Page 133 of Beneath the Hood

It’s possible I let my infatuation with her affect our friendship long before he messed things up himself.

A tsunami hits, clarity washing over me like icy water, my chest pulling tight as I stare at him. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say.”

“Say the truth. That you’ve blamed me for everything. For eight fucking years, not realizing thatyouwere being an asshole.”

My brows rise and I stumble back, dropping into the lounge chair behind me, my fingers tangling in my chain. “Well, shit.”

Chase’s lip twitches.

He rolls his head back, staring at the sky, and I’m stunned into silence. My mind flips around, looping a complete one-eighty, leaving me nauseous from the spin. All of my anger toward him was because he didn’t reach out—didn’t try to fix something that, turns out, he wasn’t solely responsible for breaking.

“Are you still in love with her?” he asks, still gazing at the stars.

My stomach drops to the floor, my mind picturing Blakely. But then I realize he’s asking about Lee.His Goldi.

“No.” I swallow.

“Good.” He nods, sucking on his teeth. “Then, we’ll be okay.”

My brow rises. “Just like that?”

He walks over, sitting down next to me. “Life is too short to hold on to grudges.” He sighs. “But you fucking hurt me.”

I glance down, watching the condensation drip down the neck of my bottle. “Yeah, well, you hurt me too, man.”

“Yeah. I know.” He tilts his beer toward me. I hesitate before bringing mine over, clinking it against the glass.

The conversation doesn’t take away the years of resentment between us. But it’s a start.

* * *

My phone ringsas I’m leaving my mom’s place. It’s been nice, having so much time to relax and reconnect with her and everyone else.

I’ve been roped into every Friday night dinner and Saturday brunch for the past five weeks, and while the comradery of friends helps ease the ache of missing Blakely, it doesn’t make it disappear.

But I’ve realized in her absence that neither of us were in a healthy place for a relationship. I was an enabler, having her use me as therapy, instead of supporting her while she found tangible solutions. And in return, she allowed me to sink into the role of a hero, as if being there whenever she needed would make up for the fact I wasn’t there for my dad.

A toxic cycle, where one hand washes the other, but both of us never quite get clean.

I’ve tried like hell to avoid going online and searching her name, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t.

Ironically, that’s been the only thing that has brought me clarity through the past month. Allowed me to look at our relationship from a different angle and see how, sometimes, no matter how hard you love someone, they just aren’t in a place to receive it.

I’ve watched that video of Blakely, tearfully saying goodbye to her fans, a thousand times, the sewn together pieces of my heart fraying as her beautiful face crumples as she finally shows her truth. Pride fills my chest, followed closely by grief, because I wasn’t what she needed to make that final step. Part of me wonders if it was my absence that finally helped her start to heal.

I don’t look at the missed call until I get home, my brow furrowing as I realize it was Becca. Odd, since I’m planning to see her in less than an hour for dinner.

Pulling up her name, I press call.

“Hey, what’s up, Becs?”

“Jackson Rhoades, you motherfucker.”

I roll my eyes. “What did I do now?”

“I had the most interestin’ conversation ten minutes ago, with the mostinterestin’woman.”

My stomach flips, a tingle of warning shooting through my middle. “Oh? And this is my fault... how?”

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