Having no idea what to say, I choose to finish eating my lunch despite my lack of appetite. Chase goes back to work the same time the show comes on again, leaving me absentmindedly watching the women banter about the state of my current relationship.
She’s a gold digger.
She’s not even that pretty.
It’ll never last.
And the problem is, they’re right about more than one thing.
When the doorbell rings a few hours after Chase leaves to finalize some paperwork with a real estate agent, I’m not sure what to do. Nobody said anything about people coming over, though I’ve noticed Garrick’s team tends to show up whenever he dodges their calls. I met his manager Michael shortly after the article of our marriage went viral and it didn’t go well. There was a lot of glaring and backhanded compliments from him to me.
Garrick threatened to fire him if he made one more comment and I know the heated calls he’s been having back and forth with him hasn’t indicated their relationship has improved any.
I don’t get the chance to decide on how to proceed when I hear someone entering the digits into the keypad on the door.
Then it opens.
I’m gaping by the stairs as Zayne walks in, looking exactly as I remember. Same short, sandy blond hair a shade or so lighter than mine, and those whiskey eyes that made me stupid the second they checked me out.
And they’re pointed right at me.
His style hasn’t gone anywhere either—jeans and a fitted tee that probably has stains on it from working on a new project in his garage, black leather jacket, and worn black boots. Casual. Laid back. Just like him.
I take a step backward until I almost trip on the first stair step. “Garrick isn’t here.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, looking back at the partially open door before sighing and closing it. “I figured as much when he didn’t answer the door or his phone. Chase?”
I simply shake my head.
“Christ,” he grumbles.
Nudging my bare toes against the runner on the stairs, I rub my lips together as the drummer of Violet Wonders stares at me. I’m not sure what he sees, how he feels, but there’s no resentment on his face. In fact, there’s nothing.
Maybe a flicker of surprise, but once he realized it was me it went away in a heartbeat.
“Zayne—”
“I should have called,” he says at the same time. He scratches the side of his neck before jabbing his thumb behind him. “I can go. I just thought I’d talk to Garrick. Spontaneous decision.”
“You used to make a lot of those,” I note in familiarity, regretting it the second the words are out.
His expression drops. “Yeah. Turns out you did too. How much money did you get off of those pictures anyway? Must have been a great payday for you.”
My stomach twists. “Zayne—”
“There’s nothing you can say to me,” he cuts me off, not sounding angry but resigned. “I don’t want to hear you’re sorry because I can tell you are. It’s all over your face. And I know you were going through some shit, even if you barely talked about it. Garrick mentioned your situation when he explained things the other day to me. For the record, I’m sorry you’re struggling.”
I barely get out “thanks” because it doesn’t feel right to thank him for anything when I should be groveling and begging for his forgiveness. As much as I want to apologize, I can tell it’s the last thing he wants to hear.
He clears his throat and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. They’re looser, not showing off the toned legs I know he has from working out. He used to talk about how much his trainer made him hit the gym to stay in shape for appearances sake.
He looks good.
Healthier.
His eyes are brighter, unlike the last time I saw him where they looked distant and dull. I have no clue what he does or doesn’t do these days and haven’t asked Garrick because it’s none of my business. I’m not sure the man I married would even tell me. Everything we’ve talked about, the little tidbits about ourselves, are things that wouldn’t be groundbreaking if leaked since there’s no evident trust between us.
I risk civility. “You look good. Hopefully everything is going okay for you now that you’re back from tour.”
I spent almost two weeks with Zayne before I’d ruined any chance of even a friendship with him for money. He told me he didn’t want to go back on tour because he enjoyed being closer to home, but he knew the guys were eager to start traveling again once Garrick was out of rehab.
I don’t know if he remembers telling me that he didn’t want to stay in the band for much longer. The first time he’d disappeared to the bathroom at the restaurant he’d taken me to, I didn’t know what he was doing behind the closed door. But by the third trip, always longer than the last, I noticed the shift in him—the way his eyes wouldn’t sit still, how his leg always had to move. It was when his nose started bleeding halfway through dessert that I’d suspected the drugs.
After he’d cleaned himself up, he’d told me, “I wish Garrick would stay there longer because I’m over this shit.”
But here he is. Still doing it.
I want to ask if he’s happy, but I don’t.
I heard the audio clip that sparked this whole situation I’m involved in, and I picked out little bits and pieces but nothing that painted a full picture. But what I heard that nobody else seemed to was the pain in his voice when he talked to whoever recorded him.
“I’m not using,” he states.
My eyes widen, lips parting to say something before he cuts me
