Chapter 45
Forty-Five
Gray
I don’t want to talk to any of these fuckers.
Nope. No fucking way.
But apparently—for the umpteenth time in the last few days—no one gives a fuck what I want.
Not the media.
Not Faye.
Not my teammates.
I purposefully chose an empty row at the back of the plane when I boarded to avoid interacting with these fuckers, but Smitty ignores my silent signals to leave me alone and drops down next to me, pulling out one of my earbuds.
“Wombats,” I growl, snatching it back.
He winces but doesn’t go away. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
Except trying to listen to my music.
And pretending I didn’t seriously fuck up my life.
“If you didn’t do anything,” he booms—of fucking course he does, drawing the attention of every asshole on this plane, “why is my wife telling me that you may have fucked up the best thing you’ll ever have?”
My stomach convulses.
Shame ripples through my middle.
Ignoring that, ignoring him, I shove my earbud back in, crank up my music.
“Dude—” he booms.
I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, tapping until I’ve brought up the album I created only to be used in very special circumstances.
Today is one of those special days.
I search through the AI renderings of Smitty (with wombats), trying to find the perfect image as he continues talking loud enough to penetrate my music.
“—you seriously don’t want to fuck this shit up. Faye is—”
I don’t need him to tell me all that Faye is.
Good. Sweet. Beautiful. In love with me.
Everything I’ve ever dreamed of wanting.
But fuck if I’ll let my shit ruin her.
It’s already gone too far, she’s already been hurt too much.
I had to end it.
I grind my teeth together.
Because this shit is why I spent a sleepless night knowing Faye was in my house, in my bed, hurting, and that all I had to do to make it right was go to her and apologize, to take her in my arms and tell her that we’ll be all right.
But I couldn’t.
Because I can’t promise that.
Because my head is fucked up.
Because I know eventually the hurts will be too big to come back from.
It had to be now.
Before we got in even deeper.
Smitty reaches for my earbud again.
I hold up my phone, pointing the screen in his direction.
Normally, the sound of terror that comes out of his mouth would have me busting up.
Today I don’t laugh, though.
Because I’ve fucked up the best thing I’ve ever had.
He snatches my phone out of my hand, jerkily jabbing at the screen and shuddering. “Jesus, delete,” he mutters then squeals, eyes going to half-mast as keeps tapping.
Probably deleting all my hard work.
I reach for my cell, but he holds it out of reach.
“Give me my phone,” I growl.
“When I have the chance to search for dick pics?” He grins at me. “Never.”
“Smitty,” I warn. “You know I can just recover the images and torture you with them later, right?”
“No, you can’t,” he says with a smirk. “Because I deleted them out of the trash too.”
“Hey!” I snap.
He tosses my phone into my lap and stands. “I know you’re going to be a stubborn asshole and not listen to me. Same as you’ll ignore Aiden and anyone else who tries to advise you to pull your goddamned head out of your goddamned ass.”
I open my mouth.
“So, I’ll leave you to your sulking and save my words for someone who wants to hear them—”
“Impossible,” I mutter. “Because no one ever does.”
He points his finger at me. “First, rude. Well, no. That’s second and third too, rude and rude.” He bends, his face in mine. “Fourth, don’t wait until too long to unfuck this.”
“Is that a word?”
He straightens, eyes flashing, mouth pressing flat. “Maybe ask the author in your life. Oh wait, you can’t.” A beat. “Because you fucked it up.”
Later that night, my phone pings with a notification.
Not from Faye—and I can’t lie and say the fucked-up part of me isn’t desperate to hear her voice, to read one of her pithy (and well-punctuated) text messages.
It is.
I miss her—so fucking much.
But she hasn’t reached out, though the notification is about her.
Still, I should ignore it.
Hell, it would be better for both of us if I canceled it outright.
Yet, even as my fingers descend, preparing to send a message to do exactly that…I can’t bring myself to do it.
Instead…
I pay extra for expedited delivery.