“Whoa! Where’s the fire?”
“Can’t talk,” I pant, skirting around her, my eyes locked on the far door. “Explain later.”
“Uhh, okay…?”
She clearly thinks I’m a crazy person. I don’t care.
If I can just catch him.
Talk to him.
Explain…
I have no idea what I’ll say, but I know I can’t leave things like this between us. The loss of his friendship is slowly killing me. His absence in my life is like bleeding to death from a paper-cut — an insufferably drawn out process, rather than a quick, merciful strike to the heart.
My hands slam against the metal bar and the door swings open beneath my touch. I squint into the sunlight as I shuffle outside. My restless eyes scan the parking lot, searching for broad shoulders and blond hair and a black Audi convertible, but I don’t see him anywhere. I take a few more steps, gaze moving up and down the distant rows of expensive automobiles, feeling hope disintegrate inside me.
He’s already gone.
“If you’re looking for Dunn, he’s still inside.”
The voice rumbles from directly behind me. I spin around, holding my breath, and see he’s leaning against the warehouse wall, studying me with guarded eyes. I must’ve barreled right past him, in my desperate search. His arms are folded across his chest in a standoffish pose that effectively communicates just how unhappy he is to see me.
“I’m not looking for Grayson,” I say quietly, trying to keep my breaths steady.
“Sloan’s still inside, too.”
I take a step nearer to him and watch his muscles go rigid, as if he’s totally unsettled by the thought of me getting close enough to touch him. Seeing him react that way makes my eyes prick with tears. In all the time I’ve known him, from that very first day, he’s never shied away from grabbing my hand, never hesitated to hug me when I needed it, to wrap his arms around me when I was cold or wet or tired after a long day of filming.
How quickly things change.
I blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay, but when I speak, my voice cracks with something that sounds a lot like grief.
“I’m not looking for Sloan, either.” My eyes hold his for a long, suspended moment. He says nothing, but a muscle jumps in his cheek as we stare at each other. “I…” I clear my throat. “I was looking for you.”
He shifts his pose against the wall and shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. “Well, I’m right here.”
Except he’s not. He’s a million miles away, somewhere I can no longer reach.
“Right…” My eyes are stinging again. “I tried to call you a few times. I wanted to… to…” Words are failing me. I’ve spent a month thinking about what I might say when I finally saw him again, and now that the moment has arrived, I’m a bumbling idiot.
I stare at him leaning there against a stucco wall, but my eyes see ghosts — his head between my legs, my hands fisted in his hair, my back arched off the bed, his hands on my hips. A double-exposure of memory and reality, unquenchable passion blending with unbridled unwelcome.
“To what?” he asks impatiently, glancing at his phone.
“To fix it.” My voice is helpless. “To make things right—”
“There’s nothing to fix,” he says, stunning me.
“What?”
“I knew what I was getting into, with you. I knew you were a mess. I knew you were a decade and a half younger than me. I knew you’d been drinking. I even knew you were still hung up on somebody else.” He sighs heavily. “It’s my own fault for treating you like someone you weren’t, or expecting something you aren’t capable of giving.” He shrugs casually, but the look in his eyes is so cold, I could freeze to death right on the spot. “So, like I said… there’s nothing to fix, Katharine. Holding you accountable for your actions would be like giving a child a priceless glass toy, and getting angry when they smash it to bits.”
The blood drains from my face and I physically recoil, as though he’s slapped me. I think I see a flash of something familiar in his eyes — something soft, something sad — but it’s suppressed in an instant beneath this new, frozen facade. With utter horror, I realize his expression is one I recognize. One I know a little too well, because I’ve seen it on the faces of everyone else in my life at some point or another.
The shadowy expectation of disappointment. The knowledge that counting on Kat Firestone, that inconsequential mess of a girl, will lead to nothing but ruin and regret.
I’ve seen that look from my mother, from my ex-boyfriends, from my stepfathers and old bosses and friends who fell by the wayside. Even occasionally from Harper.