“You should tell them,” Frankie murmurs into my chest. Her naked body is half-splayed over mine and my hand is in her hair, the rest of our limbs tangled together.

“You’re not leaving until tomorrow, you’ve got time,” she says, her voice half-muffled.

My whole body feels limp and boneless, sparks still fizzling out in my brain. I hold Frankie a little closer, a little more fiercely, because I’m not going to see her for a week and I think I’m going to miss her.

I know it’s only a week. I know I’m coming back after that, and I know Frankie will still be here and will be glad to see me, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Because even if my memory of the day she left is blurred and hazy, I remember the day that I discovered what I’d done with total clarity. I remember walking the streets of New York like a hopeless lost dog with crystal clarity.

I’d prefer that I not have to do that again.

“I told you why I can’t,” I say.

“They’re dumb reasons.”

“Dirk said I’d be fine, the hearings will be over in plenty of time for me to catch the flight back for the show,” I counter, still lazy.

Six weeks in and every time we fuck it blows my mind again. I really didn’t think that could happen, but it has.

Frankie sighs, shifts to a more comfortable position.

“If you tell them, they can at least have a line on a backup,” she points out. “What if your plane’s late? What if there’s weather, and it gets delayed or something, and the hearings don’t end on time and you’re stuck there?”

I swallow, something tightening around my stomach, because no matter what, Frankie doesn’t quite understand.

The rest of the band has seen me at my absolute worst. They watched me slide downward, and then they watched me stick there, unable to get myself out of it for years. It’s only now that I feel I can even show them my face.

They don’t even know that I’ve got a DUI because I drove somewhere while absolutely wasted. I could have easily killed someone, and it’s nothing but a stroke of pure luck that I didn’t.

I don’t want them to know how badly I’ve fucked up again just before they give me this chance. I’m not stupid. I’ve known Gavin since we were children; I practically lived with Darcy and Trent for years. This isn’t just a show, it’s an audition.

If there weren’t a chance they’d take me back into the band, they wouldn’t have offered this at all. And there’s no bloody chance I’m wasting it by making them think twice.

“I can’t,” I say, simply. “I can’t tell them that I fucked up again, that I drove while absolutely blitzed and punched some bloke because he used to be your boyfriend. It’s over if I do that.”

She sighs.

“I think you’re wrong,” she says.

“Because you’re an expert on those three,” I say.

“They sure don’t think you’re perfect.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’ll go better if you own up to your mistakes,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow. “I promise, people would rather you be pro-active than try to apologize later. Like the other day, I was putting together some aprons for this one scene and I knew it wasn’t going to be finished in time—”

“You’re comparing a hundred thousand quid to aprons?” I ask. “It’s a whole separate category of problem, Frankie, and when you’re me people don’t forgive you quite so easily.”

Her face turns to stone, and instantly, I feel bad. I didn’t mean for it to sound that harsh, but for the past week we’ve both been walking on glass, it feels like, not sleeping much and trying to pick our way through the maze of the British legal system, something neither of us understands.

I’ve got an attorney, but the level of legal help I can afford isn’t exactly the best. He answers my calls when he feels like it and I’m reasonably certain that he’s not even read any of my case yet, judging by the answers he gives me.

But I haven’t got the money to afford better, so Dirk Bigsley is who I’ve got.

Frankie rolls away, gets out of bed, heads into the bathroom, and I wonder if she’s right. She could be, but deep down, I don’t think she is.

I think that I either get this exactly right or I’ve blown it completely, so here I am, full steam ahead.

* * *

The next morning, Frankie drops me off at the airport. It’s early and traffic is awful, but finally, her car crawls to the international terminal. There’s almost nothing that I want less than a ten-hour plane flight right now, but I’ve done this to myself and I know it.

But suddenly, as I get my luggage out of her trunk and set it on the asphalt, I’m struck by that same fear that I won’t see her again. The wind lifts and tosses her curls, and she shuts her trunk hard, the only way it’ll stick shut.

I grab her, pull her body in close to mine. Cars are honking as they drive by the terminal and people are shouting at each other about luggage, but I don’t care.

“I’m sorry about all this,” I tell her. “You’re right that I fucked up.”

She laughs, her body shaking against my chest.

“I know,” she says. “And you’re a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to advice.”

“That does sound familiar,” I murmur. “You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?”

I pull back a bit, my hand on her face. She looks up at me, hazel eyes suddenly serious.

“Of course,” she whispers. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” I say, and lean down to kiss her.

It’s gentle at first, soft, a proper goodbye-at-the-airport kiss but then she moves her mouth, wraps her arm around my waist and something inside me shifts.

I push my hands through her hair, tangling myself in her, open my mouth against hers as she pulls my head down. It’s raw and powerful, a thrill zapping through me even though it’s only a kiss at an airport.

I don’t stop. I kiss Frankie harder, more ferociously, and she responds in kind. We kiss like it’s the last time we’ll ever see each other and it’s a long time before I pull back, come up for air.

Frankie’s panting for breath. I’m panting for breath. Her hand is on my face, her eyes on mine, begging me, pleading with me for something that she can’t say out loud.

I take her hand, kiss the palm. I grab my luggage, because if I don’t leave now I never will.

“I’ll see you in a week,” I say. “Promise.”

That gets a smile out of her, her face softening.

“Call me?” she says.

“Naturally,” I tell her.

I kiss her knuckles, take my bag, and walk toward the terminal before I have a chance not to do it.