Chapter 15
“Honey” - Taylor Swift
Saylor
The Chicago concert is incredible—helped, no doubt, by the fact that my tooth is no longer trying to murder me. Also helped by the fact that, after what he did, my crush on Rhett has only grown bigger.
I know it’s stupid and risky as fuck. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and all that shit.
So I’m going to play a little game with myself.
I’m allowed to fantasize about Rhett all I want when I’m not actually with him.
But as soon as we’re together, the shields go up.
It’s been working so far, but only because we haven’t been together since I invented the rules of the game.
Rhett exits the stage and, after exchanging a few words with Noah, he walks over to me with a huge grin on his face.
Calm the fuck down, I remind my enthusiastic heart.
He takes my face in his hands the way he did the other day, and I’m prepared for what’s coming, I swear I am, but fireworks of pleasure still shoot through me the second our lips meet.
There is no hesitation in this man when he goes after what he wants. And for the ten seconds the kiss lasts, I become convinced that what he wants is me. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, one that will have devastating consequences if I don’t maintain control of my heart.
I end the kiss and toss him a smile that I hope looks nonchalant. “You’re an excellent actor,” I whisper, just centimeters from his mouth.
His smile grows a little wider. “Who said I was acting?”
I roll my eyes and pull back so that his hands are forced to fall from my face. “You have fans to greet,” I say, pointing to Noah, who is watching us with his arms crossed.
Rhett throws me one more smile before heading for his meet and greet.
I follow Leo outside to the car. Taking a deep breath of the chilly night air, I let the cold cool my heated skin.
That whole encounter violated the rules of my game.
It’s a good thing we’re staying at a hotel tonight, because I’m not sure how well my rules would hold up if I had to sleep next to Rhett all night.
Since I know he won’t be at the after-party for a while, I use the time to take a shower and freshen up. Doing so before the concert always feels pointless, since I inevitably end up gross and sweaty from the crowd anyway.
When I finally arrive at the party and turn my phone in at the door, the hotel suite is full of people, but I find Rhett immediately.
He’s in the center of a group as usual, talking animatedly with the fans around him.
As if he can feel my presence, he turns from the guy he’s talking to and fixes his eyes on me.
He laughs at something, his gaze still locked with mine. Then he excuses himself and walks toward me. His mouth slips into that lazy smile I’ve come to love, one side hitching higher than the other. I remind myself that the game ends as soon as he’s beside me.
“Hi,” he says, and slips a hand around my waist to tug me close. His nose nuzzles the hair at the nape of my neck. “Mmm, you smell good.”
Behind him, people are watching us and murmuring to each other. My cheeks heat with their attention, his utter disregard for it, and the feelings his touch evokes. His lips play over the skin on my collarbone, and it’s so nice that I’m tempted to let my imagination have free rein.
Rhett pulls back but keeps his hand on my waist. In fact, he keeps a hand on me all night. At the small of my back when we’re talking to someone, on my thigh when we’re sitting on a sofa, on my waist when we’re alone, letting the world know that I’m his with his quiet possession.
I know it’s just an act. I know. I keep reminding my heart over and over that this is fake, this doesn’t mean anything, but it refuses to listen. It’s melting and molding itself into a Rhett-shaped form, as if he is becoming necessary for survival.
And he can’t. He cannot be a necessary part of my life, because the moment he is, everything changes, everything falls to pieces.
Rhett and I leave the party together, and I focus on killing the butterflies in my stomach one by one as his thumb strokes the skin of my wrist while he holds my hand. There isn’t anyone here to see us besides our PPOs, so why is he still pretending?
I slip into the bathroom as soon as we’re back in the suite.
I need space, I need time, I need a fucking miracle, but it doesn’t look like I’ll get any of them.
Try as I might, Rhett is becoming harder and harder to resist. The way he looks at me makes me feel as if I could fly a fucking plane if I wanted.
It’s dangerous. Lethal, even. But that doesn’t stop me from craving it.
* * *
My phone rings the next afternoon while the band is practicing and I’m working on editing videos of last night’s concert. The name on the screen makes me freeze, my thumb hovering over the accept call button, my brain quickly trying to decide if I should or shouldn’t.
Timie.
It’s been months since we’ve talked. We haven’t even texted in weeks, and whenever we do, it only lasts a few minutes.
Things are just too different now. The friendship we once shared got dumped into the rubbish bin the day she packed her bags and left for some little village no one had ever heard of.
I have no clue why she’s calling me now. Unless it’s an emergency? I tap the button and regret my decision the second I hear her voice. It sends a sharp stab of pain through my abdomen. She sounds so . . . happy.
“Saylor! Oh my god, it rang so many times, I thought you weren’t going to answer.”
I give a weak laugh. “Sorry about that. I didn’t hear it at first.” The lie slips out easily, because that’s what she’s reduced us to. There was a time when I would rather have chopped off my own thumb than lied to my best friend.
“How have you been? It’s been so long. I feel like I don’t know anything that’s going on with you.”
Ice coats my internal organs. Does she know I’m on tour with Rhett? Is she calling to get the inside scoop? Maybe she’s running out of gossip for the other playground mums.
“I’m good,” I say. Another lie, because the last word I would use to truthfully describe myself right now is good. “Busy.” Maybe she’ll take the hint and let me go. And if she knows about the tour, this will give her the perfect segway to bring it up.
But she doesn’t do either. “How is Nate?”
It’s a testament to how far we’ve drifted that she would bring him up.
Before Timie moved, she and Javiar were close with Nate and me.
The four of us hung out at least once a week when Nate was home.
When things went south in our marriage, Timie was already gone, off to start her fairy-tale life far away from me.
“Well, he’s deployed, so . . .” I’m not about to delve into the topic of our divorce.
“That’s right. I forgot. Silly me.” There’s a clatter in the background, and she murmurs something to her son. “Between the piles of laundry and the towers of dishes, the details sometimes slip my mind.” She giggles, as though Nate shipping out is a “detail.” “And how are you holding up?”
“I’m good. Really.” And I’m more than ready to quit this interrogation before she asks something I can’t lie my way through. I shut my laptop and set it beside me on the bus’s sofa. “Tell me what’s been going on with you.”
It’s the perfect thing to say. Timie has never struggled for words in any situation, but since moving to Timbuktu, she has more to say than ever. Probably because she has fewer people to talk to. I can’t imagine conversations with a toddler are very stimulating.
As she chatters on, I walk to the kitchenette and browse the contents of the fridge, phone pressed to my ear. I fix myself a plate of veggies, pita chips, and hummus before she runs out of breath.
“If you ever decide to leave the city, you should totally come to Ferncombe,” she says. “It’s so lovely here.”
I don’t know if she means to live or just for a visit, but both are out of the question. Sitting back down on the sofa, I say, “I’ll keep it in mind. How is Javiar?”
“He’s wonderful,” she says, and I envy the joy in her voice. “The best husband in the world. The other day he came home with roses, a bottle of wine, and a box of chocolates. When I asked what the occasion was, he said he was celebrating having the most beautiful wife in the world.”
I know I’m supposed to melt at this, so I give a weak “aww,” but in reality, I want to hurl.
She continues regaling me with details about their house renovation project, little Remi’s potty training escapades, the puppy they just got, and their travel plans for next year. The overarching theme of everything? My life improved a thousand times after I left the city and you.
When we finally end the call, I’ve lost my appetite.
I carry my untouched plate back to the kitchenette and set it in the sink before retreating to the bedroom.
I’ll deal with it later. Slipping into the restroom, I slide to the cool tile floor, rest my face in my hands, and let myself grieve what Timie and I lost.
We were best friends. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t have imagined not talking to her every day.
Now, sometimes entire months go by without a single text exchange.
What does it say about me that I’m replaceable in her life, but three years later, my own heart still bears the gaping hole that she used to fill?
I don’t know how much time passes, but when there’s a knock on the door, my face is damp with tears.
“Saylor? Are you okay?” Rhett asks from the other side.
“I’m fine,” I call, but my voice sounds thick and cloudy.
The knob turns, and he steps inside. He takes one look at me and sits down on the floor beside me. “What’s wrong?”
I sniff out a laugh. “What if I had been puking my guts out?”
“Then I would’ve held your hair.”
“Right.” He probably would have, which is a problem.
He lays a tentative hand on my back. “You wanna talk about it?”