Chapter Twelve
Loralei
Whoever scheduled this gala for a Monday is lame.
No one is in a gala mood on a Monday. I'm certainly not when I walk through the doors of the ballroom of the hotel to find everyone who is anyone in town already inside, sipping champagne from crystal flutes, dressed in their best attire.
A jazz band plays in the corner, soft strands of music floating through the room.
I brush my hands down the side of my dress and surge forward, looking for my table.
Lilah halts me before I make it that far, stepping in front of me.
"You look beautiful," she says, flinging her arms around me in a fierce hug.
"Thanks," I whisper, glancing her up and down. "So do you."
She grins at me, doing a half pirouette. Getting her into a dress usually takes an act of Congress. She'd live in jeans and t-shirts if she could. But her dress tonight is a floor-length black cocktail gown that hugs her curves. It looks incredible on her.
"Do you know where our table is?" I ask. "My feet are already killing me."
"It's at the front. Second from the left," she says, eyeing me sideways. Concern flickers in her eyes, and I briefly wonder if Sarah told her what's going on. "Are you okay?"
No. I feel like I'm dying, but if I talk about it now, I'm going to cry. It's been two days since I last saw Ash. Two damn days since he had his arms around me, since he kissed me, since I heard him laugh.
He's left me nineteen different voicemails.
I'm a coward who only managed to get through the first one before I ended up sobbing in my bed. I didn't call him back. I didn't even know what to say.
This feels like the end, and I don't know how to deal with that.
How do you say goodbye to the man who stole your entire heart? I don't know. How do you go back to your life and pretend you didn't spend two weeks living a fairytale that has suddenly turned into an excruciating nightmare? I don't know the answer to that question, either.
I just know that I miss him. It hurts to breathe without him. And somewhere over the last two days, I've started wondering if maybe I'm asking for too much. Maybe asking a rockstar to invite a librarian into every facet of his life is a ridiculous expectation. I don't know anymore.
"I don't want to talk about it," I whisper, a dangerous quiver in my voice.
Lilah squeezes my arm, sympathy on her face, and then she nods.
"Then I won't ask," she says, and yet again, I find myself intensely grateful for her.
She never pushes for more than I can give, never demands details I'm not ready to share.
She just…quietly checks in. I appreciate that more than she knows.
"I'm going to go find Lincoln and all the wine you need to drown your sorrows. You head to the table."
"Thanks," I say. "Um, for everything."
Her lips curve into a sweet smile. "It's what friends are for, Loralei. Good luck."
I'm not entirely sure what she means by that until I near the table and two members of the city council step aside, revealing a familiar head of dark hair seated at the table, with dozens of people crowded around him.
I stumble to a stop, blinking.
He came.
He actually freaking came.
My heart thuds against my ribcage, tears burning up the back of my throat. I'm rooted in place, fawning when I want to flee.
He murmurs something to the mayor and then glances up as if he senses me there, my desperate eyes locked on him.
His gaze connects with mine. For a second, all the air gets sucked out of the room.
Everyone else disappears. It's just me and him again, like we're back in his cabin, the whole world hidden by sheeting rain.
I sway slightly, stumbling back a step.
I can't do this. I can't sit beside him, smiling, pretending everything is fine when it feels like my heart is being ripped in two. When I don't even know why he's here or what it means.
"If you'll excuse me," he says, interrupting the mayor midsentence, his deep voice rumbling above the noise of the crowd as he stands. "My beautiful date has arrived."
No, please, no.
But no amount of pleading is going to stop the inevitable.
He steps around the mayor like the man doesn't even exist, his eyes still locked on me. He doesn't look away a single time, not until his hand is on my arm, his chest pressed against mine. His lips brush my ear.
I'm acutely aware of everyone watching us like this is a stage play instead of my actual life. But they don't matter, not really.
"Loralei," Ash breathes, his voice shaking.
I whimper. I don't mean to do it, but there's no stopping the sound. I'm so goddamn miserable without him that it's pathetic.
"Loralei," he says again, pulling me closer.
"Ash," I choke, pressing my face against his throat.
"Christ, I've missed you, beautiful," he rasps, the tip of his tongue touching the side of my throat.
I make a sound that's half surrender, half frustration. And then my hand is on his arm, practically dragging him through the gala. Everyone watches us go, avidly curious, but I don't care. We aren't doing this in front of the whole town.
I drag him out of the ballroom, down the hall, and into an empty conference room. Only when the door is closed behind us do I spin to face him, breathing hard.
"You look stunning, baby," he murmurs, leaning against the door, his hands at his sides like he's trying his best to behave himself. "I wish like hell I'd been there to see you getting into that pretty dress."
"What are you doing here, Ash?" I ask, crossing my arms in the hopes that'll help me keep my hands to myself. He's in a full tux, his beard neatly trimmed, looking edible. I'm too damn weak for this.
"Fighting for what matters." He looks nervous, the way he did the very first day we met, like he isn't sure what to make of me. "You matter, Loralei, more than anything ever has."
"Please don't," I whisper.
"I know you're mad. I know you probably don't ever want to see me again," he says, taking a step toward me, "but I can't live with that, beautiful. If you're kicking me out of your life, I want you to know the truth first."
"What truth, Ash? Because I think you told me enough of it on Saturday," I mumble, fighting not to cry. "You made it pretty clear that I don't fit into your world."
"It's not you who doesn't fit, Loralei," he says. "It's me."
"What?" I blink at him. "What does that even mean?"
"It means that I've been telling myself that I need to change everything to protect you because you're too good for my world, but the truth is…
" He blows out a breath, mumbling a curse.
"The truth is, when I look at you, I don't feel good enough for you.
You're fucking perfect. And I'm a recovering alcoholic who damn near tossed his sobriety away just a few weeks ago. "
"Ash, that's not true," I protest. "You are good enough."
"It was never about you not being able to handle the scrutiny and pressure and bullshit, baby.
You can handle anything. It's me who can't handle it anymore.
I think I've known for a long fucking time that I can't do it anymore, and I'm fucking worried that if I drag you into my world and expose you to all that bullshit, I'm going to slip.
I'm going to fail." He blows out a shaking breath.
"I'll fuck up and lose you, trying to be something I'm not just because it's what people expect. "
"But I realized something recently," he murmurs, holding my gaze.
"There's no rule saying I have to keep doing it.
I don't have to keep grinding every fucking day until I'm stretched so thin, hitting the bottle feels like the best escape.
There's no rule that says I have to keep chasing this fucking status I don't even want. "
"Ash," I whisper, my heart clenching for him. "Of course you don't have to keep doing it."
"It was never about hiding you or being ashamed of you.
I was trying to cut ties with the shit that has been dragging me down so you'd want to make a place in your world for me.
Look around," he says, holding his hands out.
"You have a fucking amazing life here. You have a job you love.
You have memories you've built and friends who would, quite literally, kill for you.
I wanted to be the guy who could fit into what you've built without fucking it all up because that's what you deserve.
You deserve someone willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to make your life easier.
" He ruffles a hand through his hair. "And maybe I was fucking worried that if the press showed up, you'd realize the only thing I do is make it harder. "
"Ash," I whisper, my heart in my throat. "You've never made it harder, not a single time since I met you."
"I made you cry."
"Okay, fine," I grumble. "Maybe that part was hard."
His lips quirk, but it's not a smile. It's more a grimace, like it physically pains him to know I cried over him.
Frankly, I don't love it, either. But I don't love this any better—knowing that he feels like he's not good enough, knowing that he's worried he has to prove himself worthy of me. He's always been worthy.
"I don't care about the press," I say, reaching for his hand.
"I don't care about the fans or the gossip or any of the other stuff.
I knew who you were before I ever got into the car with you.
I knew who you were before I slept with you or fell in love with you.
I knew what the risks were, and I was fine with that.
But I'm not fine with you trying to keep me in some compartment or choose for me.
You can't invite me into half of your life, and then lock the other part away so it never touches me.
You are who you are, and that man has been a rockstar for the last twenty years.
This will never work if I'm only allowed into the parts of your life that you decide are good enough for me. "
"I'm retiring," he blurts.
I blink at him. "What?"