But I don’t. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
It’s in the kitchen’s stillness, the set of Ev’s shoulders, the way Lamar was acting, and how my roomies stay silent through all this, hovering in the doorway. It’sneverfucking silent in this house.
Something happened.
Somethingbad.
And the look Ev’s giving me—full of quiet, heavy fuckingsympathy—doesn’t bode well either.
I drop my duffel right there on the floor and turn to bolt for the stairs when I hear—
“So, do you guys think I can crash here tonight?”
And Rafa, way too excited: “Oh, I think I’ve got a spot available foryou.”
I barely register it. I’m already taking the stairs two at a time. My heart’s hammering. My palms are sweating. The adrenaline courses through me worse than it did at the game I just played.
When I push open the door to my room, I nearly stop breathing.
He’s there. He’shere. In my fucking room.
Jace.
My heart.
I take a deep breath. He’swhole, he’s not injured or anything but… he’s standing by my window, still in his jacket. Hair a mess. Eyes red and swollen like he cried or something. He looks fuckingwrecked.
And I just know; I fuckingknowthis isn’t some leftover side effect from yesterday’s drugs. This is something else. Something heavier, if possible. Something I’m not gonna like.
I take a step forward, desperate to pull him into the hug we both need. I want totouchhim. Hold him. It’s beenmonths…
But he flinches.Flinches.His shoulders tense. His whole body recoils like I might hurt him.
Fromme. He’s flinching fromme.
And it breaks something in me.
“Jacie?” My voice comes out hoarse. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Starts pacing, breathing like every inhale is a struggle. I take another step toward him, slower this time, and when I reach out again, just gently, barely, he stumbles backward like I burned him, crashing against my desk.
My heart fucking sinks.
“Jesus, Jace. What can I do? What happened?” He’s freaking me out, and when I make another move to go to him, he fuckingbreaks.
He shakes his head, hands in his hair, eyes spilling over, and my heart just aboutcracks.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I’m so,sosorry.”
I freeze, something cold creeping down my spine, and whisper the words I don’t want to utter: “Are you trying to break up with me again?”
That seems to trigger him even more, because he gasps for air, shaking like a leaf, eyes wild with panic. “No,no…No, I’m not. I’mnot!”
“Then what?” I ask again, almost desperately. “Babe, I’m worried. What happened? Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that you’re here, but you’re supposed to be in San Francisco. We still have a couple of days to go.”
“Oh God, don’t call me babe, I don’t deserve it.” He shakes his head again, fast and frantic, before pacing back and forth across the room. “Remember when you said—that awful day I left—that if I ever had a mental breakdown again, I should talk about it?”
He rushes forward suddenly, grabbing my wrists. And even though his skin on mine is so right and the best thing I’ve felt in what seems like forever, his grip is trembling. From this close, I notice he still has his stage makeup on. Bits of smudged eyeliner beneath red, puffy eyes. He must’ve flown straight here after the show. No stops. No hesitation. Justran.
