My teeth clench.
“Tell me,” she pleads. “I’m not upset. I just need to know.”
I press a kiss to her shoulder blade. “I didn’t want you to hate Lincoln for his part in that night.”
“You’d rather I hatedyou?” She scoffs quietly. “That’s totally insane.”
Inhaling deeply, I force out the words. “I figured… you already hated me, baby. What was telling you going to do, besides alienate you from someone you’d grown so close to? Or hurt you even more?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t do that to you.”
She sucks in a sharp breath and when she speaks, I can tell she’s fighting back tears. “You know, I never hated you, Ryder. Not really. I just…”
My whole body goes tense, waiting for the rest.
“You were right, what you said back in Vegas — it seemed somehow safer to hold on to my anger than to let you back in. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Or to you. And… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For pushing you away. For keeping you at arm’s length. For acting like what we have is anything less than what it is.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Felicity. We both made mistakes. Big ones. I’m just happy we found our way back to each other, in spite of them.”
She sniffs again, definitely crying now. “I need you to know that I do trust you. Whatever our future holds, whatever we decide after this tour comes to an end… I know I’ll be safe, so long as I have you. I know… I’ll be home.” Her voice gets thick. “You’re my home, Ryder.”
I press my forehead against her neck and pull her closer, burying my stinging eyes against her skin and ignoring the way my voice catches when I finally gather the strength to respond.
“No more secrets?”
She pauses for a long time — so long, I start to worry something’s wrong.
“Felicity?”
“No more secrets,” she agrees in a small voice.
Satisfied, I tighten my hold and drift off to sleep, knowing whatever comes next, I can handle it. With Felicity in my arms again…
Everything is finally right in my world.
Chapter Twenty-Five
felicity
The next threeweeks are a heavenly nightmare.
Our shows —Indianapolis, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland— are some of the best we’ve ever played. The fans are more invested in Wildwood than ever, now that we’ve officially rekindled our romance. They wave RYDER + FELICITY FOREVER signs from the pit, chase our tour bus down the street when it pulls into town, scream like banshees when Ryder surprises me with an unscripted, acoustic performance ofA Girl Named Felicity— which has never before been played live. In Chicago, when he grabs my face and kisses me halfway throughOrbit, I’m grateful Soldier Field is an open-air stadium — otherwise, the force of their cheers would’ve blown it clean off.
The moments I spend with Ryder — both on stage and off, in mammoth hotel beds and narrow bus bunks, in five-star restaurants and cheap roadside rest stops — are the happiest times of my life. We are more solid than we’ve ever been, even before the breakup two years ago. We know each other better now. We’ve been through the fire and come out the other side, stronger because of it.
Ryder’s arms are a warm port in the storm, a constant source of light in the growing darkness.
Carly’s predictions were, unfortunately, correct: as soon as the elevator video broke, the paparazzi swarmed with a vengeance. Since, it’s been a constant mob scene. They stake out every hotel we stay in, stalk every venue we perform at. They sneak into restaurants where the band is eating and bribe waiters for information about us — what we ordered, what we said to each other, whether Ryder and I were holding hands at the table. They arerelentlessand we cannot seem to shake them, no matter how many back roads Alec turns our bus down, no matter how diligent Smith, York, Linden, and Stevens are at holding them off.
Francesca’s grand plan — to feed the beast, doing a slew of promotional press interviews — felt more like a marketing masterstroke to boost sales, now that we’re officially back together. Her blasé, emotionless advice sent Ryder into such a rage, I thought he was going to fly to LA just to yell at her in person. Thankfully, we managed to talk him down in time for our show in Washington D.C..
After getting settled in our hotel room — the one we now share, since we never spend the night apart — the boys head out in search of food while Carly and I hit the high-end clothing shops just around the corner. York and Smith look bored to tears as we flit from store to store, not buying much of anything, just enjoying a free afternoon.
“We have to go in here,” I declare as we pass a vintage clothing boutique. The window mannequins are dressed in retro denim jumpsuits with massive bell-bottoms. Huge 1970s era glasses cover their faces. Fringe bags sit at their feet.
“You don’t have to twist my arm,” Carly agrees, already pulling open the door with a tinkling bell sound.
Mid-day on a Monday, the shop is abandoned. The owner doesn’t bother us as we peruse the racks, running our hands over one-of-a-kind items we’d never in a million years find in a modern mall. If the items within these walls could talk, they’d tell some interesting stories — these clothes have lived entire lives before they came to rest on these hangers.
“Oh my god!” Carly spins around, a feathered fedora tipped down over one eye. “I have to get this, right?”