Page 122 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

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.

“Here.” John offered me another napkin from the holder on the table. “Sorry I don’t have any Kleenex handy.”

I took it from him, wiping my eyes, black streaking across the napkin. Mascara.

“I must look awful.” I sniffed, stepping out of the circle of his arms.

John smiled. “You feel like talking about it?”

“I...” I hesitated.

I wanted to go to Dale. Everything in me ached for him, but something wouldn’t let me.

He was right, had been right about everything.

I was so ashamed, so horribly ashamed.

But still, I couldn’t swallow my pride and walk down the hall and apologize. I knew it wouldn’t mean anything, not now. I’d already made my choice—and I’d chosen Tyler Vincent.

“Sorry about dinner,” I apologized. “I guess I kind of ruined it.”

“Come on, come sit.” John went to the living room and I followed. He sat in a chair, and I sat on the edge of the loveseat. “We won’t talk about what Dale said if you don’t want to.”

“You think he’s right, don’t you?” I asked, not looking up.

“Well what I think isn’t very important. The question is, what do you think?”

“He...” I shrugged, looking down at the balled-up napkin in my hand. “He’s right. I’m wrong. And I’m sorry… but that doesn’t change how I feel.”

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