Anyone But You

by Jerica MacMillan

  “I need to go,” she says quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I think …” She swallows again, her throat working hard like she’s having trouble forcing down her bile. “I think I need some space. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

  And that’s it.

  Something shifts. There’s an almost audible break deep inside me. And just like that, I know this is over.

  Chapter Forty

  Viola

  I walk out of Mason’s suite on autopilot and head for mine. Numb, I flop on my bed without even taking my shoes off.

  I don’t know what to do right now.

  He’s right that my mom is upset that I’m dating him. He’s right that I never bothered to tell them and that they found out after pictures of us kissing popped up on an entertainment news site. He’s right that they think he’s bad news for me and all the reasons why.

  But hearing those words from his lips? So soon on the heels of defending him against my mother?

  It gutted me. Ripped me open and left my entrails all over the floor in front of me. I had nothing to say anymore. No words. No defense. Just choked, bloody silence as everything good in my life came crashing down.

  I know he wants me to tell my mom to back off. And I tried. I’ve fucking tried so many times, and never more than I tried today.

  I defended him to her. I told her how he cares for me, how he takes care of me in little ways like setting my alarm to make sure I get up in the morning, making sure I have food to get through the day, helping me pack the snacks and water in my bag at the beginning of the day.

  No, I didn’t get into the physical aspect of our relationship, but it’s never just been about that for us.

  I wanted to tell her that I’m in love with him, but had to bite back those words. For one thing, I know they would’ve only produced scorn. And for another, I want him to be the first one to hear those words.

  The other reason Mom called was to chew me out for not responding to any of the job notices she’s sent me over the last few months. Apparently she’s been telling people to expect my resume or application, and now she says I’ve made her look like a liar or a fool or both.

  As though it’s somehow my fault that she’s been running her mouth all over town about how I’m just going through a phase and I’ll be back soon.

  Because she apparently took the news that we’re having a month-long break as a sign that I’m never going back on tour. She’s created this fiction where I was only hired on a temporary basis, and now I’ll be home and looking for work. So she took the liberty of setting up an interview for me in three days.

  Three days!

  I’m fucking exhausted and now emotionally wrung out, and I’m supposed to go on an interview in three. Goddamn. Days.

  I settle into my own hotel room for the first time in ages. I’ve had one all along, but mostly just used it to store the extra snacks and gear that I’m in charge of. I didn’t want to drag that into Mason’s room, so I put it in mine. But my suitcases, my things, always go with me to his room.

  Kicking off my shoes, I climb into the bed, find the remote, and turn on the TV, flipping through the channels, never landing on anything for too long.

  Being in my own room is weird. The bed feels too big. The TV too loud. The pillows too flat.

  And I wait for Mason. To text me. Knock on my door. Something.

  Instead I get silence.

  I stay in bed, idly watching anything and everything, waiting. And waiting. And still he never comes. Never calls. Nothing.

  Tears seep out of my closed eyelids when I finally realize that he’s not coming. Though I guess I only have myself to blame. I told him I need space. And that’s what I’m getting.

  I guess I just didn’t expect him to give in so easily. He was so persistent for so long, and now? He’s given up on me. And I don’t know how to fix it.

  I wake up the next morning, the remote still in my hand, a crick in my neck from sleeping in a weird position, and my eyelids swollen and gritty from crying myself to sleep.

  Today’s the day we all go our separate ways.

  After using the bathroom, I splash water on my face and smooth down my hair. All my things are still in Mason’s room, and I don’t want to take the time to call down to the front desk for a toothbrush.

  No, I need to face Mason, tell him that he’s right about what my parents think, but that he’s wrong about my reaction to them. That I don’t think he’s bad for me. That I have no intention of following through with whatever plans my mother’s made for me, regardless of how she feels about it. I haven’t given into all her months of badgering so far. Why would I now?

  I’ve been looking forward to spending the tour break with Mason. With having fun on our own schedule, no endless lists of tasks to get through. Staying in one place for more than a few nights. Using the same closet and the same bathroom for weeks on end. It sounds glorious. And refreshing. And like just what I need.

  Rehearsing what I want to say to him in my head, I pick up my bag and head down the hall. I stand in front of his door for a second, not sure if I should knock first or just let myself in.

  After debating with myself for a few seconds, I decide to do both. Knock to announce my presence, but use my key card to let myself in. It’s only eight thirty, so he could still be sleeping.

  Stomach churning, I knock lightly, then wave my key card in front of the reader. The light turns red.

  Brows drawing together in confusion, I do it again. And again. And again.

  Each time the light turns red.

  Panic starts brewing in my guts, and I knock at the door, louder this time. “Mason!” I call, hoping he’ll answer. Why isn’t he answering? Why isn’t my key working?

  What the hell is going on?

  The door across the hall opens, and I turn to see Aaron standing in the doorway, sympathy written all over his face.

  My frantic knocking slowly fades as I take him in, rumpled and scruffy, hair sticking up, sweats hanging off his hips and a white T-shirt stretched across his chest. And my suitcase standing next to him in the entryway.

  “He checked out early,” he says, his voice soft. “Said you’d be by later to get your things.”

  My throat clogs as tears flood my eyes, and all I can manage to do is nod. Aaron holds the door open and gestures inside with his head. “Come in for a minute. We should talk.”

  My lips tremble, tears falling as I shake my head. “I can’t,” I manage to whisper, and I reach for the handle of my suitcase. Aaron watches me yank it out of his room and down the hall. I don’t look back, but I don’t hear his door close, so I can only assume he watches me stumble back to my room.

  Once inside and safely away from pitying looks, I slump onto the floor, bury my face in my hands and unleash the full tide of tears.

  He left. And he didn’t even say goodbye.

  I know I asked for space. But I didn’t think that meant we were over. I just wanted a few minutes to get my own shit together without someone railing at me about my bad decisions. First it was my mom ranting at me about working for a band and then “taking up with one of my bosses.” There was so much she was upset about, it was hard to unpack it all. The fact that I work for Mason and the implication that he’s taking advantage of me because of the “boss/employee” relationship. The college dropout thing. There was something about Blaire and her bad choices worked in there too, though I’d largely stopped listening by then. When I pointed out that while yes, it’s true that I’m the PA for all the band members, it’s not a typical boss/employee situation like she was trying to make it out, that Mason never pressured me into anything I didn’t want, and that I’m not with him because I’m afraid I’ll get fired if I turn him down, she dismissed all of that and just called our relationship “improper.”

  Apparently we still live in Victorian England. Good to know, I guess.

  And then to be faced with Mason’s anger and his misinterpretation of my h
alf of the conversation that he obviously didn’t hear in anything resembling its entirety. I just couldn’t take it. I needed a minute so my head wouldn’t explode.

  Actually, so my emotions wouldn’t explode.

  I wanted to scream and rage at everyone, and I would’ve taken my frustration with my parents out on Mason, and that wouldn’t have been fair.

  And now …

  I don’t even know what this means. Are we broken up? Because I asked for space? Does space mean something different for him than it does for me?

  Because I meant like an hour. I honestly thought he would seek me out last night.

  When he didn’t, I decided it was for the best. A night apart would do us good. Give us both time to calm down, for cool heads to prevail.

  But to wake up to him gone? Without a word?

  My heart is breaking, and the various insults to his character that my mother lobbed last night echo in my head.

  I push those thoughts aside. That’s not the Mason that I’ve come to know and love. He’s not a degenerate or a stereotypical rock star living this wasteful life of partying and drugs and drunkenness.

  Sure, he likes to relax with some whisky after a show. And I know he’s had his flirtation with the lifestyle my mother so derides. But that’s not the Mason that’s with me. And he’s admitted that the time he spent living like that was when he was dealing with specific issues.

  But if he’s decided that we’re over, is he going to go back to that?

  If I stay with Cataclysm, is Marcus going to task me with babysitting him again to make sure he stays out of the tabloids?

  Fuck me. It was hard enough watching him fuck his way through squadrons of groupies and get blown in public while he partied when I could barely stand him.

  How much worse would that be now?

  Maybe I should take this interview my mom set up for me. Because if Mason’s done with me, I don’t know if I can handle working for Cataclysm anymore.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Mason

  I flinch at the loud banging on my door, but resolutely take another gulp straight from the bottle of tequila I picked up on the way to my condo. I’m not answering the door. If it’s not Viola, I don’t want to talk to anyone. And I know it’s not Viola. For one thing, that’s not what her knock sounds like. And for another, I left this morning without a word. She wanted space, so I’m giving her all the space in the world. She doesn’t want to see me, so I’m letting her go. Letting her off the hook. Removing myself from the situation and making her life easier.

  But the sound of a fist hammering on the door makes me flinch again. This asshole’s not gonna stop until I answer the fucking door. Dragging myself from the couch, bottle clenched in one hand, I stumble across the room to look through the peephole.

  It’s Aaron.

  Because of course it is.

  Sighing heavily, I yank the door open. “What?” I bark, hoping my surly, tequila-soaked routine will drive him away.

  I didn’t even need to be drunk and surly to drive Viola away. But Aaron’s been around for longer. He’ll take more effort to get rid of.

  Though my parents sloughed off pretty easily, so I guess length of acquaintance doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with it.

  Aaron looks me up and down, disgust curling his lip. “Day drinking already?”

  I shrug and gesture him in, taking another swig from the bottle. “Why not?” I ask rhetorically as I close the door behind him.

  He claims one of the overstuffed black leather chairs the decorator picked for my condo, telling me it was simultaneously masculine and homey, whatever the fuck that means. I just wanted somewhere to park my ass that was softer than a pew. Masculine and homey don’t matter to me for shit, though I have to admit that I do like my furniture. It’s great for slouching and drinking when your life is fucked up beyond recognition.

  Aaron waits for me to resume my spot in the middle of the couch before saying anything. And when he does, I’m surprised by the lack of recrimination. He was the most vocal against me pursuing Viola. I figured he’d be thrilled we imploded. Or at the very least I’d get an I told you so. But that doesn’t appear to be forthcoming. All he asks is, “What happened?”

  I lift my free hand in a gesture of helplessness before letting it fall back to the couch. “Me.”

  His head flinches back, and his brows draw together. “What does that mean?”

  I raise the bottle to my lips, but decide against it. If I’m talking to Aaron, drinking myself into oblivion won’t work. And it can wait until he’s done probing the depths of my wounds. Tequila’s always there for me, after all. Much like Aaron. Aaron’s always been there for me too, even when his own life seemed to be falling apart. We were the orphans of the group. Him because his dad died and he felt exiled from home. Me because I was actually exiled from home.

  He’s managed to put his relationship with his mom back together, though. At least somewhat. I don’t think she’s quite gotten over having her grandchild kept from her for years, but Aaron won’t hear a bad word about Sam, and his mom’s smart enough to keep her opinions to herself if she wants to see said grandchild now.

  Me, though? There’s no going back. Not without fundamentally changing who I am, and having tried to do that for so many years already, I’m not interested in trying again. It’s not worth it.

  When I don’t volunteer any more information, Aaron gives a frustrated grunt. “I’m going to need you to be a little bit more specific, dude. What exactly happened?”

  “We had a fight.” But I shake my head, because that’s not exactly accurate. “Or she had a fight with her parents. And then I yelled at her for it.” Sighing, I blink hard, frustrated at the tears coming to my eyes. “She shut me out and said she needed space. So now she has it. As much as I can possibly give her.”

  Aaron doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, and I’m contemplating retrieving the bottle of tequila from the coffee table again when he finally speaks. “So you’re just giving up? Like that?”

  I give another exaggerated shrug. “All I’ve done is push. Push and push and push. But she never told me to stop, didn’t put up more than token resistance, didn’t shut me down. Until last night. She closed back in on herself. Her mom told her what a horrible decision she’s making, how awful being with me is, and how she needs to come back home. It’s a familiar tune, really. I had those conversations for a while with my parents before I was officially shunned. I guess at least she doesn’t have to deal with religious guilt on top of everything? But it seems like eventually people just get tired of dealing with me. My parents. Blaire. Viola.” I wave a hand philosophically and reach for the tequila.

  On second thought, if Aaron’s going to dig into my pain, I’m gonna need some anesthesia.

  He grunts and pushes his hand through his hair. “You’re a dumbass.”

  I blink at him, not quite sure if I heard him right. He was kind of muttering, and I’ve been drinking heavily for a while, so maybe he said something else and I misheard? “What?”

  “You’re a dumbass,” he repeats succinctly, looking me dead in the eyes. “She’d just had a big fight with her mom about her life choices, then you piled on top of that. She asked for some breathing room—and who can blame her?—and you disappeared this morning without a word.” He shakes his head slowly, disbelief and disgust warring on his face. “You should’ve seen her this morning, man. She was pounding on your door, yelling your name, almost frantic. When I opened my door with her suitcase next to me and told her you’d left, she looked like someone had stabbed her. She couldn’t even speak. She just took her suitcase, went back to her room, and started sobbing.” He leans in closer, like he wants to make sure I’m really listening. “I could hear her. Through the closed door of her room. Loud, gut wrenching, heartbreaking sobs. The only reason I didn’t go to her myself was because she so clearly wanted to be alone with her grief. You broke her fucking heart, man. And for what? So she w
ouldn’t break up with you first?”

  I squirm in my seat, hating his almost dispassionate narration. He’s working hard to keep his voice calm and even, but the content on its own is enough to slay me. I have questions, but I’m too chickenshit to ask them. How long did she cry? Did anyone go to her? Was she still in her room when he left? Where is she now?

  But none of those questions pass my lips. If I were less of a coward, I could find out all the answers myself. All it would take is picking up my phone. But even if I did, would she answer me?

  Sitting back in the chair, Aaron shakes his head again. “She’s not your parents, man.”

  That more than anything else he’s said has me sitting up. “I fucking know that,” I spit out.

  “Do you?” he challenges, no longer using that quiet, calm voice. Like my venom gives license to his own. “Are you sure about that? Because you’re acting just like you did when they cut you off. Only this time, it’s the other way around, isn’t it? She didn’t cut you off. She didn’t push you away. You did that. To her.”

  He stands, staring down at me, arms crossed, lip curled in disgust once more. “What’s next? More parties? Drugs? Heavy drinking? An endless pussy parade? More shitty pictures the PR company has to try to stop from being printed? Are we going to find you dead in a ditch somewhere from alcohol poisoning this time?”

  “Fuck off, man. That’s never been a possibility.” I’m tired. So tired. Tired of not being worth anything to the people who are supposed to care about me. Tired of everyone choosing their own fucked up rules over me. Tired of not being enough.

  “You fuck off,” he shoots back. “And yes, that has definitely been a possibility. This is what you do, dude. Something bad happens, and you go on a bender. One of us has always tried to be with you to make sure you don’t get hurt. Make sure you get home safely. For a long time it was Blaire and me. And I’ll own the fact that I fucked that arrangement up. I found Sam. Learned about Maddie. Fell in love with my high school sweetheart all over again, and somehow me ending things with Blaire made her end her arrangement with you, too. I’m sorry for that. I really, really am.”