Page 87 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

The waiter brings our food, and I watch Nate push his pasta around his plate.

“You know what’s crazy?” he says finally. “Part of me still wants to make her proud, even after everything. Even though I haven’t spoken to her in years, sometimes I’ll be on stage and think: I wonder if she’s seen the videos. If she knows what the band has become.”

“She knows,” I say quietly. “You’re kind of hard to miss these days.”

His laugh is rough. “Yeah, well...”

“Have you ever thought about what you’d say? If you saw her?”

“About a million times.” He takes another sip of wine. “But it never comes out right in my head. How do you tell someone you’re still angry but miss them? That you understand now, as an adult, why she did what she did, but the kid in you still feels abandoned?”

“Maybe you start with hello.”

His eyes meet mine across the candlelight, and something shifts in them. Something that looks a lot like hope.

“Maybe,” he murmurs. Then his phone buzzes—Emily, probably about tomorrow’s show setup.

The moment breaks, but something has changed. I can feel it in how he holds himself, like some of the weight has been lifted.

Later, as we walk back to the hotel through the misty rain, he pulls me close. I turn in his arms, rain dampening my face as I look up at him. His kiss tastes like wine, and as the Seattle rain falls around us, I realize that sometimes healing doesn’t need grand gestures or perfect words.

Sometimes, you just need someone to care and hold your hand while you face your ghosts.

The morning sun spills soft golden light over the crumpled sheets. Nate is still asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, dark hair tousled, his strong shoulders rising and falling in deep, even breaths.

I don’t wake him. Not yet.

Instead, I slip out of bed and move to the desk where my phone rests, my fingers hovering over the screen.

The address is already pulled up.

I found it last night after we returned from dinner, after Nate opened up in a way I never expected him to. It wasn’t hard to track down. His mother still lives in Seattle, in the same neighborhood she moved to with her new husband all those years ago.

I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. But I do know he won’t do it unless he’s ready.

When I finally hear movement behind me, I turn.

Nate sits up slowly, running a hand down his face before scrubbing it over his jaw. His blue eyes are still a little heavy with sleep, but there’s something else in them, too. Like he knows I’ve been thinking about his admission from last night.

I don’t give him a chance to back out.

Instead, I cross the room, slipping a folded piece of paper onto the nightstand beside him.

He frowns, picking it up and unfolding it. His gaze flickers over the address. Then, slowly, his jaw tightens.

“Lacey…” His voice is low, unreadable.

I sit on the edge of the bed beside him, tucking my legs under me. “It’s her address.”

His fingers tighten around the paper. “I know.”

I reach out, tracing my fingers lightly over his forearm. “I think you should go.”

He lets out a slow breath, staring down at the address like it’s something alive, something dangerous. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t.” I meet his gaze. “But I think you want to. I think you’re ready, or you wouldn’t have told me all that last night if you weren’t.”

A long silence stretches between us.

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