“Drop it,” I warn, glaring at him and hoping he gets the message that this is not up for discussion.
“Does she know about the song?” Anna asks softly, attempting to reduce the tension between Jason and me. “We’ve done everything we can to quiet the questions on socials about the woman in the video. It seems to be working. Although I can’t promise no one will find out her identity if they dig into your past.”
“I haven’t heard from her,” I retort, dragging a hand down my face. “Can we be done now? I’m ready to go home.”
Anna and Jason exchange pointed looks, almost like they’re having a telepathic conversation about how to best respond to my unusual request. I rarely ask to leave any event early. When I’m working, I’m locked in, maximizing every opportunity in front of me.
Except for the past few months. I’ve preferred to spend time alone, nursing my broken heart by writing song after song. All of them about her.
“I’ll have your driver meet us in the back,” Anna responds. “We’ll need to regroup in the morning to discuss your schedule for the next few days. I have a ton of interview requests, and I anticipate there will be more.”
I nod, following her and Jason toward the exit that allows guests to leave without being seen by photographers.
“I’ll have studio time booked later this week for you and the band to cut the new song,” Jason says. “The label wants it immediately. I’m frankly surprised they haven’t kicked someone out of the studio tomorrow morning to get you in.”
I don’t reply. Jason knows I’ll do whatever is requested by the label after the stunt I pulled tonight. Thankfully, the fans are loving the song; otherwise, I might be zero for two tonight.
When I climb into the back of the limo alone, it’s quiet as the driver takes me home. It’s been six hours since I poured my heart out on national TV, and not a peep from Kate.
I lean my head back on the seat, contemplating what to do. I could send her a message tonight, or give her a call in the morning. One last attempt. But will it matter?
Silence is an answer.
I’ve sent her countless messages over the past four months and not received a single reply. My calls always go straight to voicemail.
At what point does this make me a stalker? An ex-boyfriend who can’t get the hint to leave her alone.
Fuck.
Maybe things would be different if I’d made a grand gesture months ago.
Or refused to leave Chicago. Made her listen to how I feel. Proved that she was worth fighting for.
I’ll let myself feel the pain of losing her for good for a couple of days. Sulk in the heartache. Then, focus on moving on. I can’t dwell on the past forever. It’s unhealthy.
Maybe we weren’t meant to be, after all.
sixty-three
KATE
I’ve lostmy damn mind. There is no other explanation for why I’m driving south of Nashville on Interstate 65 at 3:30 a.m. Why did I think it was a good idea to throw my clothes into a bag and start driving, rather than send a text or call? He likely had his phone on during the show and would’ve seen a text. Or I could’ve called him after it was over. Both logical options. Instead, I threw caution to the wind and decided a seven-hour drive was the best idea. Hoping he’ll be home when I show up.
Panic rises in me as I grip the steering wheel tighter, realizing I have absolutely no idea what his plans are for the night. Where he’s staying, or if he’s traveling after the show.
What if he’s not home?
What if he’s staying at a hotel downtown?
My stomach sinks.
What if he’s spending the night with someone else?
He wouldn’t do that.
Not after playing that song.
He wouldn’t.
