I watch him from the corner of my eye as he chats with Aiden and Linc on the other side of the room. There are several people from the label clustered around them, congratulating them on the first Wildwood album. From here, you can hardly see the way he’s changed — the dark circles under his eyes, the jitteriness of his hands as they fumble with his cigarette lighter, the new sharpness of his cheekbones from one too many nights without dinner.

Now that my eyes are open to it, I can’t stop seeing how much he’s changed.

“The domestic pre-order numbers look strong,” Francesca’s saying, scrolling through her tablet. “We’re not moving as many units in the international markets as I’d like, but there’s room to grow there…”

“Do you have to use that thing at a party?” I ask, sipping my seltzer. “Aren’t we supposed to be mingling or something? Isn’t that the whole point?”

She arches an auburn brow at my tone. “The point, my dear, is to celebrate your first record.”

“Right. Celebrate.”

“Are you okay? You sound… off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Does this have anything to do with the reason you and Ryder were thirty minutes late for this event we’re throwing in your honor?”

My hand clenches tighter around my glass. “We’re here now. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Partly. But there’s still so much to do—”

“Like what?” My voice is wrung out, completely exhausted. I’ve reached my emotional limit. “The press got their pictures of their new favorite couple, posing like lovebirds beside their album cover. The album itself is finished, polished, and, as far as I’m concerned, out of my hands. I’ve done every interview, said every line of your scripts, done everything you asked of me, even though this wasn’t my dream in the first place.” My voice cracks. “I was here. I showed up. I cried off my makeup and put it back on. I smiled pretty and made smalltalk like a good little girl. What more do you want from me?”

Smiling politely at the people clustered nearby who’ve overheard my minor outburst, Francesca grabs my arm and leads me out of the main room, onto the semi-enclosed terrace. I tear my arm from her grip and haul deep gulps of air in through my mouth as soon as we’re outside.

“Felicity.” She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “What is going on?”

“Nothing,” I snap. I realize I’m taking my frustrations out on her, but I can’t help it. If she’d never shown up in Nashville… if she’d never dragged us out here…

No. It’s not her fault; I can’t blame her for this. It’s just so hard to blame the person who’s actually at fault, I’m having a tough time processing my feelings.

“I’m sorry, Francesca. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“I’m not. I’d much rather have you snap at me than anyone else in that room.” Her lips twitch. “I can take it.”

“But you don’t deserve it.”

She stares at me for a beat. “Admittedly, emotions are not my forte. But one thing I do know — the longer you let a wound fester without dealing with it, the greater the likelihood that infection will spread and kill you one day.”

“How… scientific.”

She grins. “Science makes sense to me. This is the closest I get to girl talk. Sorry I’m so terrible at it.”

I crack a smile. “You’re not as bad as you think you are.”

“Take a beat. Catch your breath. Come back when you’re ready.” With an arm squeeze, she walks away, leaving me alone in the dark with only my demons for company.

For the next few minutes, my mind turns over her advice. Despite her rather frank analysis, she wasn’t wrong. I can’t just pretend nothing happened with Ryder. And unless I’m willing to cut the cord and walk away from him right now, without even trying to fix it… we have to work on this, confront it head on, or we don’t stand a chance.

Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I’m walking in my mother’s footsteps, choosing the wrong man and clinging to him instead of cutting him loose when things start to fall apart. Maybe I’m trying to save someone who’s drowning, who’ll only drag me down to the depths along with him.

But as I’m terrified by what’s going to happen next… as much as it makes me nervous to take him at his word, that he’s not addicted to those pills…

I can’t walk away from Ryder. I’m in this way too deep to leave him now.

Not without trying to fix it, first.

It’s not long before my solitude is interrupted. I’m so attuned to his presence, I sense him there at my back before he says a word.

“Hey.”

My eyes close at the sound of his voice. It’s like a magnet, drawing me in. Has been ever since the first time I heard it rasping over The Nightingale’s sound system.

“Hey,” I whisper without turning to look at him.

I hear his footsteps crossing the terrace toward me. Steady as his heartbeat used to be, the nights I’d rest my head on his chest in our bed. His arms hit the railing beside mine as he bumps into me with more force than strictly necessary. A jarring collision, meant to shake me from the dark place inside my mind where I’m trapped. Memories stir, of the time I once pulled a similar move on him.

“What was that for?” I ask, voice soft.

“For keeping your eyes from mine all night. I miss them.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, I glance up and meet his gaze. It’s full of so much sorrow, so much love, I can hardly stand to look.

“There they are,” he murmurs.

I blink and tears spill down my cheeks. Before I can wipe them, Ryder leans down and kisses them away. His mouth starts to pull back, but I don’t let him. I launch myself up onto the balls of my feet, throw my arms around his neck, and crush my mouth to his. I taste the salt of my own tears on his lips as he kisses me back, his tongue tangling with mine, a low sound of lust moving in his throat.

I let myself fall into him and pray, pray, pray he doesn’t drown us both.