Page 119 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

It was all I could think of to say.

“That’s what I thought.” Dale leaned on the table, meeting my eyes, locking my gaze, not letting me look away. “You think he’s perfect and he’s safe and, in your head, he can do anything.”

My whole body was trembling, aching. I wanted him so much. I just wanted to run to him and put my arms around him and tell him I was sorry, that I wouldn’t go, I would stay with him. That I loved him. I knew I loved him and only him.

But I didn’t know what kept me glued to my chair, shaking and mute and miserable.

“But he can’t save you, Sara.” Dale choked. “And I can’t save you either.”

I can only save myself.

That voice in my head was firm and it steeled my spine. I wiped my tears with the napkin John had given me, my gaze never leaving Dale’s face.

His eyes were full of so much pain, it was hard to not look away, but I didn’t. I told myself I had to do this. It was my one, my only chance.

Dale cocked his head, his voice soft but clear. “He’s safe and perfect and a million miles away. I’m here… and I’m broken. But I’m real and I love you.”

It wasn’t until he turned away that I stood, reaching for him across the table, sobs wracking my body. I couldn’t hold them in anymore.

“Dale, wait! Don’t! I luh—”

“Don’t you dare.” He turned back, glaring at me, jaw set. “Don’t you dare say that to me now. It’s too late for that.”

Dale strode down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was so quiet, it was deafening. I looked over at John, feeling self-conscious and uneasy about what he’d heard.

“I’m sorry.” I looked down at the now cold catfish on my plate, the yellow placemat beneath, anything but his face.

“I know.” His voice was full of sympathy. “But I don’t think it’s me who needs to hear it.”

I looked at him then, into the familiar dark eyes under bushy gray eyebrows. His kindness radiated in waves. My throat felt choked, thinking of Dale’s accusations. Everything seemed to be melding together, everything I’d kept inside. All of my emotions burst and I sobbed. I covered my face with my hands, ashamed, but unable to stop the flow of tears. It felt as if someone was wringing my heart out.

“It’s okay to hurt.” He’d come to stand beside me, touching my hair, and his voice, so acutely perceptive and compassionate, made my heart ache. Just like Dale. So much like Dale. I looked up at him.

“It’s okay…” he said again, his palm gently cupping my chin. “Everybody hurts. You don’t need to hide it.”

He held his arms out and I went to him, really sobbing now. His arms were strong and reassuring. He smelled faintly of Old Spice. It was a comforting scent. He supported me, easily. I had never let anyone but Dale this close to seeing what was inside. He held me tightly.

“I didn’t mean it,” I managed to say into his shirt. It was white cotton, button-down, soft against my cheek. “I didn’t.”

“Most hurting is unintentional, hon.” He stroked my hair. “That’s just life.”

From Dale’s room I heard the beginning chords of Ozzy’s Crazy Train on his guitar. It helped slip the real world back into focus, tapering my tears.

o;No.” I looked down at Dale’s bedspread.

“Engineering?”

“She’s going to major in art.” Dale looked at me. “She’s very talented.”

“Art?” John scratched his head. “Why are you going to Maine to major in art? The New York Studio School is right—”

“It’s a long story,” Dale sighed. “Just forget it, Dad.”

John looked between the two of us, frowning. Now I felt like I owed him some sort of an explanation.

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