Inside my chest, though, everything feels hollow.
Great for my brand. Sponsorships.
His excuse for not showing up was absolute, unmitigated bullshit. He couldn't care less about that kind of stuff.
You don’t spend three months dodging your agent with those same offers, only to blow off a definitive moment of our relationship for a shoe or sports drink contract. Not Aston Griffith. The man lives by an unwritten code of absolute integrity. If he wasn’t on that plane, it wasn’t for a contract. It was because he had chosen not to be by my side.
The worst part—the part that made my throat tighten until it felt raw—was my father. He was ready to back us up. Let us be a normal couple in a controlled drop, but normal for our world.
And then Aston didn’t show up. But my dad did.
I had to look my father in the eye and tell him that Aston couldn’t make it. I considered sharing the same tale Aston told me, but my father’s too smart. His knowing look and the simple matter of reading my face told him everything he needed to know anyway.
“We’re beginning our descent, Ms. Carrington.” The flight attendant clears my untouched water, her voice soft.
“Thank you,” I respond, my voice void of emotion, taken over by fatigue.
I pick up my phone and switch it off. I don’t want to see another notification. I want the cold, grey pavement of New York, my loft, and enough distance to figure out what the hell happened.
The winter wind comes off the Hudson River, howling through the cobblestone alleys as I make my way to the front door to my loft, cutting through my winter coat like a knife.
As I reach the landing to the entry, I see him.
Aston is leaning against the building, his massive frame hunched forward, his head down. He’s only wearing a hoodie, and his eyes are closed, but the second he hears my approach, his head snaps up.
He looks … ruined. The stubble along his jawline is thick, shadowed by purple arcs of exhaustion under his eyes. He doesn’t look like an NFL player right now. He looks like a man who knows he fucked up.
“Eva,” he breathes, standing up so fast his shoulder clips the call box next to the door.
I freeze, my hands locking around the keys in my pocket, the metal biting into my palms. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve seen me. Now go.” I push past him and put my key in the door.
“Please,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Just give me five minutes.”
“That’s all you need, huh?” A sharp, humorless laugh cuts through my throat. “Because you bailed on me, and I also had to look at my father and lie for you, but you only need five minutes?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his chest expanding with a ragged, heavy breath. “More than you’ll ever know.”
“You’re sorry?” I step forward, the distance between us closing, the heat of my anger breaking through the icy cold air. I look up at him, my eyes burning with the threat of tears that I refuse to let drop. “You think that’s all it takes? I put my entire professional status on the line for you. For us. And you text me, not call me, with some sorry excuse for not wanting to stand by my side.”
“I know,” he chokes out, his jaw tight. “I know I blew it, Eva. Just … let me explain. Take a walk with me? Then if you want me to never call your number again after that, I’ll do it. But give me a chance to explain.”
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I should open the door and walk inside without another word. But the look in his eyes and his stupid pretty face tear through my defenses.
“Fine,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “But Aston, if you lie to me or give me some fucked up excuse, I’m done.”
“Fair.” He holds his hand out to me on instinct, but when he sees my face staring at his hand, he lets it fall.
“Let me drop my bag inside at least so I don’t have to carry it around.” I open the door and drop my bag in the foyer of the building. There’s only one other person who lives here, and he won’t touch my bag, so I’m not worried about taking it upstairs.
I walk back outside, and Aston’s hands are in the pocket of his hoodie, and he looks up when he sees me walking back down the steps. Like he’s surprised I came back out.
We walk to Washington Market Park, the cold cutting through my coat sharp enough to cut. Aston walks beside me, his shoulders hunched, and his focus on the grey stones we walk on.
I stop in the middle of the path, under the skeletal branches of a tree. The distance between us is barely two feet, but the air is vibrating with days of suffocating pressure.
