Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brody
T he lights sprawled out ahead of me like one of the Greek gods had gone wild with a Bedazzler, but without Avery there, the island's allure was as flat as week-old beer. The weight of my fuck-ups crushed me like I'd swallowed a metric ton of souvlaki.
“Christ,” I said, my voice rough. “I'm in fucking paradise, and all I can think about is the woman who probably wants to castrate me with a rusty fish hook.”
I'd tossed and turned in my hotel room, the day's events playing on repeat in my head like a greatest hits album of “Brody's Colossal Screw-Ups.”
The adrenaline rush of the boat chase, the way Avery's eyes blazed with that fire, the fleeting moments when our connection felt unbreakable—it all haunted me like a relentless fucking succubus.
Sleep had been as out of reach as my common sense, so I'd decided to clear my head with a walk. Because apparently, I'm the kind of idiot who thinks wandering around a foreign country in the dark is a brilliant fucking idea.
Walking along the Aegean Sea, its inky waters mirroring the star-studded sky like nature's own fuck-you to my misery, I felt more lost than a tourist without a map app. The night air carried the tang of salt, flowers, and desperation, but I was pretty sure that last part was oozing off me.
I began to wander the hilltop, but with every step, memories of Avery invaded my senses.
Her laugh echoed in my ears, the scent of her sun-kissed, cinnamon skin lingering in the air. I could almost feel the softness of her curves against me, taste the salt on her skin, see the way her eyes darkened with desire when I touched her.
I stopped at a spot overlooking the sea, my mind wandering to the little cabin where Avery and I had shared those moments away from the world. We’d talked for hours about everything and nothing.
The memory of that vulnerability both scared the shit out of me and set my blood on fire. I could almost feel her presence beside me, the way she'd roll those gorgeous eyes at my shitty jokes but laugh anyway, that sound making me feel drunk.
With a sigh that could've knocked over a fucking mountain, I yanked out my phone, its harsh light cutting through the darkness.
I scrolled through my social media feed, a parade of bullshit-perfect shots from our island-hopping adventure. Clever captions next to images of me playing the hotshot daredevil. But they already felt as hollow as a deadbeat's vow to pay his debts.
Then I switched to my photos app, stopping on a shot of Avery, my breath catching in my throat.
Her face was lit up during our boat chase, hair a wild mess that made me want to bury my hands in it, her smile wide and real. Those eyes, fuck me, they were brighter than the goddamn sun bouncing off the ocean behind her.
The difference between this moment of pure Avery and the fake-ass shots filling my feed punched me right in the face. Then, as if to kick me when I was down, a message from my manager popped up. Christ, what the fuck time was it back home, anyway?
“Great content today, Brody! Make sure to post more about the Mykonos nightlife—your followers are eating it up! #FuckedUpInMykonos.”
I snorted, the sound more like a bull ready to charge than anything human. Living the dream? More like living in a bullshit parade. My gut churned like I'd eaten a bad gyro.
“Christ,” I muttered, raking a hand through my hair. “When did I turn into such a corporate whore?”
I thought back to the boat chase—how alive I felt with Avery, navigating those tricky-ass straits. Especially when I wasn’t worried about the camera, or the fake smiles, or the rehearsed crap.
Now that was living, I thought, a grin spreading across my face as I remembered Avery's wild hair and the fire in her eyes.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and leaned against an olive tree, its rough bark digging into my back.
I let myself imagine a future where I wasn't just some social media puppet. A future where my content showed real shit, where places like Mykonos weren't just pretty backdrops for my next viral post, but something to actually experience.
To my surprise, the vision didn't even scare me shitless. It was like someone had lifted a fog, and fuck, it kinda felt good.
I could picture myself exploring hidden coves with Avery, her laugh bouncing off the cliffs like music to my fucking ears as we found a beach only reachable by water.
I imagined shooting the shit with local fishermen, their faces as weathered as old leather, full of stories that would make your hair curl. I could almost taste the food we'd share in hole-in-the-wall tavernas, the kind of joints where the menu was whatever the fuck Grandma felt like cooking that day.
It all suddenly made sense… those quiet talks with Avery as we watched the sun go down in Italy, the warm air carrying the scent of her skin that drove me wild. The way we laughed our asses off over a fucked-up attempt at cooking that local dish in France, flour everywhere like we'd gone ten rounds with a bag of the stuff.
The awe we felt finding that secret waterfall in Croatia, the cool mist feeling like heaven in the heat of midday.
All our best moments had all been when the cameras were off.
They were the moments that made traveling mean something. And I'd been so focused on getting the perfect fucking shot, on keeping up my image, that I'd almost missed them completely.
Talk about not seeing the forest for the trees—or in this case, missing the goddamn Aegean for the Instagram filters.
“Brody, you dumb son of a bitch,” I said aloud, apparently becoming a real solo talker in my current state of mind. “You've been chasing followers when you should've been chasing real fucking life.”
I grabbed my phone again and started typing a post. But instead of my usual bullshit about adventures or some clever wisecrack, I found myself writing about connection and the beauty of unplanned moments.
I wrote about how the Aegean looked at night, like someone had tossed a million diamonds across the water. I described the locals we'd met, their hospitality warmer than Avery's body pressed against mine at night.
I tried to capture the sense of history in these islands, where old myths seemed to whisper on the wind like ghosts of the past.
As I typed, my fingers moving fast, I thought about my brother, of what he would think of the life I'd built. My stomach sank. For the first time, I wondered if honoring his memory might mean being real instead of chasing thrills like some attention-hungry dickhead.
“Fuck, Jase,” I said to the star-filled sky, imagining my brother's face up there judging me. “I really fucked this up, didn't I?”
I was hit with the urge to be part of that real, raw world—to live life balls to the wall and not just through my fucking camera lens or for my faceless followers. To be the guy who did life like he didn't give a shit, instead of the asshole who did it for likes and shares.
I stared at the honest post I'd typed out, my finger hovering over 'share' like it was the trigger on a loaded gun.
Posting this would be a gamble. It didn't fit with my image of “Brody the Adventurer, King of the Fucking Mountain and Vanisher of Panties.”
It might piss off my sponsors and send my manager into a hissy fit. But it felt real.
It felt like me.
The me who sometimes trips over his own feet and once called a waiter “my dude” like a complete idiot.
“Fuck it,” I said, channeling my inner Socrates or some shit. “You only live once, right?”
With a deep breath that was half “let's do this” and half “I'm gonna puke,” I hit 'share,' sending my soul-baring message out to the world.
Yep, it was a hell of a risk, but for the first time in forever, I felt at peace. And maybe a little queasy.
I had to talk to Avery, show her the real me—not the social media clown or the professional partner, but the man who'd fallen ass over whiskey bottle in love with her over these past two and a half fucking months.
I paced, my mind a war zone of competing thoughts. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to go to her, to lay it all on the line. But then the doubt would creep in, sneaky and insidious.
What right did I have to ask for her forgiveness? After all the shit I'd pulled, all the times I'd chosen my ego over her feelings, maybe she was better off without me. Maybe I was too fucked up, too set in my ways to ever be the man she deserved.
Except… her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she was excited about something. All our moments—the adventures, the quiet nights, the times when just being near her made me feel like I could conquer the world.
“Fuck!” I growled under my breath, running my hands through my hair.
The truth was, I was terrified. Terrified of rejection, sure, but even more scared of what would happen if she took me back.
Could I really change? Or would I just hurt her again?
I almost took a step toward the path leading down to town, then stopped, my heart pounding like I was in the middle of a fistfight, sweat beading on my forehead even in the cool morning air.
Go to her , a voice in my head urged. Fight for her, you coward!
But my feet stayed rooted to the spot, heavy as concrete.
Stay or go. Fight or flight. A whole future hanging on this one moment.