Page 88 of All of You

His eyes searched back and forth between mine, grazing over my face, down over my dress, then back to my eyes. He kept looking, and I prayed he could see the regret I felt, the sorrow for hurting him in any way, how much I cared for him.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“I hope it was worth it,” he said, less cold and more resigned.

“Worth what?”

“I hope all this, you and me. I hope it did what you needed it to, Whit. I hope you get everything you’ve been wanting.”

“I don’t?—”

“Congratulations on your wins.”

He stepped around me, grabbed his bags, and was out the door before I could form a sentence.

I should have chased after him, but my feet wouldn’t move. I don’t know how long I stood there, looking at the empty place on the couch where his bag used to be.

He was always scheduled to leave tonight, but this wasn’t how I’d planned it. He’d left to catch his flight, but one thing was all too clear: I’d lost him.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Ben

Ichanged out of my suit in the bathroom at the airport.

In my worn jeans and sweatshirt, I felt more like myself. Inconspicuous, uninteresting—just another guy heading somewhere. Nothing remarkable, exactly what I was looking forward to feeling.

My flight left LAX just before eleven, and I got home just shy of five the next morning. The four-hour flight had been a sleepless one. I’d closed my eyes, tried to sleep and knock out so I wouldn’t let the thoughts creep in. Staying numb wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive, wasn’t going to help me in the end, but it was a matter of self-preservation.

The reality was this—I loved Whit Grantham, and she’d used me.

She’d told me she would, and she’d held up her end of the bargain, with me the fool sitting on a plane ride home after she’d made her big play, feeling more hurt than I had a right to, more used than I ever had, and even though I hated admitting it to myself, betrayed.

Somewhere along the way, I’d fallen, and I’d thought maybe she would, too. I’d thought the contract, the tour, the arrangement had all fallen by the wayside over Christmas when we’d shared our feelings. I’d thought we were really, actually dating.

Hadn’t we agreed to that?

We had, but maybe that was just another level of her betrayal that I couldn’t fully digest yet. I wanted to believe she’d felt something for me—maybe she’d gotten caught up in our chemistry, in the tour, like Flint had feared, and then reverted back to her brutal pragmatism that would get her where she wanted to go once it’d worn off.

Every time I shifted in the too-small seat, the low lights of the cabin casting an eerie glare over my fellow red-eye passengers, the more I ran through the series of our relationship as I’d seen it.

We met at Flint’s. I gave her a tour of post. I liked her social media. She messaged me, and I responded. She invited me to an event as a friend. Then another. Then, she proposed the fake relationship, and I agreed. Then on the tour, we discovered genuine feelings and bagged the fake for real. Then we dated, grew closer, and I’d fallen for her like a chump.

But to her, none of that was true. She’d known me and some of the most personal things about me, for over a year before we ever met. And she’d had time and time and time again to come out and say so. She’d chosen not to, and all I could think, even though I hated myself and I hated her for even thinking it, was that she’d waited until a moment like last night to get the biggest impact. Because the story of a drowning soldier coming home, of the singer-songwriter loving him from afar—how beautiful.

But the story of that love now come to life, in front of everyone’s eyes, now that was a story. That was something people would talk about for years, would inspire movies, would inspire more songs, and would likely nab Whit that spot at Johnson’s table she’d been so desperate for.

It was a blow. That’s all it was. I’d get past this, I knew I would. But for now, for the rest of this plane ride, for the rest of this week as I went to and from work and avoided talking about what everyone I knew had to have seen on my face if the camera had cut to me when Whit was talking, I’d let this pull toward numbness win.

Whit

The victory lap.

That was what my team called the chock-full schedule of the next few days. I was shuffled from one interview to the next, and it took every ounce of energy not to let everyone see how little I cared about this.

It didn’t make sense that Ben’s leaving on a flight he’d always planned on taking would have thrown me like this. I kept convincing myself we’d had a disagreement, that I’d see him when I got back from all this insanity, this weird LA bubble that took over when I was in Hollywood and couldn’t think straight.

I wouldn’t let myself think of him, so withdrawn as he congratulated me. I couldn’t think of that beautiful face, the sadness in his eyes even as he said entirely without malice, I hope you get everything you’ve been wanting.

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