Page 77 of One Last Verse

Guilt was a horrible feeling. It overshadowed all the other feelings I had in me toward Frank. He was alone and depressed, and no matter how much he’d hurt me by ruining everything I’d been building for Isabella, I still wished him well. I still loved him in a horrible twisted, unhealthy way.

“I’ll think about it,” I told Brooklyn and ended the call.

I just couldn’t get past my pride yet. I needed time.

Frank made it difficult. He showed up at my place later that night, drunk. I was in my room, going over the monstrosity Ashton and I had written earlier. My phone buzzed and Frank’s name lit up the screen.

Open the door, the message read.

My heart leapt into my throat. The man wasn’t serious, was he?

I peeked into the living room. Ashton was fast asleep on the couch, hugging his laptop. The lights were off.

Please,another text popped up.

A muffled noise drifted at me from behind the door.

I slipped into my knee-length sweater and hurried outside. My pulse quickened, my mind raged. Frank stood off to the side. His right arm was back in the sling and a leather jacket was thrown over his shoulders. He looked every bit the mess a person who’d been drinking for days should look. The dim light illuminating his face accentuated the paleness of his skin and the bags under his eyes. Two-day stubble framed his jaw.

I wasn’t sure what exactly I felt at that moment. Pity, sadness, anxiety, or anger. He clung to me like a metal object to a magnet. Even after I’d harmed him. It was perverse.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he rasped softly. It rattled in the cool air between us like the fragments of our broken relationship.

I closed the door to make sure we didn’t wake Ashton. My head spun. I could feel Frank’s despair deep down in my body, but my pride rebelled against his natural charm.

“You’re drunk,” I said quietly, taking him in. Apart from the sling being in place again and a couple of scabs littering his wrist, he was fine physically. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat and my voice was a measly squeal.

He moved closer so that the space separating us shrunk to a few inches. “I’m sorry.”

Still conflicted, I stepped back until my head brushed the cold wall of the building. “Why are you here? And how did you get here?”

“Roman brought me. And I’m here because I wanted to see you. You’re not answering my texts.”

“I think I have a right to be upset.”

“Yes. Yes, you do. And I’m really sorry for flaking. Please come back.”

Eyes clouded, Frank leaned forward to snatch a kiss. He wasn’t as wasted as before, but I didn’t know what to expect from him at this point. After the madness I’d witnessed the other night, I had no clue what he was capable of. The fact that he didn’t care someone might see him here with me, drunk, told me he’d completely ignored his sense of self-preservation.

“Don’t.” I rested my palm on his chest. “You humiliated me.”

“I’m lost without you.”

“You’re not lost without me, Frank. You’re just lost. And you don’t need me to show you the way. I tried. Look where it got us. You need to figure it out on your own.”

“Don’t say shit like that, baby. You know you belong with me.” He rocked forward and his body lingered against mine. The closeness was intoxicating and I hated everything about it.

“Frank.” I grabbed his chin. “How am I going to tell a nineteen-year-old girl you don’t want to work with her anymore after you commissioned a fucking PR campaign for a single you were supposed to record together?”

“This has nothing to do with Isabella.” He shook his head. “I’m still producing the album. Studio time, marketing, venue. I’ll cover all the expenses.”

There he was with his wallet, showing off his money.

“This film is important to me. It’s not something I’m doing to boost my ego. I believe in Isabella’s talent and I believe she, her story, needs to be heard. I love you, but I won’t sacrifice my life and my career to be with you unless you have an idea of where you’re headed. People come and go. They don’t stay. You know it. I know it. And if you can’t make up your mind about whether you want to stick around or keep walking, I can’t be with you. I can’t let you put me on the spot. I can’t let you embarrass me in front of people I work with. My credibility and my professionalism are all I have.”

His gaze was dark, deep, and full of questions. “I don’t want to write music or perform anymore.”

“You decided that halfway through recording a song with another artist?”

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