Page 17 of Giving Chase

"Chase," she says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent I can't quite place. "You look well."

I manage a weak smile, trying to ignore the lingering warmth where her body pressed against mine. "Thanks. You look... amazing, Eliza. As always."

We sit, the tension between us palpable. I reach for the water glass, needing something to do with my hands. "Thanks for agreeing to meet me," I say, hating how formal I sound. "I know it can't be easy."

Eliza's expression softens slightly. "No, it's not. But it's necessary. We have a lot to discuss about the induction ceremony."

Right. The ceremony. The ostensible reason for this meeting. Not the years of history between us, not the unresolved feelings, not the apologies I owe her.

"Of course," I nod, reaching for the menu. "Should we order first?"

As we peruse the options, I steal glances at Eliza over the top of my menu. She's the picture of composure, but I can see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way she grips the menu just a little too tightly. A memory flashes through my mind – Eliza, biting her lower lip in that same way as she read through our first record contract, determined to understand every clause.

I want to tell her how sorry I am. For everything. For the drugs, the erratic behavior, the cruel words I flung at her in the depths of my addiction. For not reaching out these past five years, for being too much of a coward to face what I'd done.

But the words stick in my throat. How do you apologize for destroying the best thing in your life? For hurting the person most important to you?

The waiter arrives to take our order, providing a momentary reprieve from the tension. As he walks away, Eliza fixes me with a look that used to mean she was about to lay down the law.

"Alright, Chase," she says, her tone all business. "Let's talk about the ceremony. The Hall of Fame has some specific requirements we need to go over."

I nod, grateful for the structure, the pretense of professionalism. But as Eliza starts outlining the details, I find myself studying her face, remembering all the times I've seen it: flushed with passion, creased with worry, soft with affection.

And I realize something that shakes me to my core: I'm still in love with her. After all this time, after everything that's happened, I'm still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Eliza Kerr.

The guilt threatens to overwhelm me again, but this time I push it down. I owe it to Eliza – and to myself – to be present for this conversation. To start making amends, even if it's just in small ways.

So, I lean in, forcing myself to focus on her words. "Okay," I say, meeting her gaze steadily for the first time. "Tell me what we need to do."

As Eliza continues talking, her voice washing over me like a familiar song, I make a silent promise to myself. I'm going to get through this dinner. I'm going to be professional and respectful. And somehow, someway, I'm going to find a way to make things right with the woman I never stopped loving.

It's the least I can do. For her, for us, for the memory of what we once were.

The waiter returns with our drinks, and as I raise my glass of sparkling water – a silent testament to my sobriety – I catch Eliza's eye. For a moment, just a fleeting second, I see a softness there, a hint of the connection we once shared.

It's not much. But it's enough to give me hope.

February 14, 2005 (Later that night)

The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears as I stumble into my hotel room, a half-empty bottle of Jack in one hand and a giggling blonde in the other. I can't remember her name – Katie? Kristy? – but it doesn't matter. She's not the one I want to be with tonight.

"That was an amazing show," she purrs, pressing herself against me. Her perfume is too sweet, cloying, nothing like Eliza's sophisticated scent.

Eliza. The thought of her sends a fresh wave of anger and hurt through me. I take another swig from the bottle, welcoming the burn in my throat.

"You wanna know a secret?" I slur, pulling the blonde closer. "It's Valentine's Day, and the woman I lo— the woman I want doesn't want me."

She pouts, running a finger down my chest. "Aw, poor baby. I want you."

I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound. "Yeah? Then prove it."

I crash my lips against hers, the kiss sloppy and desperate. It's all wrong – her lips are too soft, her hair too straight, she tastes like strawberry lip gloss instead of Eliza's preferred mint – but I don't care. I just need to feel something, anything, other than this ache in my chest.

We stumble towards the bed, hands grasping, clothes being shed. I'm vaguely aware that this is a bad idea, that I'm making a mistake, but the alcohol and the hurt cloud my judgment.

Just as I'm about to push the blonde onto the bed, there's a knock at the door.

"Ignore it," I mutter, trailing kisses down her neck.

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