this persona that I thought everyone wanted. But the truth is, the only person whose opinion really matters to me is yours. And I was terrified that I was losing you."
I sucked in a breath, the park air suddenly thick with the scent of grass and possibility and fear. My chest felt too tight, like everything was caving inward.
"I have been pushing you away," I heard myself say, each word feeling like a confession pulled from somewhere deep. The truth I'd been running from since that first electric moment between us.
"I got scared." God, that was an understatement. Terrified was more like it. Paralyzed by the way my heart raced every time he looked at me, by how easily he'd slipped past all my defenses. "Of my feelings for you, of losing myself in… this. Whatever this is."
My breath was doing weird, stuttery things as I tried to get enough air. “My family always taught me that independence is everything,” I continued, twisting my hands in my lap. “My mom and aunt believe that love is kind of a temporary insanity, and even though they think you should grab it and let it whisk you away every chance you get, it has to be on your own terms. And actually relying on anyone—especially a man—is a weakness that will derail everything.”
I risked a glance at him, finding his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin tingle. "So I learned to keep my distance. To focus on my career, on things I could control. And it worked. Until…"
Until you , I wanted to say. Until you came along with your ridiculous stunts and that smile that makes me forget every lesson I ever learned about keeping my heart safe.
I took a deep, shaky breath. “And I guess I've carried those beliefs with me for so long, I don't know how to let them go. It's like emotional baggage, but instead of a cute carry-on, it's a giant, ugly suitcase that won't fit in the overhead compartment.”
Brody's lips twitched, threatening a smile. “So, what you're saying is, I'm your emotional excess baggage fee?”
I couldn't help but snort. “More like the TSA agent who's determined to pat me down and check every nook and cranny.”
“Kinky,” he waggled his eyebrows, and just like that, the tension between us eased a fraction.
“But I get it,” he continued. “I've been carrying my own baggage too. Ever since Jason died, I've been terrified of letting anyone get too close. It was easier to be the shallow, thrill-seeking influencer than to risk being vulnerable. Less chance of heartbreak, more chance of free swag. Win-win, right?”
His attempt at humor didn't quite mask the pain in his eyes, and I felt a pang in my chest.
Who would have guessed that beneath all those perfectly styled selfies, his emotional availability was about as abundant as toilet paper during a pandemic panic buy.
“So, what you're saying is, you've been acting like a human selfie stick to avoid feelings?” I quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “And here I thought you just really loved the sound of your own voice echoing through Instagram stories.”
Brody snorted, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, my voice is a national treasure. It's like Morgan Freeman and Ryan Reynolds had a love child.”
“More like the awkward cousin of Gilbert Gottfried,” I retorted but couldn't help the smile that crept onto my face.
Brody clutched his chest in mock pain. “Ouch, Spark. You wound me.”
“Oh please, your ego's as impenetrable as your skull,” I shot back.
Our banter faded into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from understanding. But as the quiet stretched on, I felt the weight of our unresolved situation settling over us like a weighted blanket.
Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, I took a deep breath and voiced the question that had been gnawing at me.
“So where does this leave us?” I asked. “Are we star-crossed lovers destined for tragedy or just two idiots who jumped off a tower together?”
Brody sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair.
“I don't know, Spark. I care about you more than I've cared about anyone in a long time. Maybe ever. But I think we both have some work to do on ourselves before we can be good for each other. Unless you know a good couples therapist who specializes in adrenaline junkies and commitment-phobes?”
I nodded, feeling a strange mix of grief and relief. Like being told you won the lottery, but the prize was a lifetime supply of lima beans.
“You're right. As much as it hurts, I think… I think we need to take a step back. Maybe learn how to adult without using each other as emotional crutches.”
“Well, we still have a few more weeks on this contract… so, professional partners, then?” he suggested, holding out his hand like we were sealing a business deal instead of putting our hearts through a paper shredder.
“Professional partners,” I agreed, shaking his hand and trying to ignore the electric current that still zipped through me at his touch. “With a side of unresolved sexual tension and the occasional ass appreciation, for old times' sake.”
That evening, as we walked toward our scheduled press event at this influencer expo thing—insisted upon by Brody's agent (who I was pretty sure was part bloodhound, part pit bull)—I felt like I was moving through a fog.
The bustling London streets, usually so vibrant and full of life, seemed muted and distant. It was like someone had turned down the saturation, leaving everything in shades of blah.
I stole glances at Brody, wondering how we would manage to pretend to be the happy couple the world believed us to be. It was going to be harder than trying to eat spaghetti seductively—likely to end in embarrassment.
Outside the venue—a sleek art gallery in the heart of Mayfair that screamed pretentious—Brody paused.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself like I was about to walk into a room full of toddlers armed with finger paint.
“As ready as I'll ever be. And I promise I'll try not to accidentally call you an emotionally stunted man-child in front of the cameras.”
Brody's trademark grin flickered across his face, not quite reaching his eyes, like watching a Snapchat filter malfunction in real time.
“That's my girl. Just remember, if anyone asks, we're madly in love and I don't snore like a congested rhino.”
The words felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
But I plastered on a smile and took his hand as we stepped into the lion's den. Or in this case, a den of overeager social media broadcasters.
The gallery was a whirlwind of flashing cameras, eager influencers, and curious onlookers.
It was like being stuck in a human pinball machine, but instead of flippers, there were microphones being shoved in our faces.
I answered questions about our “romantic journey” with rehearsed ease, each word a bittersweet reminder of what we'd lost. It was like reciting a eulogy for a relationship that had died before it really got a chance to live.
“Avery, how does it feel to be living every woman's dream?” a perky blonde reporter asked, shoving a microphone in my face with the enthusiasm of a puppy playing fetch.
I forced a laugh, leaning into Brody's side as if we were a perfect couple and not two emotionally constipated wannabes trying to navigate a ridiculous press stunt.
“It's been quite an adventure,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “Brody certainly knows how to keep things exciting. Just last week, he surprised me by actually hanging up his wet towel instead of tossing it on the floor.”
Brody's arm tightened around my waist, his fingers digging into my hip.
“And Avery's been the perfect partner,” he added smoothly, his media training kicking in like a well-oiled machine. “She's opened my eyes to a whole new way of experiencing the world. Did you know there are other settings on a washing machine besides 'normal'? Mind-blowing stuff.”
As the event dragged on, I found myself slipping into a sort of daze, like I'd accidentally wandered into a parallel universe where Brody and I were together.
The lies rolled off my tongue with alarming ease, and with each word, I mourned the truth that lurked behind the fake stories.
Finally, mercifully, the event came to an end.
As the last of the reporters filed out, probably off to write stories about our epic love affair that would make Nicholas Sparks weep with envy, Brody and I stood in awkward silence, the weight of our deception hanging between us.
“Well,” I said, attempting a light tone that came out sounding more like I was being slowly strangled by my own vocal cords, “I think that went well. We didn't spontaneously combust from all the lies, so that's a win, right?”
Brody half-smiled. “Yeah, we make a good team. We should consider a career in fiction writing if the influencer slash travel writer gigs don't pan out.”
The words hung in the air between us. We had been a good team, in more ways than one. But we'd let our fears and insecurities sabotage something that could have been special.
As we left the gallery, the London night enveloped us in its cool embrace, like a passive-aggressive hug from a disapproving aunt. The city lights twinkled like stars, reminding me of all the places we'd been, all the moments we'd shared. I felt a lump form in my throat, the reality of our situation finally sinking in.
“So, what's next?” Brody asked as we walked toward the nearest tube station, our footsteps echoing in the quiet street like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
I shrugged, trying to maintain a facade of professionalism that was about as convincing as a three-year-old's poker face.
“We still have a few weeks to go, so I guess we head to our next destination. Keep up the charade for your cameras, deliver the content Rebecca wants. Maybe practice our 'madly in love' faces in the mirror.”
Brody nodded, his jaw working like he was trying to crack walnuts with his teeth.
“Right. Business as usual. Just two totally platonic coworkers traveling the world, pretending to be in love. No potential for disaster there at all.”
We lapsed into silence as we boarded the train, each lost in our own thoughts. And as London rushed by in a blur of colors and shapes, I couldn’t help but think it was a bit like watching the highlight reel of our relationship on fast-forward.
All the good parts blending into a mess of what could have been.