The last month had been about recovery, both body and mind, the latter more wrecked in a way I didn’t want to admit, especially after Harold. I’d made a promise—to myself, to myfans—and after postponing more shows than I wanted to count. I owed it to them to show up.
And they did. Loud and wild, feeding me adrenaline until my bones forgot how tired they were—the energy in that stadium was electric, like a welcome home party with thousands of strangers.
The high was already fading. The adrenaline was wearing off and the crash was coming. It always did.
The last couple of weeks between rehearsals, travel, Sawyer, and that journal…I hadn’t had room to unravel.
I’d been chasing shadows ever since we left that house, reading and re-reading the same five articles, as if they might say something new if I stared long enough. It felt like chasing the last thread of a true crime case—one where the podcast cuts off before the last episode, and you’re left digging through forums like some armchair detective who can’t let go.
I couldn’t let go.
If I were being honest, it was more than the mystery pulling me back to Woodstone. It was Sawyer too.
Which made no fucking sense. This thing we were doing, whatever the hell it was, was supposed to be fake—a publicity stunt to get the media off my back about my ex and everything bad that happened in San Francisco. Keep the focus on something new, positive, and fun, especially with Harold trying to come in and spin the narrative wherever he could.
After only a few times together and all the texts and calls, I was craving him in ways that had nothing to do with cameras or headlines.
I didn't expect that, not from someone who admitted he used to crush on me from the outside looking in—drawn to a face on a magazine cover, a voice on the radio. I figured he'd be like the rest: curious, infatuated, and a little starstruck. I figured it would fade the second he saw the real me.
So far, that hadn't happened. If anything, I found myself memorizing the way his hands moved when he talked and wondering what they'd feel like on me. When he laughed at something I said, I caught myself staring at his mouth longer than I should have. When he'd catch me looking, instead of glancing away embarrassed, he'd hold my gaze until I was the one who had to break first—flustered and craving things I had no business wanting from a fake relationship.
A knock broke on my dressing room door, tearing through my thoughts.
“Come in,” I called.
Rachel pushed the door open, smiling. “Another amazing show in the books. You crushed it.”
I offered a tired smile. “Thanks.”
“You ready for next week? Two shows in three days, some time off for the holidays, then back at it for a month.”
“Yeah. I think it’ll be fun.”
I even wondered if I could convince Sawyer to come back to Woodstone for a few days over our two-week break.
“I’ll let you get in your comfy clothes. Just wanted to say you killed it. When you’re ready, we can go back to the hotel and get some room service?”
“Sounds like a dream. Thanks.”
She gave me a smile and then stepped out, closing the door behind her. I pulled out my phone to check the final score from Sawyer’s game. I hadn’t caught the end, since I was getting zipped into a glitter jumpsuit and given last-minute reminders about choreography.
20–17.
They’d won. A grin tugged at my lips, and I tapped out a quick message.
Congrats on the win. I’ll have to watch some recaps tonight.
Did I understand football? Not really, but I had zero complaints about watching him kill it on the field. His reply came almost instantly.
Thanks :) I’ll have to see if I can find some footage of your show and get a good look at that pretty face, I miss already.
Thanks. You didn’t look too bad yourself tonight.
You should see me without a shirt then. For fake research purposes, obviously.
I’ll take that under advisement.
Please do.
