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“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need a partner. And since you’re not interested in being that—”
“Woah, when did I say I didn’t want to be your partner?”
She forced herself to take a breath, to recognize the adrenaline pumping through her veins and making everything feel fuzzy, off-kilter. “What happened with your brother?” When he didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes. “Forget Jackson, how are you? How’s your knee?”
“Will you stop asking about my knee?”
“If you can’t even tell me when you’re in physical pain, how can I expect you to tell me what’s going on in your head?”
“I’m not allowed to have a private fucking thought? A goddamn minute to process before I talk to you about something I don’t even understand yet?”
“Then say that, Beckett. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”
“Of course I’m not!” He jumped to his feet, tearing at his hair. “My brother is self-destructing, and it’s my fucking fault! Maybe if I hadn’t covered for his ass for all these years, or if I’d talked to him sooner—Fuck, Kat. And now you’re talking about touring again? What about us? My whole life is fucking imploding and you’re just going to leave?”
“I need a job.”
“You don’t, though.”
It was her turn to get to her feet, to pace away from him, putting the couch between them. “I’m just supposed to, what, play house in the house you own, fuck you, wait for money to show up on the night stand—”
He recoiled. “It wouldn’t be like that and you know it.”
“What would it be like then?”
“I told you. You can write your books. Live with me. I’ll handle it.”
“And when you get sick of me?”
“What makes you think I’m going to get sick of you? I’ve waited ten years for you, Luna.”
“And you still can’t tell me how you really feel without fighting or fucking—not about your brother, not about me—”
He stormed around the couch, grabbing her left hand. “I put a goddamn ring on your finger. If you still don’t know how I feel—”
“That wasn’t real, Beckett! Just like your fantasy of us sitting in your house, cooking and gardening, for God’s sake—It’s not real. You’re one of the biggest pop stars in the world. You’re not sitting in a house in Rhode Island growing marigolds for the rest of your life and we both know it. Just like we both knew you weren’t going to magically convince Jackson to get help. We’ve been pretending for the last month.”
“No.” He grabbed her face in both of his hands, tilting her chin up to him. “I haven’t been pretending. Not with you. There’s nothing pretend about the way I feel about you.”
Her chest cracked open, ribs fracturing in a thousand places as her heart slammed itself against her ribcage. “We’ve been pretending that there’s a way for this to work when the tour ends,” she said softly.
“There is,” he insisted. And he was so sure, she almost believed him. “Move in with me. Write your books. I might not figure out how to grow flowers, but we could still do the rest of it. Maybe someday I’ll tour again. Maybe I won’t. Either way, we could still be together.” She closed her eyes and his lips brushed over her closed eyelids, her forehead, the underside of her jaw. “Luna, we’ll figure it out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. We just… will.” He kissed her, hard and desperate, like he could make her believe him if he kissed her deeply enough. “You have to stop picking fights with me every time you’re scared.”
“And you have to stop shutting me out every time you’re scared.” One corner of his mouth twitched, and it loosened something in her chest, the tiniest reprieve from the constant ache. She gripped his shirt, tugging him closer. “I want this to work,” she whispered.
“Me, too.” Another kiss, this time softer. “It will,” he murmured against her lips.
“Kat?” She glanced around Beckett’s broad frame towards the voice at the door to the luxury suite. One of the tour assistants stood in the doorway, a young guy who always wore red Chucks, even when he was in a suit. “Derek’s here. He’s asking for you.”
“Did you know a group of cockroaches is called an intrusion?” Zach asked as he swiped deodorant under his arms backstage at the Cleveland arena.
“No one knew that,” Nico said.
“And a group of bats is called a cauldron,” Zach continued.
