Page 51 of The Chance

Announcedtodayand I had no idea.

Why didn’t he tell me?

Did he replace me as his best friend that easily?

My throat constricts as I swipe away the apps and squeeze my eyes closed.

This can’t be true.

I’m dialing without looking, placing the phone to the side of my head on instinct.

It rings twice.

Two times before cutting to the voicemail greeting that used to make me smile.

Now, it just feels like another knife.

“Hey.” My voice shakes. “Just wanted to check in,” I lie. “Tell you the show was good—”

“Now boarding for—”

“—I’ll see you when you get home,” I rush out before my voice cracks and hang up with a blur to my vision.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mac

“Mr. Thompson, thank youfor joining us onTonight Live!”

The half-smile I give the host of this show Leo put me on is not a genuine one, but neither is the sickly-sweet flash of pearly whites on her face.

It’s showbiz.

“Thanks for having me.” My knee bounces in my dark slacks that match the black button-down Leo put me in before I got up here. The top few buttons are undone, giving me room to breathe, but the material is itchy against my blisteringly hot skin. My black bandana is stiff against my forehead, which feels unbearably wrong considering how often I wear the things, and makes my brain hurt in ways I don’t understand.

The crowd applauds our exchange with no clue how uncomfortable this shit really is, they’re just happy to be here near someone from a band, someone famous with the possibility of getting two seconds on TV. Just like the fans that pay the extramoney to get backstage only to find that we’re normal fucking people who just happen to be good at playing an instrument.

They don’t see the long hours on tour, sleeping in a tiny bunk or shitty hotel bed, being in strange places for months or even years. Unable to live an actual life without being plastered all over the fucking media for having a best friend that’s not even the person I want it to be.

They don’t see the way my heart’s racing. Or how bad my chest hurts. The sacrifices I’ve made to do what we do. Who we had to leave behind just to be here.

What they really see is my back relaxed into the chair, my legs spread wide, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee and a fake grin for our host that I know doesn’t reach my bagged eyes.

She sits across from me, her pencil skirt tight enough to keep her torso stick-straight in her seat, her blouse way too loud for the personality I’ve yet to find, with her eyes stuck on me. She’s too bubbly for this hour of the night. Too needy. Too demandingly rude to the staff off set the second the cameras were off.

Shit, I don’t even remember her name.

“You’ve come straight from a show, right? The Resurrection tour?” I nod, watching as she taps her cue cards on her crossed thigh and smiles for the camera.

“Yeah, it’s been great being back on the road.” I lie, my thumb finding a rhythm against my thigh.

Not anymore.

Not without Jordan.

Fuck, I miss him so much.

My breath catches on that last thought, sending me into a blinking fit to bring the hostess back in focus.

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