Rafe starts pacing slightly, phone in hand like he might call the guys back just to hear them scream again. “April fifth,” he repeats, then looks at me. “I’ll be back in LA for it. Obviously.”
My stomach tightens, but I nod. “Yeah.”
He keeps talking, excitement spilling out now that it’s found a path. “Rehearsals. Press. Probably some stupid red-carpet thing.”
My chest does that small, familiar dip.
Red carpet.
Public.
Flashbulbs.
A world where he shines and I stand off to the side of it like a ghost.
Rafe doesn’t stop. He’s riding the high. He deserves to. “I’ll probably ask my sister to come,” he says, simple as fact. “She’ll lose her mind.”
The words land quietly. No dagger. No accusation. Just a statement. And my face falls anyway, because my body betrays me even when my mind tries to stay calm.
Rafe sees it. Or maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t pause. He doesn’t pivot. He doesn’t soften it for me.
He just keeps moving through the reality he’s learned to live in. The reality where he can’t invite me without risking the inevitable outcome: me freezing, me panicking, me saying no, me making his joy smaller.
So he doesn’t ask, and I don’t blame him. Not really. But the quiet hurt blooms anyway, sharp and aching, because it’s confirmation of what I already know: This is what my choiceshave built. A marriage that exists behind closed doors and disappears at the exact moments it should be allowed to stand tall.
I swallow hard, forcing my smile to stay in place. “She should go,” I say, voice steady. “She’d love that.”
Rafe’s gaze flickers to mine, unreadable for a second. Then he nods once. “Yeah.”
We stand together, the morning light bright around us, the kitchen smelling like coffee and toast and the faint promise of champagne.
He’s glowing with success, and I’m proud enough to burst.
And underneath it, there’s that same old bruise, tender and unhealed, reminding me that loving him isn’t the problem. The problem is that I keep loving him in the dark. I don’t want to ruin the mood. I don’t want to be the weight on his joy. I don’t want to drag us into another conversation we can’t finish.
Rafe’s gaze flicks to the fridge before I even move. It seems instinctive, maybe even automatic. He swallows, shoulders easing just a fraction, like his body already knows what comes next. I smile and turn toward the fridge where the bottle of champagne sits—bought before he came because I’d promised myself we’d celebrate something, even if that something was just surviving.
My fingers curl around the foil. I start peeling it back, slow and careful. Behind me, I hear Rafe exhale, like he’s trying to hold on to the high. I force my breath to stay even and keep my hands moving. If I stop—if I let myself stand still with that quiet sadness lodged in my chest—I might finally have to face what I’ve been refusing to name.
And I’m not ready. Not today. So I twist the wire cage free, smile over my shoulder, and say, “All right, rock star. Let’s celebrate.”
The cork shifts under my hand, ready to pop. And for now, I let the sound of it be the only thing that breaks the air.
23
“Relax,”I say. “You’re not getting cut in the first ten minutes.”
Ryan Broadwater shoots me a look that’s half gratitude, half terror and wipes his hands on his shorts like that might steady them. He’s tall, all limbs and nerves, light brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he has that look I remember too well—the one where confidence and fear are arm-wrestling inside your chest.
Easy to spot in a rookie. Easier when you used to be one.
“You don’t know that,” he mutters, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His accent slips out stronger when he’s stressed, vowels stretching like elastic. “Coach’s got that face.”
Coach does, in fact, have that face. Arms crossed, jaw set, eyes sharp. It’s the same face he always has. Ryan doesn’t know that yet.
“He always looks like that,” I say. “If he smiled, I’d be worried.”
Ryan snorts despite himself, which I count as a small win.
