“Why not?”
“We’re barely making small talk, these days, let alone trading secrets.”
“Fair enough.” He sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “But, Felicity… we were friends before we got together. We used to confide in each other about everything.”
“I know,” I whisper, shattered.
“If you need a friend…” He swallows audibly. “If you need someone to talk to, someone who won’t judge or push or tell you what to do… just someone who’lllisten… I can do that for you. Be that for you.”
I pause. “A friend?”
“A friend.” He pulls in a long breath. “Talk to me, Felicity. Tell me what’s got you so tangled up in knots.”
The darkness swells with unspoken sentiments. I push them aside, but I can feel them lingering on my skin like cobwebs long after they’re cleared from the air as I search for the right words.
“I feel so lost, Ryder,” I whisper finally. “I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m trying so hard to hold all these pieces together, to be the Felicity Wilde the world wants to see… and I feel like I’m failing at every turn. Failing the label, failing the band, failing the fans…”
Failing you.
“That’s crazy,” he murmurs. “The label is making so much money on this tour, they’re going to erect a Felicity Wilde statue in front of their office. As for Linc and Aiden, they aren’t exactly the touchy-feely type, but they’d both take a bullet for you if it came to that. And the fans adore you. They show up in droves to get your autograph, wait in line for hours to take a selfie with you.”
“Carly showed me what they’re saying online.” I look up sharply. “That I’m the reason you spiraled out of control, before. That my leaving was the reason you fell apart.” Another tear streaks down my cheek as I remember his words, before our first show.
You left me.
You ripped my heart from my chest.
I didn’t know if you were alive or dead.
That’s the worst part of all those #FelicityIsABitch comments. The fear that, deep down, they might be right.
Ryder runs a hand against his stubble, an old nervous habit. “You can’t listen to internet trolls, baby. They’d tear themselves apart if it meant an ounce more attention.”
“Logically, I know that. But the thought of perfect strangers hating me, when I’ve already got so many people hating me for real…”
His face gets dark with anger. “What are you talking about?”
“When Gran died…” My voice breaks, still unaccustomed to the loss. “She left everything to me. Every cent. All her guitars. Her land outside Nashville. Everything. That made the rest of my relatives pretty angry. I expected it from my parents… but Gran’s attorney told me he’s dealing with counter-claims fromeveryone. My cousin Devyn, my Aunt Kim… relatives I didn’t even know I had are coming out of the woodwork with torches and pitchforks and lawyers to contest Gran’s will. They’re saying I committed elder abuse. That I essentially stole millions of dollars.”
“Felicity, those people don’t deserve to be calledfamily,” Ryder growls. “Your aunt never protected you. Never stepped in to stop your parents or lifted a finger in your defense, unless it was to further her own agenda. If they want to contest the will, let them try.” He leans a fraction closer. “Your mother was wrong the other night. I met your grandmother. I saw the two of you together, even after she’d lost her memories. That woman loved you more than anything. She wanted you to inherit her legacy. Not them.You. Any judge worth his salt will see that, and rule in your favor.”
“It’s not about the money,” I whisper. “It never was. Not for me.”
“I know that — and so did she. That’s why she left it to you.”
“I still can’t believe she’s gone. I feel like I’m still numb after last year, like I was just starting to come up for air, and now…”
I don’t know how many more losses I can take before I fall apart.
There’s a careful pause before Ryder asks, “Last year?”
I suck in a breath. I didn’t realize I’d spoken those words aloud.
“There’s something else weighing on you, baby. I can see it, plain as day in your eyes, and… I can’t help thinking you might breathe better, if you got it off your chest.”
He waits patiently, watching me struggle for composure. I wrestle with the words, trying to force them from the pit of my stomach where they seem to be perpetually lodged.
“Last year…” I tremble into silence, then start again. “Last year…”