Page 87 of All of You

“I didn’t want to tell you that way. But I’ve been too?—”

I waved a hand, stopping her. “Let’s just get through this. Then we’ll talk.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Whit

Ben was barely meeting my eye, not touching me, not talking. I didn’t want to push him, but the look on his face, even in the darkness with the spotlight in my eyes, had terrified me.

I didn’t know I was going to say it—not for sure—until Colton Danes had slid his hand around my waist, and that had been it. That had been the straw, both for me kneeing him in the balls back stage, which he’d fully earned after I’d spoken with him and the choreographer the day before, and for me telling the world that Ben had been the inspiration for my now award-winning song.

Ben had looked completely blank. And now, he still seemed stunned. He wasn’t even cold, just completely empty, like he wasn’t even in the building. I won two more awards and accepted the one Jamie and I won for our song—a good sign for our Oscar hopes, people had clucked backstage as I exited, and I wished I could have cared more about it.

But my mind was on Ben as I quickly realized he was simply shocked—he hadn’t yet become angry or even confused. Each time I’d won, he’d stood, smiled, kissed my cheek, a consummate professional under pressure, in the end, and I’d kept my thanks short and sweet, only listing names I’d memorized in preparation, and waiting for the end of it.

Every minute that ticked by, the distance between us grew until, when I finally heard the click of the car door and the driver speeding away from the flashing lights and screaming fans outside the venue, I knew his mind was sifting through my words, trying to make sense of everything.

“Please say something,” I begged, not hiding the desperation in my voice.

“I can’t think of anything,” he said, no edge to his voice, just emptiness.

The panic at that sound, the sound of nothing in his tone, not even anger or confusion, choked me. “Do you have questions? I can tell you. I went into the bar that night and was getting a drink before I sang. And you said?—”

“I don’t need to know. That’s not… I don’t want to know.”

My pulse pounded in my neck, my ears full of the rushing sound of my blood. How could he not want to know?

“I should have told you so much sooner. I should have told you that day at Reese’s,” I said, feeling heartsick and rushed.

Somehow, LA traffic had given way in honor of my crisis, and we had maybe five minutes until we got to the hotel. And I knew what would happen then.

“Yeah.”

God, help me.

Was it all down to this? Had my cowardice dissolved any chance I had with him, all because of this stupid secret that shouldn’t even matter? This was insane. This, between us, was so much more than this small thing. I should have told him, but Ben was generous and reasonable, and part of me had always known he’d forgive me for not telling him sooner.

So what was this?

My mind scrambled for something more—how could I explain, and how could I tell him how much the conversation meant, how much it influenced me? How could I say those things now, like they weren’t excuses for lying?

Before I came up with anything, the car stopped, the door swung open, and we were shuffled into the lobby by security, then into the elevator, then down the hall to the room. When the door clicked closed, the silence was unbearable.

“I’m so sorry. You can’t know how sorry I am.” I moved in front of him to gain his focus, to make him talk to me.

He’d been standing, staring at his bag packed and ready to go on the couch. He turned to me, his movements stilted. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?” I asked, stepping closer to him.

“For being so drunk I didn’t remember you. For being the other end of a conversation that influenced you so much, you wrote an award-winning song about it, and not remembering a damn word of it.” His face showed a hint of his anger then, his disgust—at me, or himself, I wasn’t sure.

“No. No, that doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right. That’s not the issue.”

Something cold had entered his voice, and if I’d felt any sense of alarm before, it had been foolishness. That nothingness in his voice had been better than this new edge.

“Okay,” I said dumbly, my mind screaming with unspent words.

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