Page 122 of Starstruck
She wasn’t.
I waited for over an hour, but the venue cleared out and she was nowhere in sight, so I gave up and came home.
Now it’s nearing one a.m., and I’m sitting in the same spot in my dark living room that I’ve been in since I got back, drinking bymyself because I lost the only person in the world who I’ve loved since my mother.
And it’s my own damn fault.
I brush my fingers through my hair as I stand, making my way to the bathroom. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, noticing how the red rims around my eyes from the mix of exhaustion and alcohol make them appear a brighter blue than usual, which is ironic, really, since the grey cloud over me is darker than ever before.
I’m finishing washing my hands when there’s a knock on my front door.
My brows furrow. “One sec,” I shout at whoever’s on the other side as I make my way over to it. I have no idea who the hell would be at my door in the middle of the night, especially since everyone who knows me knows the last thing I want to do right now is talk to anyone.
Anyone other than Lennon.
Who just so happens to be the face that appears in front of me when I swing open the door.
My eyes widen, and I straighten. She stands in the doorway in the outfit she wore to the concert. Her hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders, and her makeup is dark, a deep-red colour coating her lips and her eyes framed in smudged black liner.
I can tell she’s been crying. I hate myself for being the cause of her tears.
“Hi,” she breathes, and just that one word falling from her lips has me wanting to pull her in to press them against mine.
But I don’t. Not yet.
“Hi,” I rasp, afraid to make any sudden movements. I don’t know what she’s doing here, and I’ve never felt more unsure of myself than I do at this very moment.
What the hell has this woman done to me?
“What are you doing here, Lennon?” I ask, my voice rough. I clear my throat, internally cursing myself forbeing so gruff when her showing up here is the absolute best thing that could’ve happened tonight.
She glances past me into my living room. “May I?”
I move aside wordlessly, giving her space to enter. I let the door slam shut behind her as she crosses the room, putting as much distance between us as possible.
“Iwasat home,” she begins, anger present in her tone. “I’ve been staring at my living room ceiling for the past few hours, thinking about nothing but the concert and those songs andyou.”
It’s on that last word that she spins around to look at me, a look of pure betrayal crossing her face.
“Oh,” is all I’m able to say back.
We stand there for a moment, just staring at each other in the moonlit room, until I can’t stand it anymore and take a cautious step toward her.
She holds out her hands. “Don’t come any closer.”
Her voice is stern, and my shoulders drop, disappointment flooding me, but I freeze in place.
“Was this all just a game to you?” she asks, her voice cracking.
My brows pull together. “What? Lennon, no?—”
“Then when did you write it?”
I swallow. “A few days after our first night together.”
Her eyes widen slightly. I think she was expecting me to say I wrote it in the past few weeks, so the realization that she’s been my muse for the past eight months is a shock.
“It’s on the album,” I add, trying to reassure her that I’ve felt this way for a long time and it wasn’t just losing her that made me see that.
