Page 121 of Fire
“No,” he answers with a look of defeat. I grab one of the fluffy white robes the hotel provided and swap it for my towel. I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
“What seems to be the holdup?”
He turns the chair around so he’s facing me. He stretches out his long legs, wearing a pair of black joggers. No shirt. His hair is messy, as if he’s been running frustrated fingers through it.
“I know which offer I should take,” he says. “Seether is a huge band. Almost as big as Manic. Their following is loyal, and their music is edgy and complex. The tour schedule they’ve put together is insane and super ambitious. They’re collaborating with a ton of other bands, and it could be really great for my career.”
I swallow hard, my heart feeling like it’s been put in a vice. “It sounds exactly like what you’ve always wanted.”
“Yeah.” His voice trails off.
I watch his expression fall. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“I…” He pauses, takes a deep breath before his gaze meets mine. “I need to know what happens next, Zara. With you and me,” he clarifies. My pulse quickens. I fist the hem of my robe as my throat starts to tighten. “Because I don’t think I can sign any of these contracts without knowing you’ll be there by my side.”
I start to cry.
His eyes go wide, and he mutters a curse. Suddenly, he’s off his chair and kneeling at my feet. “I didn’t mean literally by my side, Cupid. I don’t expect you to give up your career for me. I just want to know I’m not going to lose you, ’cause?—”
My tears turn to sobs. He’s being too nice. His words are too kind.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out. My chest heaves with every word. “I’m so sorry.”
“What?” His eyes are frantic. “Why?”
“Oh god.” I wipe away the moisture around my eyes as I try to speak through the tears. “I don’t deserve you.”
“What are you talking about?” He runs his fingers through my hair. His words are calming, but I can hear a faint tremor in his voice. “Please, Zara, baby. Talk to me.”
I meet his gaze. He looks wrecked. Ruined. He misunderstood me. He thinks I’m panicking over what he said, how he wants me by his side, how he can’t do this without me.
Could I fuck this up anymore?
I brush away more tears and face him. I’ve hidden the truth from him for far too long. No matter how he reacts, I can take it.
For him, I can take it.
I suck in a deep breath. “Eric called.”
I watch the words register, and then it’s like an avalanche. His expression shifts from acknowledgment to disbelief, then falls into outright fear. “When?”
“Last week.”
Fear morphs to shock. “Last week?”
A tear slips down my cheek. “Last week,” I confirm.
“But I—” He looks away, stands, and then sits beside me on the bed. I notice his hand tighten, like he’s already mourning something he doesn’t fully understand yet. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t Eric?”
“Because I asked him not to,” I explain. “I told him I would take care of it.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Is it bad? Do I have cancer of the hand or something?”
“No.” I shake my head with a pained laugh. “No cancer. In fact, everything came back normal.”
He lets out a relieved exhale. “That’s good, right?”
“Normally, yes. And if it weren’t for one specific symptom, I’d probably just say you have early-stage tendonitis or maybe arthritis and give you some exercises to do to keep it from getting worse. But there’s one symptom that doesn’t fit tendonitis.”
