Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Ben
I changed out of my suit in the bathroom at the airport.
In my worn jeans and sweatshirt, I felt more like myself. Inconspicuous, uninteresting—just another guy heading somewhere. Nothing remarkable, exactly what I was looking forward to feeling.
My flight left LAX just before eleven, and I got home just shy of five the next morning. The four-hour flight had been a sleepless one. I’d closed my eyes, tried to sleep and knock out so I wouldn’t let the thoughts creep in. Staying numb wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive, wasn’t going to help me in the end, but it was a matter of self-preservation.
The reality was this—I loved Whit Grantham, and she’d used me.
She’d told me she would, and she’d held up her end of the bargain, with me the fool sitting on a plane ride home after she’d made her big play, feeling more hurt than I had a right to, more used than I ever had, and even though I hated admitting it to myself, betrayed.
Somewhere along the way, I’d fallen, and I’d thought maybe she would, too. I’d thought the contract, the tour, the arrangement had all fallen by the wayside over Christmas when we’d shared our feelings. I’d thought we were really, actually dating.
Hadn’t we agreed to that?
We had, but maybe that was just another level of her betrayal that I couldn’t fully digest yet. I wanted to believe she’d felt something for me—maybe she’d gotten caught up in our chemistry, in the tour, like Flint had feared, and then reverted back to her brutal pragmatism that would get her where she wanted to go once it’d worn off.
Every time I shifted in the too-small seat, the low lights of the cabin casting an eerie glare over my fellow red-eye passengers, the more I ran through the series of our relationship as I’d seen it.
We met at Flint’s. I gave her a tour of post. I liked her social media. She messaged me, and I responded. She invited me to an event as a friend. Then another. Then, she proposed the fake relationship, and I agreed. Then on the tour, we discovered genuine feelings and bagged the fake for real. Then we dated, grew closer, and I’d fallen for her like a chump.
But to her, none of that was true. She’d known me and some of the most personal things about me, for over a year before we ever met. And she’d had time and time and time again to come out and say so. She’d chosen not to, and all I could think, even though I hated myself and I hated her for even thinking it, was that she’d waited until a moment like last night to get the biggest impact. Because the story of a drowning soldier coming home, of the singer-songwriter loving him from afar—how beautiful.
But the story of that love now come to life, in front of everyone’s eyes, now that was a story. That was something people would talk about for years, would inspire movies, would inspire more songs, and would likely nab Whit that spot at Johnson’s table she’d been so desperate for.
It was a blow. That’s all it was. I’d get past this, I knew I would. But for now, for the rest of this plane ride, for the rest of this week as I went to and from work and avoided talking about what everyone I knew had to have seen on my face if the camera had cut to me when Whit was talking, I’d let this pull toward numbness win.
Whit
The victory lap.
That was what my team called the chock-full schedule of the next few days. I was shuffled from one interview to the next, and it took every ounce of energy not to let everyone see how little I cared about this.
It didn’t make sense that Ben’s leaving on a flight he’d always planned on taking would have thrown me like this. I kept convincing myself we’d had a disagreement, that I’d see him when I got back from all this insanity, this weird LA bubble that took over when I was in Hollywood and couldn’t think straight.
I wouldn’t let myself think of him, so withdrawn as he congratulated me. I couldn’t think of that beautiful face, the sadness in his eyes even as he said entirely without malice, I hope you get everything you’ve been wanting.
That was what had me curled on my side, feeling like my insides were rotting, when Amanda came in to start my touch up for the evening schedule. I’d been busy from six that morning until two hours ago. I’d come back to the room, eaten a few bites of baked chicken, and curled up here on this pristine white bed.
“Whit?” Amanda’s voice sounded in the silent room.
I could tell she was worried. This wasn’t me.
“Right here.” My voice came out rusty from an early morning, a long day, little sleep.
“I see you there,” she said, and sat gently on the side of the bed I faced so her hips came into view first. I looked up at her, and she said, “What’s going on, hun?”
I started to wave her off, tell her I was exhausted, just worn out, it wasn’t a big deal, but that look on her face told me she knew. She knew , and she was here, and even if she was someone I paid to put makeup on my face, she was probably the closest thing I had to a friend right now.
“He’s gone,” I said, more like sobbed, since now that I’d said it, it was true, and I couldn’t pretend we’d just argued, or that I thought he’d see me again and let me explain when I got home.
Amanda covered my hand with hers and clamped down her jaw. She was supremely empathetic, and she’d be crying with me any minute. I didn’t cry often—it wasn’t a public sport. I’d been raised to avoid any shows of emotion, and maybe part of my British heritage had shared its stiff upper lip approach with me.
But this wasn’t one of those moments. It wasn’t a time where I could skirt around it and talk myself into waiting until I was alone, until I wasn’t wearing a centimeter of mascara that would run despite it being waterproof and ruin my false lashes. I couldn’t keep pretending that Ben was only a friend, or that what’d happened on Sunday hadn’t been the end.
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t in love with him anymore.
“I knew he’d be upset about the song,” I started, but my voice broke, and I turned my face into the bed to weep.
I felt Amanda move, and when the bed depressed again, she was shoving a tissue in my hand. I blew my nose, pursed my lips to help lock down the tears so I could tell her, suddenly feeling a desperate need for someone to understand.
“He can’t be that upset about it. He’s a good guy,” she said now that I’d calmed and the sound of my crying wasn’t filling the room.
“He is. He is .” I was crying again, fat tears slipping down my cheeks as I sat up. “He’s the best guy. And he wouldn’t be upset if it was just that. He thinks I did it for show. He thinks I’ve been manipulating him this whole time.”
I pressed my fingers into my eyes, trying to staunch the flow, until I realized I wasn’t going to stop—no point in it now.
“Why would he think that?” Amanda asked, ducking her head to catch my eye.
“Because I did it in front of everyone, it seemed like it was trying to grab a headline, or make it seem like this big, cosmic love story.”
Amanda set a warm hand on one of my knees curled up in front of me. “But isn’t it?”
Her gentle voice undid me. I tried to hold in the sob, but it slipped past my lips. I rested my head on my knees and felt Amanda’s hand smooth over my hair. When I’d composed myself again, I took a deep breath before raising my head and looking back into her face.
“It might have been.”