“You did not fight through rehab and a boot and a season ending before you were ready just to roll over because one confused, emotionally expensive basketball prince had a crisis at a library.”
A wet laugh breaks out of me.
Completely involuntary.
Drew huffs one too, low against my hair, like he hates that she’s funny and can’t help respecting it.
“Mama.”
“No.” Her voice sharpens. “He did not choose Stella. He did not choose you. Which means this is not over unless you decide it is.”
I pull back from Drew enough to look at the fire.
At the room.
At the giant rough man holding me like I weigh nothing and the phone in my trembling hand and the whole humiliating shape of being loved in one place and fighting for somebody else in another.
My throat aches.
“He broke my heart.”
“I know.”
“He said it’s always been her.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why are you acting like this is still salvageable?”
That comes out harsher than I mean it to.
But my mother doesn’t flinch.
Because my mother has never once flinched from me.
“Because,” she says, calm as law, “men like Tristan Vale mistake history for destiny all the time. It doesn’t mean they know what to do with the future when it finally stands in front of them.”
The words settle.
Ugly and bright.
I hate them.
I hate how badly I want them.
My mother lowers her voice.
“Sweetheart, Stella is his past. You are his future.”
Drew’s fingers flex once against my back.
That one he definitely hears.
That one he definitely hates.
I should care.
Instead all I can think about is the fountain.
