Nat stared at my gift for a moment, looking torn and embarrassed for me. Even I was a little embarrassed for myself. I wasn’t entirely above begging at this point, and shit, if I didn’t look like an idiot holding my dripping, half-dead gift.

“Indie! It’s him,” she yelled into the small apartment.

Indie appeared at the door a few moments later. Was that all it took? I was confused. But then I saw the look on her face and the elation of seeing her after three full weeks evaporated completely. Her eyes—her expressive blues that shone when I played the guitar and wrinkled at the sides every time she came on my fingers and tongue and cock, were turned off. This woman in front of me was nowhere near as present and alive as the girl who’d left me in Europe.

I reached out and gave her the present before she could speak.

“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes the rose important ,” I quoted The Little Prince , word-for-word, because it seemed important, somehow. She stared at the roses clutched in my palm, not exactly scowling, but far from touched. “Roses don’t have a blue gene,” I explained. “You can’t get them in that color. Fact. I dyed you some blue ones. It took me hours.” I followed every twitch in her face with hungry eyes, trying to decode what she was feeling, but I got nothing. I continued at double-speed, stumbling over my words. “See, I spent the time. On the roses. Because I care. About you. And I guess what I’m trying to say is, I deserve a second chance.”

I was pretty proud of that little speech. Which, in retrospect, goes to show how bloody out of it I’d been. I couldn’t read the situation, let alone read what was clearly written on her face. This wasn’t a rom-com, where the problem would solve itself with the help of a few roses and a Godiva box. She watched as my arm remained stretched with my offering, and when I thought she was going to collect the roses, she withdrew her hand and let them fall between us with a thud.

“Huh?” I huh’ed her. True story. Because in my stupid, dysfunctional brain, she was still my secret girlfriend. And this was a lovers’ quarrel, solvable and pregnant with the potential of leading to now-or-never, I’ve-seen-the-light-now-let’s-get-shagging, intense sex.

“How much did you drink and snort today?” she asked, her voice even. She looked good. Dressed in a kimono-style emerald dress.

“Not much,” I hiccupped, not realizing she could smell the alcohol from across the threshold. “I need you.”

“Right.” She shook her head, releasing a chuckle. “Listen to me, Alex, and listen good, because you can threaten to come here every day for the rest of your life, but it won’t change the outcome. I don’t want to hear from you. You’re the most self-absorbed, selfish man I’ve ever met. Don’t bother dropping by tomorrow, because I won’t be here. Wherever I’ll be, you will not be welcome there. Thanks for the flowers.” She kicked them out of the threshold.

Slammed the door in my face.

And locked the bolt from the inside.

Leaving me alone.

When I was a kid, maybe six or seven, my sister had forced me to watch Beauty and the Beast with her. I did it, for no other reason than she was older and knew how to make microwaved popcorn, and popcorn and a movie was some kind of Holy Grail in my books.

There was one part that really got me. The part I asked her about for days after. When Gaston finds the Beast’s castle, when shit hits the fan, when they’re engaged in a battle, there’s a part where the beast just…gives up. He allows Gaston to take him and win the fight.

“Why?” I asked for the four-thousandth time.

“Oh, my God, you little muppet. What’s not to understand? He lost the girl! His life is pointless! He’s better off dead than living like an old, lonely sod. Without her, he’ll stay a monster forever.”

No truer words have ever been spoken, even though these particular ones were uttered by someone who’d later on go and claim the questionable nickname TTB—The Town Bike , because everyone had a ride. Hardly an authority when it came to romance.

I don’t think I ever told Indie that story, and the thought I never would nearly suffocated me.

I was well into my second pack of smokes that day, wondering what was the point of all this. Of staring at nothing and watching time and air move—despite their invisibility—dragging like a dead, heavy body you had to carry with yourself everywhere. I was high on cocaine and drunk on whiskey.

And I had questions. So many. All of them the wrong ones.

Where was Indie?

What was she doing?

How was I going to make it work?

Did I even have a chance anymore?

I had one phone conversation with Fallon, and it was to tell her that if she wasn’t going to say anything about what had happened, I sure as fuck would. Consequently, Fallon had come clean and spilled everything to the police. She’d gotten a visit from plain clothed cops in rehab. Will had been there to hold her hand. She’d been given the opportunity to finish the rehabilitation process before being taken into custody. Blake said that legally, I was in the clear. Like I cared. Like I fucking cared.

I texted Indie to let her know about Fallon, even though Blake and Lucas told me not to. She hadn’t answered. I didn’t know if it made it better or worse for her. On one hand, I reopened her wound. On the other, I offered her some closure.

The doorbell rang three times. Old Alex—AKA Tour Alex—would’ve furrowed his brows. New Alex was the beast that didn’t care if Gaston was barging in. Someone was an enthusiastic bastard today. All the lads had a key to the apartment I’d rented when I got back to L.A. to be close to Indie, so it was probably a UPS bloke who was eager to get on with his route. Had I ordered something? I didn’t remember ordering anything.

Two more rings and a knock. Peeling myself off of the couch felt like trying to remove a hundred-ton brick from my shoulders. Since when was my body so heavy? I hadn’t eaten all that much since Paris, and had probably lost a few pounds, which prompted me to believe the feeling was exclusively psychological.

“I’m coming,” I groaned, shuffling to the door. I glanced through the peephole out of sheer habit. A guy with light brown hair and soft features stood on the other side. He was wearing sweatpants and a jersey and looked like a complete maniac. Beast or not, I wasn’t going to roll a red carpet down the hallway and invite him to slice me into pastrami.