When I look up, I nearly choke as I swallow. “Wes, what are you doing?”
“Oldest anti-pap trick in the book.” He flips them off with one hand while sloppily eating with the other, cheese pulling from the slice in gooey strands. “Some places won’t buy pictures if you do this.”
“I know that, but you look ridiculous.”
“It comes naturally. But for all my hard work, you should give me one of those pepperoni.”
“Fine.” I peel one off and set it on his plate, fighting a smile at the familiar routine. There’s something in this moment that has me lifting a hand to mimic Wes and let the paparazzi know exactly what I think of their invasiveness. Wes cocks a brow, and I say, “You started it.”
“It’s nice to see you playing along. You regret running away with me yet?”
“I think it’s still hitting me. This week has been so ridiculous, I think this is the most sane thing I’ve done.”
“Do tell.”
“I got engaged because it was a ‘great marketing opportunity’ for the film. And mere days later, I find my fiancé railing my assistant in a coat closet at the premiere.” A laugh rocks through me. “What am I doing with my life?”
“I fucking knew it!” Wes jumps out of his chair and raises his other hand to the window, saying, “She never loved him, you freaks!”
“Sit down.” I’m still smiling, and I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the absurdity of the night. “And how do you knowI wasn’t in love with him? I dated him for real. He was still very much cheating on me.”
After another moment, Wes sits again. Brown hair messier now, brushing over his forehead. “Simple.” His gaze catches mine. “I know what you look like when you’re in love. You never looked at him like that.”
“How do you know what I look like when I’m in love?” I can’t stop myself from asking.
“Because when you’re on stage”—he closes his eyes, as if the image is forming on the back of his lids—“after a really good song, you stand there for a moment with the biggest smile, you forget you’re performing, and I mean that in a good way. It was always a performance with him.”
“Stalking me?” For a second, I feel like I’m about to float up to the ceiling. I forgot how easy it can be with him. How when we’re not fighting, I don’t have to explain things because he knows me that well.
A particularly bright flash goes off, and I blink back to my senses.
Knew. Not knows. He doesn’t know me anymore, he forfeited the right to a decade ago. What’s here in the air between us are just the few fragments that haven’t changed over the years.
“I like to keep tabs on you, watch your career.” His expression sobers. “You told a room full of people and your ex you’re going on tour with me. Are you getting my hopes up for nothing?”
“If I go on tour, you’ll sign the papers?”
“You don’t need them anymore. You’re not marrying him.”
“It’s not about him anymore. I want this for me. I’m so tired.” The force of it hits me, turning my bones to lead. I’ve been going for so long and now that Wes has helped me catch my breath, the toll is impossible to ignore. “We’ve been doing this for so long. It has to end; you called it a farewell tour. Let it be one last good thing. End this on a high note.”
Let me go,I beg silently. Because as long as part of me is tied to Wes, I’ll never truly move on.
My hand aches from clutching on to the rough rope tethered between us, splitters digging into the soft flesh of my palm.
Maybe I’m wrong and signing those papers won’t do a thing. Maybe my hand will be stuck in its shape because it’s forgotten how to do anything else besides bind us together. But I have to try. And this way we can at least end it better than we left it.
The light in Wes’s eyes flickers, tide pools during into something that resembles the unexplored depths of the ocean. His jaw tightens, but his words come out even and calm. “If that’s what you want.” And I believe he means it.
“It is.”
“Sounds like we’re going on tour, Ave.” The sight of a dimple is all it takes for hope to take root.
8
Avery
October 2024
