My eyebrows shoot up my forehead, then come together in confusion. “Is what Blaire?”
She looks at me like I’m pretending to be dumb. “Whatever caused this”— she swirls a finger in the air around me—“this slide into debauchery.”
I blink at her choice of words. “Slide into debauchery?”
“You know,” she insists. “The partying, the endless stream of women, the”—she motions with both hands this time in my general direction—“debauchery. Are you still hung up on Blaire? Were you in love with her?”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, my face relaxing as I process the question. “No,” I say slowly. “No, I wasn’t in love with her. I …” Another whoosh of air as I force myself to admit the truth. “I thought I was. Maybe. That I wanted to be.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It made a certain amount of sense. We already had history. But …” Another shrug as my heart squeezes at the memory of our last conversation. The conversation that ended whatever we were. “In the end, she didn’t really want me.” I wasn’t enough for her. That’s the truth, but I swallow down the bitter words.
That’s the real reason for my debauchery, as Viola put it. Trying to escape the fact that once again, I’m just not enough. For anyone.
Her dark brows pull the pale skin of her forehead into deep furrows, and her pink lips turn down in a thoughtful frown. “But why go off the deep end like that? Why all the partying? The women? The tabloid articles? Why do that over someone you didn’t even love?”
I suck in a breath, opening my mouth to answer her, but I don’t really have an answer. Not one I’m comfortable sharing. Why indeed? It’s not like it helped. No matter what I do, I can’t escape my own self, and that’s really who I was trying to hide from.
In the end, I shake my head with a self-deprecating smile. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time. A distraction. I’m a rock star, after all. And fame is fickle and fleeting. I might as well take advantage of the opportunity while I have it.”
That doesn’t seem to be the answer she was hoping for, because the frown hasn’t left her face. But before she can ask another probing question, I turn the tables on her. “Is that really why you came over here? To ask me if I’m still in love with someone else and trying to drown my sorrows in parties and women?”
She drops her gaze to her lap and shrugs. “Yeah. Mostly.”
“Why do you even care?” The question is out before I can think better of it. And it comes out snarly enough to make her head snap back up. I shouldn’t push her like this, because I know I’ll get some snappy retort about what an asshole I am. Or worse, that cool, unfeeling mask as she takes me apart. Or she could just get up and walk away, disgusted and angry, deciding I’m not worth the effort.
But she answers the question. “Because you don’t like me. And I’m trying to figure out why. I thought maybe it was because you’re still in love with Blaire, and since she’s my cousin …” She trails off, her hand flopping over in invitation for me to fill in the blanks.
“No,” I answer, my voice rough. “That’s not the reason.”
She flinches, then raises her eyes to mine again. “Why don’t you like me?”
“I …” I don’t have an answer to that. Not one I can say out loud to her face. I don’t actually dislike her. But I dislike her disdain, her coldness, and so I’ve tried to get her attention the only way I could think how. Which makes me immature on top of being an asshole.
So I clear my throat and ask her a question instead. “Why is it important to you that I like you?”
Her eyes meet mine, large and vulnerable, and her lush pink lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them enough to make me bite back a groan. “I want us to be friends,” she says after an eternity, the declaration soft and husky, little more than a whisper.
“Friends,” I repeat dumbly.
She nods, a tiny smile curving the corners of her mouth like she’s pleased I’m catching on. “Yes. Friends.” Her voice is firmer, and she waves a hand to encompass the rest of the plane. “I’m friends with everyone else, but with you …” Her hand drops back into her lap, and she shrugs. “Well, we don’t seem to be at war anymore. And while I definitely prefer our civil truce to constant needling, I would like it better if I didn’t feel the need to walk on eggshells around you. The constant travel is draining, and I would prefer to be able to just be myself all the time.”
She wants to be friends. She hasn’t been able to relax and be herself. Because of me. And she’s staring at me with hopeful eyes, and even though friends is the last thing I want to be with her—at least not just platonic friends—I find myself nodding. “Friends. Yeah. Of course.” My voice is a rasp, and I clear my throat again.
The hope on her face morphs into concern. “Are you alright? You keep clearing your throat, and you sound a little hoarse. Are you getting sick?” She pulls her phone out, unlocks it, and starts scrolling through something. “Blaire sent me her cold remedy. She said that if I make you drink it at the first sign of anything, it’ll head it off. I’ll find the flight attendant and see if they have all the ingredients.”
In a panic, I dive for her phone. “No, no. I’m fine. I’m not sick. I don’t need any of Blaire’s concoctions.” I don’t bother to hide my shudder at the memory of the taste of her favorite cold remedy. One of the
