Page 81 of The Heartbreakers
“Please?” he said. There was a desperate look in his eyes that made me sigh.
“Talk quickly,” I told him.
“Okay.” He gestured over his shoulder at an empty room. “But this needs to be private.” Whatever he wanted to talk about, it must have been important, because Oliver risked grabbing my hand as he pulled me into the room.
“What do you want?” I snapped, yanking my hand away from him. Nothing good was going to come of this conversation. I could feel it.
He paused as if what he’d say next was more frightening than performing in front of thousands of fans, and the next three words that came out of his mouth were so unexpected that I was left speechless. “Iloveyou.”
“I—what?” My brain was trying to comprehend what he’d said, but the words wouldn’t register. It was like I was getting the same computer message over and over:Anunexpectederrorhasoccurred. Please try again.
He cleared his throat and repeated himself, this time more slowly. “I said, I love you.”
Oh,hellno. Crossing my arms, I tucked both my hands away to resist reaching out and slapping him. “You can’t just stop caring, treat me like shit, and then turn around and say something like that.”
Something flashed in Oliver’s eyes. If it was anger, he kept it hidden well, because his words came out calmly. “You think I stopped caring about you?”
“Don’t make this about me,” I said, taking a step forward as my lips curled. “You were the one who stood me up, remember?”
“But I never stopped caring,” he said defensively. “Trust me, hurting you was the last thing I wanted to do, but—”
“Stop!” I said and held up my hand. “You can’t apologize and expect rainbows and butterflies. There’s nothing you can say that will make up for what you did.”
Instead of answering, Oliver turned away from me and yanked on a handful of his hair. He cursed and swung his fist through the air before forcing himself to draw in a steady breath. “You’re right,” he finally said, his back still to me. “I can’t give you the explanation you’re looking for.”
That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say?“Fuck you, Oliver! You screwed with my heart, and I’m not even worth the truth?” I didn’t want to cry in front of him, but I could feel my eyes stinging.
He turned back around. “Be as pissed at me as you want. I deserve it,” he said. “But what I did—it had nothing to do with you.”
“What are you talking about?” I said as I tried to swipe away my tears. “You’re not making any sense.”
“I can’t tell you!” he snapped. He flinched at his own tone before shaking his head. “All you need to know is that you’re still my star. Even if you hate me.”
I stared up at him, pleading with my eyes. I needed something, anything, even if it was the smallest hint as to what had gone wrong between us. But he chose to look down at the ground, his mouth clamped shut.
“Whatever,” I said, letting all the air and hope and anger rush out of me. My shoulders slumped. “I’m done.”
Without looking back at him, I ran out of the room, trying to put as much distance between Oliver and myself as I could. When I found the closest bathroom I barricaded myself inside, ready to surrender to crying my eyes out, but then my phone buzzed. Glancing down at the caller ID, I laughed through my tears. Cara’s number flashed across the screen. Between the concert and Oliver, I’d completely forgot that we’d made plans to talk today, and now, more than anything, hearing her voice was what I needed.
“Thank God it’s you, Cara,” I said when I picked up.
“Stella?” I froze. It wasn’t Cara. It was my dad. And from the way he was trying to keep his voice from cracking, I knew something was wrong.
“Oh no,” I whispered as my heart dropped into my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your sister,” he said quietly. “You need to come home.”
Chapter 22
This was what I knew so far: Cara’s graft had failed. Last week she’d finished her single round of high-dose chemotherapy, and two days after was the transplant. Apparently, she’d won the lottery of transplant failures, because autologous transplants were almost always a success. It meant Cara’s own stem cells hadn’t reestablished in her bone marrow.
“Rocket,” Drew said, putting a hand my shoulder. “Don’t put a hole in the floor. They’ll be done soon.”
But I couldn’t stop fidgeting. For the past half an hour, I’d been pacing the hall of the pediatric floor. We were waiting for Cara’s head doctor, Lisa Mitchell, and my parents to finish a meeting about different options moving forward. I hadn’t even been able to see Cara since arriving, and the whole situation was driving me crazy.
To add to my frustration, I didn’t really understand the graft failure. Before the treatment took place, Dr. Mitchell told us it would work. Now I wanted someone to explain what went wrong and then give me a solution—the “how” to saving my sister.
“Don’t touch me,” I said and shrugged off his hand.
