Page 37 of I Just Want to be Yours

My head snaps up, and I smile a little more easily. “Of course. I’ll Venmo you.”

We both stand there, staring at each other as his smile slowly grows. “And you’re welcome.”

“Oh my, god! Thank you! So much—really. This . . .” I let my eyes wander to my car behind him, the engine purring. “This helps a lot. Thank you.”

He grins. “Anything you need.”

And just like that, the new but familiar feeling of guilt creeps into my chest again. If he were Matt or anyone else, I’d probably wrap my arms around him in a bear hug and squeal with appreciation.

But he’s Braden.

And doing that—or anything else with him—feels like . . . too much.

By the end of the day, my brain is fried. I usually hate when the apartment is empty, but I’m grateful for the quiet as I collapse onto the couch. I managed to pour myself a glass of white wine at some point and accidentally leave it on the counter. It was from one of the bottles Braden supplied for us, and I let out an audible groan when I see it taunting me in all its sparkling glory.

My head rolls against the back of the couch, and I stare at the glass of Pinot Grigio, debating how badly I want it. I consider leaving it and curling up to fall asleep under the cozy throw blanket, but my phone does a dance on the same counter a few inches away, and I’d hate to have no wineanda missed call.

I push myself up from the couch and let my legs drag me into the kitchen. It isn’t until I see Jackson’s name that I suddenly feel awake. Those letters on the screen are enough to send a bolt of energy down my spine.

“Hey,” I say, sounding out of breath after lunging for the phone.

“Hey.” His voice is rich, and deep, andGoddo I miss him. Just the sound of that one word makes my entire body warm.

My eyes dart to the time on the stove. “Doesn’t your show start?—”

“Soon. Yeah.”

I take the glass of wine in one hand and walk back to the couch. “And you’re calling me?”

“Margot, you’re my girlfriend. Of course, I’m calling you.”

My cheeks flare as soon as the wordgirlfriendfalls from his lips. This is ridiculous. I know I’m his girlfriend. We’ve been together for months, but when he was here, things between us were . . . effortless.

Easy.

Now that he’s gone, there’s a disconnect. The titles we never had to rely on while we were together are one of the few things connecting us while we’re apart.

“It’s nice to hear your voice.” I don’t think Jackson and I have gone a whole day without sending some type of text message to one another, but neither of us are fans of long text conversations. Our texts are always short and sweet. I thought the next time I got him on the phone, the floodgates would open. I imagined gushing about all the things I’ve wanted to say to him over the past few days, but now that he’s on the other end, my mind draws a blank. It’s like there are too many things, and I can’t decide which is the most important. Eventually, I land on, “How are you feeling?”

“About what?” he asks, but before I can answer, he adds, “The show? How my life has completely changed these pastfew weeks? Or how I constantly have to fight the urge to catch the next flight to Florida just so I can spend another night in your bed?”

That last one hits me right in the chest. “All of the above.”

“Well,” he says with a trace of a smile in his voice. “I’m nervous for the show. This place is fucking huge, and the only thing keeping me from you is the lack of funds in my bank account.”

I let out a light laugh at that last part because I feel the same, but that’s not the part that caught my attention. “You never get nervous.” I set my wine on the coffee table and sit up straight.

“Of course I get nervous. I just . . .” He pauses. “I don’t know. I guess I hide it well.”

My heart cracks under the strain in his voice. “Jackson, you’re so talented, and the band always sounds phenomenal. The only one who should be nervous tonight is the headlining band because they’re going to have to follow you.” He’s quiet, and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. I wait for what feels like forever, but I can’t take him being quiet like this. He should be excited . . . celebrating. “Jackson?”

“Thanks, Margot.” His voice is tight. Controlled. The sound of it brings a frown to my lips. He’s holding something back.

21

jackson

The soundof her voice eases some of the restlessness I’ve been battling since we got here. Playing smaller venues is fine, but tonight we’re playing our first arena, and Crooner Sins sold out. Margot was there the first time I took the stage with American Thieves. She surprised me the first night we opened for Sidecar earlier this year. The music festival this summer practically revolved around my time with her. Margot has been there for all of it. Tonight feels like a milestone she’ll miss, and I’m trying not to let it get to me.

---