Page 174 of The Comedown

Collette’s expression softens, and I swear I see a flash of pity.

“I don’t need you to be better, little lamb. I just need you to be you.”

“I am. I am me,” I tell her, leaning over her pliant body, craving her touch as much as I’m craving another joint. “This is me.”

“Now.” She runs her fingertip down my nose, over my lips, lifting my chin. “Now you’re perfect.”

I can’t help it, I bend my elbows and steal a kiss. In no reality that’s ever existed am I perfect, but fuck if Collette doesn’t make me feel like I could be.

I’ll do it. I’ll stay sober. I was sober before…before I wasn’t. It can’t be that hard to go back to being sober. If I tried, I’d know that; but that’s the problem, I’ve never fucking tried. I never had a reason to. Now, I have multiple.

“Collette, after tonight’s show, let’s go to Vegas—”

“No.” Her hand falls away, revealing that badass jewel tat she got. “Don’t ask that of me right now. Don’t ask me to marry you because you’re scared of losing me. Ask me to marry you when there’s no chance you ever could.”

Is she saying there’s a chance now? I could lose her?

My eyes sting, so I harden my face, hoping it chases away the wetness I feel forming. Fuck you, tears. I’m not crying.

Then, for good measure, I call my good ol’ friend anger out for an assist.

I’m expected to walk, breathe, live a straight fucking line, meanwhile Collette gets to run off, doing whatever tour she wants with whoever the fuck she wants.

“Whose tour is it?”

Her eyes move from mine to the ceiling above us.

“A new girl group. They’re big in Belgium and hoping to get some traction in other countries, too, starting with the US.”

“Belgium?” I shake my head. “You’re just as addicted as I am.”

“To what?”

“To touring! Fuck. Isn’t it fucking obvious? You agreed to go on tour with me. With me.” Thank fuck she did, but it’s still a dead giveaway that she don’t know what’s good for her. “By now you should be choosing your own schedule, headlining your own fucking show, not dropping everything to ride other artists’ coattails wherever they tell you to.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She pushes on my shoulders, sliding out from under me to stand and look down at me—looking down at me ’cause she is the one with the fucking coattails. She just ignores them to chase her own high of touring as much as possible.

“What about Holter?”

“What about him?” Her hackles rise, warning me away from the subject, but nah, I don’t listen for shit either, so I push it, asking, “Is he going with you this time? Are you gonna make him miss out on the chance to play basketball? Or are you leaving him with Mary to open for some unknown girl band America’s never even heard of?”

I’m not the only addict here. I’m just the only one willing to admit it.

Pain makes its way across Collette’s face so plainly, my body rocks forward, and I wish I could take it back. Anger’s so deceiving. It never helps me in the ways I need, only in the ways I think I want.

“Holter is none of your business.”

I jolt to my feet, meeting her eyes to admit, “I love Holter, too, Collette.” I knew I did, but was struggling to accept it because my love…it kills.

You can’t fight destiny, just like I can’t knock fate.

If love were a choice, I swear I’d pick hate.

I tried to, I swear. Hate didn’t take for either of them though, and now I love them both, more than I’ve ever loved anyone.

“You do?” she asks, her spine softening a fraction.

“Yeah. I’d do anything for either of you.” Didn’t I prove that when Bodee appeared out of nowhere, involving Holter in his random flex of power?