“Then get up off your knees and kiss me.” I tried to draw him to me, but he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down to him instead.
We rolled on the floor and I laughed, the tears streaming down my face, tears of ridiculous ecstasy and relief. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him with everything I had in my heart. When he kissed me back, the truth of it burned deep, straight to my soul; it was the first time he’d kissed me when it wasn’t a ruse—or at least, when Iknewit wasn’t a ruse.
It was just Jesse. Kissing the woman he was going to marry.
He drew back and scowled at me. “Were you about to break up with me?”
“No,” I said, and kissed his nose. “Couldn’t break up with you. We were never together.”
“That’s true.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I guess I should ask you out on a date, then.”
“You should.”
“Come to the show tonight,” he said, “and I’ll take you for dinner afterward. Just the two of us.”
“Okay,” I said. “But only because I love you, Jesse Mayes.”
He drew me out onto the roof of the studio, where across the water I could see the arena where Jesse would rock a sold-out crowd tonight. Where his new fiancée would be cheering him on from backstage.
“We may be famous,” he murmured, “but there are still places where no one will find us…”
He kissed me while the sun set over the water, gold and amber and scarlet reflecting off the glass towers of downtown.
“I will always love you, Katie Bloom,” he whispered in my ear.
It was the best thing anyone had ever said to me.
And it was enough to build a dream on.
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER
JESSA
The courier caught me just as I was leaving my apartment in New York.
I was on my way to London for a job; the cab was already waiting at the curb. I signed for the package while the doorman and the driver loaded my things into the trunk. Once I was settled into the backseat and we were on our way to JFK, I tried to relax.
It had been a rough morning.
Dirty had started writing music for the new album, and it wasn’t bad enough my brother had laid an epic guilt trip on me about not being there, several times over, to the point that I’d started avoiding his calls again. I knew he meant well; he always did. But hearing that careful concern in his voice drove me up the wall. He’d been tiptoeing around me ever since Katie came to see me in L.A.. I’d talked to him about her visit, like I’d told her I would; it went well, a lot better than I feared it might, acknowledging the fact that he was worried about me. He’d never really said so out loud, and usually I just pretended it wasn’t happening.
We’d been doing this dance for years.
Talking about it didn’t really change anything, though. He still didn’t understand. I still didn’t want him to.
We still kept doing our little dance.
To make matters worse, his equally well-meaning fiancée had been sending me photos.
It started with snapshots from the band’s jam sessions. Zane rocking out on the mic. Katie pretending to play Dylan’s drum kit. My brother wrapped around his guitar, surrounded by scraps of paper as he worked on new songs.
She had also sent me photos of her and Jesse, hanging out with her dog or her niece and nephew at the beach. Sometimes other people were in the photos, too.
Sometimes I caught a glimpse of Brody and it hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe.
Last night, I could’ve sworn my heart stopped beating.
