He kept his eyes on the screen, knowing I’d shut down if he looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“He was with you during a panic attack,” Riff replied. “You won’t even let me in the bathroom when you’re throwing up.”
“Because your face makes me throw up,” I shot back, petulant. He elbowed me in the side.
“My point is,” he said, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “You let him take care of you. The only person who’s ever really done that is your mom. But you dropped your guard for Iggy.”
“It’s different with him,” I muttered. “He . . .”
I wanted to say it was because we’d been through rehab together. But that wasn’t my secret to tell. So instead I said, “He doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”
Riff finally looked at me, and I caught the flicker of hurt before he masked it.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” he said quietly.
I smiled and leaned into him. “You do,” I replied. “But that’s okay. It means you care.”
He sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “So, what’s different about Iggy? Besides the pink hair and the insane wardrobe.”
I huffed a laugh, thinking about the crop top he’d worn that day. Bright yellow.“Yes, I fuck men”stamped across the front in black. About how he’d laughed so hard he snorted when Thump tried to slut-drop and split his jeans clean open, baring his asshole to the room. About how he’d butchered Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” in the shower, loud and proud and gloriously off-key. About the way he’d kissed my lips, my cheeks, my nose, and my eyelids just this morning, whispering that I was strong. Alive.
“He’s just . . .” I said softly. “Iggy.”
And he’d always been Iggy. From the day we met. Loud and unfiltered, pushy and obnoxious, all in the best ways. It didn’t matter whether I was an addict or a rock star. Iggy never changed the way he looked at me. He still smiled brightly when I made him laugh. Still said exactly what he was thinking, whether I asked for it or not. Still held onto the idea that we could live something close to normal, even after all the fuckups and bad decisions. That we deserved another chance.
“Look at you,” Riff teased, poking my cheek. “Smiling like a fool in love.”
The smile I hadn’t realised was there vanished. “I—no. I amnotin... not love,” I spluttered. “Ha. No way.”
He laughed, climbing off the bed and stretching his arms overhead. “The lady doth protest too much.”
“Fuck off.”
Riff waved as he opened the door to my room, but paused on the threshold and glanced back over his shoulder.
“If you’re really not interested,” he said lightly. “Maybe I’ll shoot my shot.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid. “Don’t you fucking dare,” I snapped, teeth clenched.
“Not in love, my ass,” Riff smirked. “See you on the flight, lover boy.”
Unfortunately for him, he was already safely in the hallway when my pillow slammed into the door.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Iggy looked up from his phone, frowning. We were stretched out on his bed, doing our own thing. He was watching videos of dogs doing stupid shit, and I was drawing him. The morning flight from Vienna had been just under ninety minutes, but despite the short journey, we’d skipped playing tourists in favour of a lazy day.
I was still wrung out from the non-stop travel, and Iggy’s hip had been bothering him, so I’d insisted we do absolutely nothing. He would’ve fussed if I said it was for his benefit, guilt-ridden over me missing a day in Milan despite the fact I’d been here more than once. So I lied. Told him it was for me. That I still felt off after the panic attack on the bus. And because he was a people pleaser, he agreed without hesitation. Besides, we still had two days before I went back onstage. One day of rest wouldn’t kill us.
Except it wasn’t going to be total relaxation.
“What kind of surprise?” he asked.
“If I told you,” I said, not looking up from my sketchbook. “It wouldn’t be a surprise.”
He plucked the pencil from my fingers and leaned in. When I lifted my head, we were nose to nose, the gold flecks in his green eyes catching the light.
