Page 65 of It Happened on a Sunday
The story is pouring out of me now, the words—and old emotions—barreling through me like a freight train. “I knew even before I got home what he was going to say. That it didn’t mean anything. That he was just following where his muse took him. That I was the only one he loved and nobody else mattered.
“But when I got home to confront him, he was already high. He’d done a massive dose of something—part of his latest quest for enlightenment—and I was done. With him, with the drugs, with the excuses everyone, including me, made about hisunbelievably selfish behavior. I told him as much, but he wasn’t even cognizant enough to pay attention to the fact that I was leaving him.”
My voice shakes nearly as much as the rest of me as I approach the climax of that awful, horrible night. “Instead, he dragged me along with him as he danced around the patio. He was so happy, because he’d just written the chorus to ‘the most brilliant song ever.’ He tried to show it to me, but at that point I had no interest in having anything to do with him. I just wanted to pack my stuff and get out.
“But he cornered me by the edge of the pool,explainingto me that monogamy was a limitation of our society. And that we shouldn’t let anything limit us. That we could do anything we wanted, be anything we wanted to be. And right then, whathewanted more than anything was to prove that I was the problem. Not him. Not the drugs that made him capable of ‘superhuman’ things. Me.
“He could break all the rules and still win if I would just stop holding him back.” My voice threatens to break, but I keep it steady with sheer will alone. “To this day, I don’t know if I fell in the pool trying to get away from him or if he pushed me—or if it was a little bit of both.
“All I know is we were both in the pool and he was tripping, seeing things in the water that weren’t there. He wanted me to see them, too, and when I couldn’t, he shoved me underwater and held me there. I kept trying to get up, to get a breath, but he’d just shove me back down, telling me to look. Asking if I could see.”
I shudder now, my lungs constricting like they did that night when they were filling with water, when I was so sure I was going to die. “In the end, I got my head above water long enough to talk him down. I got him in the house so he wouldn’t hurt himself. And then I called his manager to come deal with him and I left.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.” Sly’s voice is filled with so many things, I have trouble picking them all out—sorrow, concern, fear, even disgust—but that disgust doesn’t seem to be aimed at me, which is refreshing after the fallout of the last several years. “But I’m so glad you’re okay.”
But despite all those emotions roiling around in him, his eyes are steady on mine. Safe. Warm, like dawn slipping through the cracks of a tunnel that never seems to end.
I think about all the things that happened after—wrestling Jarrod into the house because I wasn’t going to leave him in that damn pool to die. Calling his manager to come be with him because I couldn’t be. And then fleeing with nothing but the wet clothes on my back.
I lean into Sly’s warmth and safety to get through the last bits, keep my eyes on his so I can get the final words out. “The next day, he called me about a hundred times, but I refused to pick up. After that, he sent me a recording of a new song he wrote for me.”
“‘No More’?” Sly asks darkly.
I nod. Because for once there’s no stage, no glitter, no spotlight. Just the truth and the man who refuses to look away from it.
“I didn’t text him back. Four hours later, his manager went to take a shower. And Jarrod, high as a fucking kite, took one risk too many.”
Chapter 28
Sly
Jarrod Bowers is lucky he’s dead. Because if he wasn’t, I’d fucking kill the selfish bastard myself.
Sloane is looking up at me with those big, brown eyes, waiting for me to say something. But I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m supposed to tell her. Not when there’s a bloodred haze filling my brain. And not when every thought I have right now starts and ends with what I would do to that piece of shit if he was still alive.
I’ve never beena let’s settle this with our fistskind of guy, but some things require more than a “fuck you.” And trying to drown the woman I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with is definitely one of them. Not to mention everything Sloane went through before that moment and the hell she’s been put through since. All because this selfish prick wanted to do whatever the hell he wanted without a thought to who the hell else’s life he destroyed in the process.
De Milagro ya está muerto… Porque si no, ya sabría lo que es el verdadero infierno.
If he wasn’t dead already…
Because I don’t think I can say any of that without hurting her, I do the only thing I can think of. I reach for her. But I stop myself just as quickly, hand raised, because she’s had enough taken from her against her will.
“It’s okay,” she tells me, though there’s a distinct shine to her eyes that tells me it’s anything but. “You don’t have to hug me. I understand if you just want to go hom—”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I say, confident. “I just didn’twant to touch you more without permission. Sounds like you’ve had more than enough of that in your life.”
“You can hug me.” She slowly unwraps her arms from around her waist. “I’m not fragile.”
I don’t contradict her, don’t tell her just how wounded she appears to me right now. Instead, I pull her into my arms and hold her as tightly as I can.
“That much is clear,” I say as I open my arms to welcome her. “Even in flip-flops.” She’s the most impressive person I’ve ever met.
The fact that she’s even here with me right now feels like a miracle. I knew she had the nickname Black Widow, but that was pretty much it. It kills me that it happened to her and kills me even more that I didn’t know about it. And, in not knowing, I brought it all crashing right back down on her where she couldn’t escape—in the SUV.
The worst part is that I can’t take it back. Just like I can’t take the burdens and tragedies of Sloane’s past from her. No matter how much I wish I could.
There’s somuchI want to do for her and so little Icando without making things worse. So right now I do the only thing I can think of. I hold her and stroke her hair and whisper that everything is going to be okay, promising myself that I’ll make the words true.
