Page 66 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

I put my paints down, still thinking.

There’s not even a reason for me to wait until tonight. Actually, waiting for tonight would be dumb — now that it’s March, during the day, the roads are fairly clear, just wet. At night they ice over, and that’s dangerous.

My stuff is almost completely packed. I just need to grab my toothbrush, my shampoo, check under my bed.

I could leave now, before they realize I’m gone. That way I won’t have to finally admit that I wanted more and see the looks on their faces when they tell me they thought we werejust having funor some other bullshit.

I won’t have to feel like an idiot for thinking that this could really be something, when it can’t. Of course it can’t — they’re an enormous rock band, and I’m just some girl. That’s not even mentioning the whole shared girlfriend aspect of this.

I toss my paintbrush down and slip out of my studio, heading for my suite.

My mind’s made up. Even though my heart wants to stay for the bitter end, I think my brain knows what’s best.

* * *

It doesn’t even takeme an hour to pack, more like forty-five minutes — and most of that is spent on the huge bed that I shared with all of them, crying. I hate that I’m crying over them, and I hate that I’m taking the coward’s way out and not saying goodbye, but I don’t think I could stand to tell them a real goodbye.

I manage to sneak my suitcases downstairs without attracting any notice, and I get them into my car, still parked in the garage, all by myself. I check my room one last time, then grab my backpack and tiptoe down the back stairs.

Bass and drums are thumping out of their rehearsal room, and I relax even as my stomach clenches.

Good. There’s no way they’ll hear me over the music.

I stop at the enormous oak front door and turn around. I need a minute: to say goodbye to The Centennial, to silently thank the space for what it brought me. Even if I’m leaving heartbroken, that’s not the hotel’s fault.

And I’m still grateful. Grateful for four boys who made their way into my heart, four totally different souls who I loved just the same. I’m certain that nothing like this will ever happen to me again, so I’m thankful for this one shot.

I’m choking back tears as I grab the heavy doorknob, still cold, and push.

“Larkin?” says a voice behind me. It’s got a distinctly British accent, and I freeze.

Then I turn. Gavin’s standing there, holding two steaming mugs of tea, one eyebrow raised.

“Are you going out?” he asks, eyeing my backpack, coat, and shoes.

Lie to him. Make something up, don’t tell him you’re going because you’re too afraid to say goodbye.

“Just for a minute,” I say, words coming out of my mouth before my brain can vet them properly. “I’ve really been craving a milkshake lately and I think there’s a Wendy’s in that town just down the mountain, so I was going to head down there real quick and grab one, want anything? The fries are good.”

He doesn’t believe me. Not for a second.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, walking toward me, his voice gentle. “Do you at least want to have tea time before you go… to Wendy’s?”

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Gavin hands me the tea, takes me by the elbow. I let him guide me to one of the huge leather couches, and he sits me on it.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I look at him. His face is a picture of concern, his eyebrows knitting together, his lips pursed. He’s got every drop of his attention on me in a way I’m just not used to. Like he’s reallylistening.

“I was sneaking out forever so I didn’t have to say goodbye,” I admit, the words spilling out of me along with the tears I’ve been holding back. “I know that this — whatever this even is, I don’t know — can’t work anywhere else, and besides none of us has said anything and I know you guys think this was just some fun or something, but I got really attached…”

Now I’m crying. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, but here I am, sobbing. I wish I’d left five minutes faster, maybe spent a little bit less time crying in bed when I could have been packing up.

Gavin takes the tea mug out of my hand, and I hear two heavy clinks on the coffee table.

Then he’s holding me, a mess in a puffy coat, in his arms, against his strong chest.

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