He’s only wearing a plain white tee with dark denims and sneakers, but he looks incredible. Jared is the kind of guy who could wear a trash bag and make it sexy. It’s hard looking at his gorgeous face, knowing I no longer have the right to freely touch and kiss him. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through the stylish stubble on his chin and cheeks, trace my tongue along his plump lips, or drag my fingers through all that messy black hair.
“Will you ask your father?” He pulls me back into the moment.
I shake my head. “We don’t talk.”
“At all?” He sits up straighter.
“Nope. He didn’t care for me the way a father should. I hated him for the part he played in separating us. He was very controlling when I turned rebellious, and he made my life a misery. When I finally broke free, I told him he was dead to me and I never wanted to see or hear from him again.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.”
I shrug because it’s water under the bridge now.
“But I’m really proud of you for all you have achieved. I know you had a different dream, but look how far you’ve come? You’re an accomplished manager in a reputable gallery in one of the most artistic places in the world.”
“I’m proud of me,” I admit. “There were times I didn’t think I could ever break free. I have worked hard for the life I live, and I never take it for granted.”
“I need to take a page out of your book.”
I arch a brow. “You’re living your dream. You get to make music for a living, and you’re adored the world over. Is it not what you thought it’d be?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love it, and I love the guys. They’re like brothers to me, but fame and lack of privacy is a bitter pill to swallow at times. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, because I know I’m so fucking lucky, but sometimes it’s too much.”
“I can’t relate, but I can imagine it’s hard. I wouldn’t like photographers chasing me everywhere.” Because of who my father is, I often get photographed if I attend a public event, but it’s vastly different to having paparazzi following my every move. I would hate that.
“It was awful when Dad died four years ago. They camped outside my house for days.”
“I read about Amos, and it saddened me. He was taken far too young.”
Jared finishes his wine and sets his glass down on the coffee table. “Yeah, he was. He had a heart attack three days before his sixty-third birthday. It was a big shock.”
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips. “I thought of reaching out to you then, but you were this big rock star, and I didn’t think there was any point in rehashing the past.”
“Funnily enough, I almost called you then.” His sad eyes fix on me. “We hadn’t spoken in years, yet the only one I wanted by my side at the funeral was you.”
“I would have been there if you’d asked me to come.”
“They stole our future from us, Syd. Our parents did this to us. I’m not sure I can ever forgive my mother.”
“She might not have known, J. This could all be my dad’s fault, or maybe both our dads were involved,” I tack on the end because he seems convinced his parents played some part. Except I just can’t see Gladys doing anything to hurt her son or me.
“I’m going to confront her. After the last leg of our tour, I’m going to demand answers.”
Gently, I place my hand on his. “Don’t.” Pain claws its way up my throat as I force these next words out. “Let the past stay in the past. We know now we didn’t give up on one another. It’s sad we never made it, but it took me a long time to learn how to look back without regret. To focus on the future and moving forward. We have enough answers to give us closure. You have a different life to lead, and so do I.”
“It’s not fair.” His voice is choked with emotion. “They had no right to ruin our relationship.”
“Life isn’t always fair, but some things happen for a reason.”
“I would never have let go, Sydney.” His fingers thread through mine. “I didn’t willingly give you up.”
“Nor I you.” I cling to his hand, fighting tears. “But we’ve got to willingly let it go now. Don’t dredge up the past, Jared. It won’t do any of us any good.”
ChapterFifteen
Jared
“You need to eat,” I tell Toria, working hard to leash my frustration as I stare at her. She’s seated across from me by the window of the plane, sulking as she looks everywhere but at me. “If not for you, for the baby. I can ask what else they have on board if this isn’t to your liking,” I add, wondering what is wrong with the chicken salad the air steward, Lydia, produced for my difficult girlfriend.
