“No,” I breathed. “You’re just anass.”
Rafe’s expression turned grim, but he nodded once. “When I have to be.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Seems like we don’t have anything left to say to each other.”
On the contrary. I had many,manychoice words to say to him, but I pushed them down, recognizing the mulish set of his jaw for what it was.
He’d worn that expression when Jeremy Mickell had told him there was no way he could hold his breath underwater for five whole minutes. He’d worn it when I’d told him my dad wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it as a musician and he’d insisted I would. It was an expression that dared the world to defy him, and seeing it now, I realized this was the first time he’d ever used it against me. Always in the past, it had been me and Rafe against the world. It made me wonder if the Rafe I’d known—the Rafe I’dthoughtI’d known—had been a figment of my imagination.
This shouldn’t have come as such a shock. After all, I hadn’t known he and Aimee were more than friends until they’d gottenengaged. Clearly, I’d never known him as well as I thought I had.
Ugh.
“Well. This certainly has been fun.” I pushed up, too, making sure I stood every bit as tall as he did. “Glad we had this chance to catch up and see that we have literally nothing in common anymore, if we ever did, and that all my memories of you being a decent human were some kind of hallucination. Hopefully Aimee’s notdyingor whatever.”
I mean, she probablywasn’tdying. Shirleen at the front desk had said Aimee wasn’t in intensive care and that she’d probably be able to return my call soon.
But probably wasn’t good enough.
I turned and stalked toward the car with rage and hurt churning in my gut, leaving Rafe to deal with the trash. I started the engine, turned the air conditioner on full blast, backed out of my spot, and waited for Rafe to jog over.
The second he reached for the door handle, I rolled forward slightly. He stepped forward and reached again, and this time I engaged the locks.
To his credit, it took him less than a second to figure out what was happening here.
“Ah. I’m not doing what you want, so you’re ditching me?” He folded his arms over his chest. “How incredibly mature of you, Jay.”
“You see—” I smiled tightly. “—after thinking about it, I’m just not sure if this car is big enough to carry you, me, my invisible rock star entourage, and the weight of your enormous, responsible responsibilities.Besides, I think the walk might be good for you. The fresh air might help you sleep tonight, since I’m not sure how you’ll manage otherwise.”
At least, the Rafe I knew would’ve had trouble sleeping.Thisconscienceless, selfish prick, though? The one who basically admitted he’d been sleeping apart from my sister and wouldn’t inconvenience himself by going to make sure she was okay? Who the fuck knew.
“I think you’re not used to people saying no to you anymore,” Rafe countered, taking a step back. “Fine. Enjoy your temper tantrum.”
Temper tantrum?
Figured the jerkface would manage to take away even the small amount of petty pleasure I’d get from leaving him stranded.
Rafe slid his hands into his two back pockets, making his white T-shirt pull tight across his broad, muscular chest… which was so fucking sexy it nearly left me breathless, even though I was angry enough to low-key visualize running him over.
“You know what else?” Since this was probably the last time I’d ever lay eyes on the man, and it was important that he should know. “‘Pretty Girl’ is maybe the best song I’ve ever written, and it’s not my fault you’re a cretin who’s so biased against my music that you haven’t listened to the lyrics or tried to understand the subtleties in the melody. Also, I regret writing every fucking word of that song, and never more so than at this exact moment.”
“Uh.” His face screwed up in confusion, like he wasn’t sure whether I was insulting him or myself. I wasn’t either. “Okay?”
“I feel incredibly inspired to go write another song now, though,” I continued. “A song of vengeance called ‘Rafe Goodman, Junior, of Whispering Key, Florida, is a Self-Centered Shithead.’ It’s not a pithy title, but I figure this way ignorant listeners like yourself won’t break your tiny brains figuring out who I’m writing about and why. I envision the lyric track will be three minutes of me screaming into a microphone in frustration. And to symbolize your selfishness, the melody will be one lone note plucked over and over on an out-of-tune ukulele until your ears want to bleed. I’ll send you a copy.”
“Can’t wait.” His dark eyes narrowed in challenge. “Youdidpromise to write a song for me, once upon a time. And you’re obviously no Ari Friedrich or whatever, but it might be fun to hear what an amateur can do. What rhymes with ‘Rafe is a delight’?”
I shook my head, torn between pity and killing rage.Amateur?I was “no Ari Friedrich”? Really? Also, the fact that Rafe could listen to my album and not understand what it was really about…
Gah.Like it wasn’t hard enough playing those songs night after night, when everything I’d written about felt like a dream of another life.
“I’m going with ‘Rafe’s a necrotizing boil on the ass of friendship,’” I informed him. “And I’m gonna make sure it’s so overproduced, the ’80s are going to call and ask for their synthesizers back. Bye, Rafe. Have a nice life.”
I pulled out of the parking lot and purposely turned left, heading further away from Whispering Key. I was so fucking angry, the last thing I wanted was to run into Big Rafe, or anyone in the Goodman family, or anyone who’d ever known any of them. Instead, I pulled over in a coffee shop parking lot maybe a quarter mile down the road, pulled out my phone, and immediately began searching for flights back to Wyoming that night.
Of course there were none, because fuck my life anyway.
But that was fine. Fine! Even if I could get to Larindosa immediately via teleportation, I couldn’t do anything to help my sister until I’d gotten that court order or until she called me back. So, I texted my attorney and Oak to update them on the situation, texted Aimee (in case my three hundred voice messages had been misdelivered), and booked a flight for the next morning. Then I found a hotel right on the Gulf that promised “ice-cold air-conditioning” and “noise-proof rooms”—I assumed their clientele ran to serial killers and musicians—and checked into a room for the night.
A few minutes later, I was sitting on my balcony, watching the waves roll in and trying to force myself to relax.
