Page 90 of August Lane
“Me too.” He’d thought about it so much that his reasons for pushingher away had become blurry. His only sharp memories of that night were the sounds she’d made, staccato bursts of pleasure.
But he couldn’t reach for her right now, even though he wanted to. Thirteen years still needed to be accounted for. He was running out of time.
“Come talk to me.” Luke moved to a spot near the water. She followed him, and they sat in the grass.
“Ava wants you to forgive her.”
He dangled his arms over his knees. “Is that all?”
“Right now, it’s all that matters. You know you don’t owe her anything, right?”
“I know, but…” He pictured his mother the last few times he’d seen her. There had been no sign of the volatile woman who’d raised him. Instead she was deeply fearful, resistant to the slightest deviation from her routine. The scared little boy inside him was smug because now she knew what it felt like, how exhausting her chaos had been. But now he was also a man who’d destroyed things, thoroughly and permanently. “I understand her more than I used to.”
“She hasn’t earned that, either.”
“It’s not about that. Earning things. We can’t cancel out bad with good. People are both.”
August shoved impatiently at her hair like it was arguing with her, too. “But it’s also okay to avoid people who hurt you.”
“You mean like me?”
Luke studied her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. They both knew she should stay away from him, that any rational person would tell her to do exactly that. The past ruled them like gravity, pinning them to a place where he’d never stop running, and she’d always be left behind.
“I meant it when I said I didn’t come here for forgiveness,” he said. “That’s not something I expect from anyone, but especially you. I’ll always be the guy who left, who lied.”
“Luke—”
“I can answer questions, though. Explain things. But only if you need that.”
She drew her knees to her chest, made herself into a hard little ball. Luke braced for what was coming because the truth would be embarrassing no matter what she asked. He couldn’t think of a single story about his life he’d be proud to share.
Lying about her song was the big one. Why hadn’t he said her name when theCountry Starproducers asked for writing credits? The truth was that he had. That first day when they threw so much information at him it was hard to remember his own birthday, Delilah Simmons, his future manager, had asked him who wrote it.
“A friend of mine.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No. Well, maybe. It’s complicated.”
She’d huffed and mumbled, “Not good,” which made Luke feel like he’d already lost the competition.
“She wrote the lyrics,” he’d offered, trying to recover. “I wrote the music.”
“So you did write it.”
“The music.”
“Songs are music.”
He was confused by her irritation. “Yeah, but they’re also words.”
“Luke, I need you to focus. When someone asks you who wrote it, tell them what you told me. That you wrote the music.”
Delilah had rewritten his story with a sleight of hand that he never saw coming. “Luke wrote the music” became “Luke wrote this” when he was too distracted by all the attention to correct anyone. Once he realized what was happening, revealing the truth meant being a liar. Liars didn’t win reality shows or sign production deals. They were sent packing, dumped at the bus stop with a ticket back to their shitty farm and their shitty mother, and that shitty future they were trying to escape.
“I want to know why,” August said, finally. “If you loved me, why did you stay away?”
He should have known she’d get to the heart of things. It’s what made her a good writer. His reasons for lying about the song were obvious.But not coming back, never calling, made her question everything else he’d said.
