Page 47 of The Fine Line
Another nod.
“But that would be a lot easier if you hadn’t made all of them think you’re fucking me tonight.”
Rhett winces, muttering, “Jesus,” as he scrubs a hand over his face.
“Care Bear?—”
“Yep,” I nod. “That’ll do it.”
“Fuck, I didn’t mean—dammit. Caroline, I’m sorry?—”
“Save it,” I snap, turning away.
“No.” His hand catches my shoulder, gentle but firm. “I don’t want to save it. Because I don’t deserve to.”
I glance back, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.
“I’m so sorry. I really, truly am. There were a million expectations on me tonight, and out of all the ones I failed at, this is the one I’m most ashamed of. I’d lose the first game of the season all over again—freeze up in the locker room, look like a flop in front of my team—but messing up your first interview? That’s the one that kills me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. For once, I have nothing to say.
“I care more that I fucked up your night than mine,” he says softly. “If I could take it back, I would. And I swear, if anyone tries to discredit your work because of something related to me—or at all—I’ll set them straight. Okay?”
I swallow. “Okay.”
He holds my gaze. “Please—tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”
I shake my head. “I just… I just want you to leave. Or at least leave me alone.”
His eyes search mine. “If I leave, will you stay?”
“What?”
“If I leave, will you stay?” he repeats. “Will you pull out that confidence I know is tucked right beneath the surface—because you’re never without it—and show every prick in this place that there’s nothing they can say or do that would ever shake you? If I leave, will you have a good fucking night without me?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Done,” he says simply, stepping back with a crooked grin. “Have a good night, Baby Bear.”
And just like that, he walks away—doesn’t look back once as he pushes through the front door and disappears into the night.
I stare after him long after the door swings shut. Blink a few times. Wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.
Then I press my lips together, lift my chin, and turn toward the growing noise. I spot a few familiar faces—girls I wasn’t exactly close with but knew well enough to make conversation.
I glance down at the mojito still in my hand, then tip it back, skipping the straw and chugging the rest. I grab Rhett’s abandoned beer from the table and start walking. My steps are shaky. My resolve is not.
Because in my head, I hear it again.
You’re having a good fucking night.
twelve
RHETT
Thirteen Years Ago
Toronto, ON, Canada
