Chapter Thirty-One
Inside sources reveal that last year, “Six Packs and Six Strings” singer Rhett Auburn was arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct. And really, is there anything more poetic than cowboy karma?
—“Rhett Auburn’s Past: Revealed,” TMZ, today
I wake up to early morning sunlight seeping through the windows. Even through the gauzy curtains, the sea is bright enough to match the smile on my face.
But when I turn over, my lips go slack.
Rhett isn’t next to me. His spot on the bed is still indented, still warm from his body heat, but he’s not there. I sit up, frantic, and search the little cottage, but he’s not hiding behind the couch, not in the tiny bathroom, not outside taking a shower.
The initial hollow feeling at his absence, the wondering if I’d imagined everything, feels sickeningly similar to that morning last year. But it can’t be, right? There must be some explanation, some reason he’d leave before I woke up.
This can’t be like last time. It can’t.
I search for my clothes and pull on my shirt, but stop cold at the sight of my palazzo pants. Lying on top, glistening in the morning sun, is the new burner phone from Serena. On the tiny front screen, there’s a short message from her.
Clock is ticking, G. If you don’t get me more on Roland, I’ll go live with the texts from Rhett. TMZ posted about the arrest so I need to get ahead of that.
My heart stutters. I toss the phone onto the mattress like it’s burned me. The phone was hidden in my pocket last night. I must’ve dropped it during our lust-crazed entrance to the cottage. I fall to the floor as the truth sinks in.
Rhett saw. And he doesn’t have the whole story.
I’m sick to my stomach, but I scramble to my feet. I need to get to him, to explain.
As fast as I can in the sand, I run back to the hotel, arms wound around myself against the chill coming off the ocean. I step into the cool shade of the hotel lobby and pass Norbert on my way to my room.
“Georgia!” he exclaims. “A nice morning walk, then?”
I nod silently.
Norbert’s face falls as he studies me. “Yer lookin’ a bit peely-wally.”
“I—what?” I blink at him, but he just claps me on the shoulder and bounces off down the hall, whistling.
I walk past room after empty room, the hallway seeming to stretch on and on like a horror movie.
I stand there for a minute, hoping one of the rooms will speak to me, emit some sort of leathery, citrus-infused odor bomb to alert me of Rhett’s presence.
I won’t even care about the cameras when I pull him into my arms and explain. I’ll kiss him for everyone to see.
A door to my right opens, and I jump back against the wall.
Rhett is standing in front of me. But instead of drawing me to his chest, he stares at me in shock. The hallway is deserted except for us.
“Why did you leave?” It’s all I can get out past the lump in my throat.
He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I instinctively shrug it away. I wish I could take it back the second I do it. His jaw tenses and he shoves his hands in his pockets. I open my mouth to tell him it was just a reflex, that I was hurt to wake up and find him gone, but he cuts me off.
“You told your friend about me?” he says quietly. “About my arrest?”
“No,” I protest, but it’s only half true.
“Enough with the lies,” he says, his voice like a hacksaw cutting across my lungs.
“When we were in Nashville I sent her screenshots from Lainey’s computer,” I say. “Of texts between you—from last year. They don’t specifically mention the arrest but it’s not hard to guess what they’re about. She’s the one who tipped off the press, not Lainey.”
He runs a hand down his face.
“I did it when I thought you’d told Lainey about me,” I say, “that I was here as Gracie. I overheard you and I thought you sold me out and I just … I thought you’d betrayed me. But I’m so sorry, please believe me.”
“Why should I believe you? I haven’t lied to you this whole time, Georgia.”
“Well, I have,” I snap. “And I’m so fucking sorry, I swear.
It all got out of control, and I didn’t know how to stop it.
” A sob escapes my throat, but he doesn’t reach out to comfort me.
It’s not lost on me that I’m still lying to him.
If I told him I was trying to protect him now, would he believe me? I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.
“This was a mistake,” he says, retreating a few steps back into his room. He sets a hand on the door like he’s considering slamming it in my face. “I should’ve known better, I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, shaking his head. I shouldn’t have trusted you. The unspoken words ring in my head.
“No,” I protest. “None of this was your fault. It’s all my fault.” I choke back a sob.
“I hope you get the job you wanted,” he says. But the job is the furthest thing from my mind.
“I don’t give a shit about that anymore.
” I press my palms to his chest. “I care about this—us. I know I fucked everything up, but you have to believe me. I’m trying—I—I’m trying to make it better.
” A tear slides down my face, and I glance into the room behind him.
It’s a mirror image of my own. But instead of dresses strewn across the bed, there’s a guitar case, a pair of boots, a pager. Simple. Neat.
Everything I’m not.
He lets out a ragged breath. “You said it yourself, Georgia.” His fingers flex like he wants to touch me. I want him to touch me. But he doesn’t. “Some things have an expiration date. Maybe this is ours.”
My chin trembles as I stare into his green eyes. It can’t be true. It just can’t. I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
“No, please,” I beg, tears trickling into my mouth. A door shuts somewhere down the hall, and we go still, but nobody interrupts us. “Please don’t do this,” I whisper, my voice wobbling. “Don’t leave me again.”
When I blink, my mind spins through a million moments.
I imagine Rhett walking me backward into the outdoor shower, slipping his fingers beneath my waistband.
I imagine him reading the texts on my burner, the betrayal he must’ve felt.
I imagine myself in a year, once again trying and failing to make meaning of a life without him.
“You’re the one who left this time,” he says, voice breaking. “You weren’t honest with me.” He shakes his head, his eyes glistening. “I wish it were different. But I can’t—I just can’t do this. I know what I want, but it’s … it’s not real. And it sure as hell isn’t this.”
I step back, wounded, and he closes the door in my face before I can protest. Before I can ask if what he wants is me.