“You should go,” I manage to choke out.
He only holds me tighter. “No. I’m not leaving you like this.”
Somehow, I find the strength to pull myself out of his arms. I fumble for my clothes, shoving my pants on. “You need to go. We can’t help each other right now.”
“Yes, we can.”
“No, Wyatt.” The guilt is burning my throat. “This isn’t fair to you. You’re so focused on taking care of me that you haven’t even been able to process this loss and deal with your own grief. And I’m barely managing to keep it together for myself, let alone both of us.”
On the bed, Wyatt sits up. He looks tired. Numb.
I slip my sweater over my head, seconds from collapsing on the floor and sobbing again.
“My grandpa will be home soon,” I finally say.
After a beat, Wyatt reaches for his boxers. “I’ll get out of yourway then.”
Even though my heart is screaming in agony, I let him go.
Because if I beg him to stay, it wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.
Chapter 53
WYATT
NOVEMBER
I’m doing a small charity set in Nashville tomorrow night and a little birdie told me you’re in town. I’ll send a car for you. -MM
SHE SIGNS IT MM.
I raise a brow.I’ll send a car for you. Presumptuous of her to think I’m interested in attending or even free to do so.
Of course, the answer to both those questions is yes.
And fate must want me to, because I just happen to be back in Nashville this weekend to pack up my apartment. The first cut of my album is done, and I’m going to rent a place in New York while Tobey and I polish it up. I’m thrilled with how it’s shaping up.
I set down my roll of packing tape and type a quick reply to Mollie May, saying I’m in.
My opinion of the pop princess, with her massive online following and platinum records, hasn’t changed per se. I still don’t love her shiny, overproduced hits, but there was something about her that Ireally liked when we met. Her intelligence, her humor. She seemed cool. Plus, the fact that my mom likes her and even wrote a track for her counts for a lot with me. Mollie May’s music might not be my jam, but I trust Mom’s opinion about people’s character.
As promised, a car collects me the following evening at my apartment. The venue is tucked inside an old hotel downtown, the event taking place in a large ballroom featuring tables with ornate centerpieces in gold accents and a stage lit by hundreds of candles.
Security is intense, which I’m starting to realize is par for the course for someone like Mollie May. I read that she had to testify last year at the trial for one of her alleged stalkers.Oneof. I can’t imagine living my life being stalked or worried that some unhinged fan is gonna murder me and wear me as a skin suit.
I slip inside the ballroom after security pats me down at the door. I’m wearing a suit, and I actually styled my hair into some semblance of not-messy. I scan the room, not sure where to stand or who to talk to. I expected a lot of industry people, but it seems to be mostly civilians. Older civilian women.A lotof women. The sign on the posterboard in the lobby said the charity is called the Later Years Foundation.
I spot her by the stage, laughing with a pair of older women. Her dark hair is piled in an artful mess, and she’s wearing a silky gold-yellow gown that looks incredible against her bronze skin. It hugs every curve of her body, and the asymmetrical hem allows her to flash a lot of thigh.
Mollie May waves me over like we’re old friends. “Wyatt!”
She separates herself from the group and saunters over. Her heels are black and strappy and wrap around her ankles.
“Look at you,” she draws. “You clean up nice. I’m loving the all-black. Very Johnny Cash of you.”
I tug at the collar of my dress shirt. “I have a complicated relationship with color,” I answer, and she laughs.
A waiter approaches, his tray laden not with champagne flutes but small glasses of something amber.
