It’s right there in the tip of my thumb to hit that loud message button. It would be so easy to see how he’s doing. How he’s been. How home life’s been treating him.
Would be so easy to migrate back to him.
But I can’t.
I won’t let myself. What he did was fucked up, and as much as I hate to admit it, it hurt me. It’s not often I give people the opportunity to hurt me. Not often I let people close enough to have that chance. But I let him, and look what fucking happened. I should’ve known better.
Hell, Ididknow better. I knew letting him in would bite me in the ass, but I did it anyway. There’s something in those mossy green eyes that hooks you right in. His angelic features, his addicting scent, and the little noises he makes when you touch him. He’s a goddamn siren.
Something dark and bitter spreads from the pit of my stomach, traveling through my veins, weaving around every muscle and tendon as I open his stories, watching each and every one. Watch the smile on his face as he dips his toes in the ocean, hear his laughter as he flies down the highway, the wind in his lack of hair that he seems to have cut and bleached since the last time I saw him, and the feeling morphs into something vile and twisted, leaving a sick taste on the back of my tongue as I start envisioning me there with him, seeing his bright smile, hearing his laugh, feeling his presence near me. Annoying butterflies flutter around in my gut without my permission, but they’re quickly snuffed out when the story on my phone flips over to a video of him dancing around a handful of people.
I don’t recognize any of them except for the Stephenson twins.
Fuck them.
Fuck social media.
And fuck Rowan Davies. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a fucking nobody who never should’ve had the ability to hurt me. And from here on out, he won’t anymore.
I’m fucking done.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Rowan
One Month Later
Iwill never understand the people who stand up the second a plane lands. Like that’ll get them off any sooner. The guy I’ve had the displeasure of sitting next to for the last fifteen hours jumped up the moment the seatbelt sign went off. He’s standing there, head ducked down, taking up half the aisle, bag already in his hand as he taps his foot incessantly, waiting to move.
The way he’s stomping on the ground reminds me of that iconic scene from Legally Blonde, and I can’t help the snort that bubbles out of me at the thought of this dude-bro guy in front of me saying, “Don’t stomp your little last season Prada shoes at me, honey.” He throws an annoyed glare over his shoulder at me, which only makes my sleep deprived self laugh harder.
As soon as I step foot off this plane and grab my luggage from baggage claim, I am checking into the hotel and passing the fuck out. Pulling my phone out of my hoodie, I power it on, finding my chat with the twins, and shooting out a message.
Me: I just landed. The guy next to me is a major douche canoe. Can’t wait to sleep.
I don’t even know what time it is back in L.A., but it doesn’t take but a few moments before a response comes through.
Brielle: Such a long flight. What time is it there?
Brynn: What time is the show tonight?
Me: It’s just after eleven in the morning. What time is it there? I don’t even know what the time difference is. And the show is at 8pm tonight.
Deboarding finally starts, my douche of a seat neighbor hightailing off the plane. Tucking my phone away, I stand and grab my backpack from under the seat. Most of the passengers have gotten off by the time I leave my seat, so it’s not too crowded. I’ve never been to Sydney, or any part of Australia, for that matter. If everything goes the way I want it to, maybe I can explore a little before heading home.
The airport is crowded and loud, but finding my way to baggage claim is easy enough. The carousel hasn’t started turning yet, so I take out my phone again, finding messages waiting from me.
Brynn: It’s a little after 6pm here. We’re a day behind you right now, right?
Brynn: Also, how are you feeling about it? He doesn’t know you’re coming?
Me: Negative. It’s fine. Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.
It’s been a few weeks now since I got home from Black Diamond. Finishing out the rest of the program without Cas fucking sucked. I hate to admit how attached I got to him. And with absolutely no way to contact him while I was there, I basically went out of my mind. At one point, I sat in Dr. Weaver’s office sobbing about all of it, and like the professional she very much is, she listened and let me get it all out, and onlykind oftried to psychoanalyze me afterward.
When I got home, I realized I had no way of contacting him other than social media. It’s not like we would’ve exchanged numbers while in rehab. His stupid Instagram is set up to where he can’t receive messages from people he isn’t following and, of course, we don’t follow each other. Checking the rest of his band, I found they all had their pages set up in similar fashion, which is fucking stupid. Getting random DMs from strangers can be so entertaining sometimes.
So, with no means to contact him, much to my annoyance, I’ve resorted to the only option I can think of… stalking him on tour like a fucking groupie. All I want is to be able to explain myself. Make him see my side. He clearly has this whole story in his head about what happened and what he thinks I did. He believed it enough to punch me before he got himself kicked out. I just need to talk to him, see where his head was at.
