by Rica Grayson
Bemused, she responds, “Because you feel like you have to, because of our deal?” And in a small voice, “Because I had this hopeless crush on you, and you feel like, somehow, you have to return it.”
Fucking hell. She thinks that’s all this is about? Where is this coming from? “You give guitar lessons to kids sometimes, for free.”
This takes her aback. “H-how did you know that? Did Chris—”
“He only mentioned it in passing,” I reveal.
“And you remembered it?” She sounds doubtful.
“I remember a lot when it comes to you.” I meet her gaze evenly. She’s so intent on keeping her distance, she doesn’t see everything else.
“I remember you once did a fundraiser for mental health awareness baking those chocolate cupcakes. You wouldn’t even let us have one.”
“That’s because I was meant to sell them!” she exclaims. “You never liked what I made, anyway.”
Since she seems so dead set… “Care to test that theory?”
“Not at all.” She shakes her head incredulously. “You’re unbelievable.”
Clueless. She’s so unaware of the why, that with a certainty that strikes deep in my chest, the next words fall out. “This is why it’s you. Because you refuse to take the damn spotlight even when you deserve it.” Thinking of her performance on the day of the wedding, her reluctance was telling. “And because you buy charms for your sister, friends, everyone and their grand-fucking kids, even if that means you don’t get to have one.”
Her cheeks now sporting a faint blush, she looks away. Too bad. It’s the truth and she needs to hear it.
There’s a lot I know about her… And there’s a hell of a lot I don’t. I have a feeling that she’s the type that keeps a few friends close, and the rest at arm’s length. We’re not so different after all. I want to get to know her better—it’s a gut feeling, and over the years, I’ve learned not to question it.
“Feel sorry for you?” I repeat, a near growl. What a ridiculous statement. “There couldn’t be anyone else, Blaire.”
I see her struggle to accept this.
She’s quiet.
“Shelly and Chris would love this.” Attempting to change the subject, huh?
“Chris is going on tour soon so he’ll probably get to visit for a little bit.”
She tenses up. Shit. She doesn’t know.
“He’s going on a tour soon?” she echoes. She tried to hide it, but I hear the tremor in her voice.
Ah, hell, she isn’t supposed to know that yet. Not that it’s a secret, but Chris is still only starting to make plans, and I didn’t want to speak as if all plans are final.
“Yeah, he mentioned it. Might not happen, though.”
He can never stay in one place, always restless, wanting to see the world. I understand that part of him too well, the desire to discover who you are—and the damage that can do to the people closest to you.
I don’t know how I never noticed. It’s been right in front of me this whole time.
She tries to mask the hurt, but it’s there, underneath the surface. She concealed it well, but I can see it clearly now. I’m willing to bet Chris has no clue.
She tears her eyes away from mine, capturing a picture of the view in front of her on her phone.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Blaire
“You think I stole him from you.”
The words slash through me like a cut. There’s no hint of accusation from his voice. Just stating a plain observation.
And still, the lie falls easily. “No—” I start.
“Yeah, you do.”
There’s no use denying it anymore, is there? “A little,” I admit reluctantly. It’s something I never really told anyone, but now, the words pour out. “I understand now. He likes to travel. See the world. It does feel like you started it, since because of you, it’s led him to where he is. But music? It’s in his blood. And I get it, because it’s in mine, too.
“I wish I could say, hey, slow down a little. But it doesn’t work like that, you know? We like different things at different phases in our lives, and sometimes, we’re lucky enough to know exactly what we want to do. It’s precious, because not everybody gets that.”
I miss many parts of his life because of it, and he misses parts of our life, too. That’s just how it is.
“That makes me selfish, doesn’t it?” I voice my thoughts. I don’t know why I just told him all that.
“No, it doesn’t.”
It sinks in—what it means, coming from him, and his honesty. A chip in my armor falls, and I feel a piece of my heart fall along with it, too.
He, of all people, understood.
“You’ve just gotta roll with it. Make the most out of every moment,” he continues. “That’s all we can really do, Blaire.”
Ryan
“You like her,” Kiara observes, a small lift of her lips. Not much escapes her notice, and this time it’s no different.
Blaire fell asleep a while ago, but I had to finish responding to some messages and return some calls.
“Yeah,” I admit after a moment’s consideration. “Don’t like people much. So the ones that I do, I keep close.”
“I’ve met some of your friends before. But this… This is more. I like her, too. I’m happy for you,” she says warmly. She pauses to study me. “It worries you. This is a problem? That you like her?”
I snort. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not her favorite person. She fucking hates my guts.” I take a swig of beer.
Her brows knit. “I don’t think it’s like that. She wouldn’t agree to go with you otherwise.”
“I invited her here, said I owed her a favor,” I tell her.
Sympathy softens her voice. “Is that why you think she came?”
I recall the way Blaire was so reluctant to accept the necklace. I scowl. “Damned if I know. I don’t know what she’s thinking.”
“Did you tell her?” she asks, her expression turning stern.
“Tell her…?”
Her eyes go round and she lifts her face up towards the ceiling and mutters something in Japanese. She throws her hands out. “Your feelings!” she hisses, like I’ve just asked a ridiculous question.
“No. I have a plan.” With someone like Blaire, I have to show her so she can understand that I don’t plan on fucking this up.
“Stubborn man.”
“She’s just as stubborn.”
“You belong together, then.” This seems to please her.
Blaire knows how I feel. If she doesn’t… She should know that by now... Doesn’t she?
Chapter 14
Blaire
I like him.
It’s such an alien feeling to grasp, because for the longest time, I’ve managed to convince myself that those feelings were something else. Frustration. Hurt. A healthy dose of distrust.
In all the time I’ve known him, it seems like he’s spent a good portion of it getting on my nerves. Playing pranks, lying, kissing me, only to break my heart. Now there’s this side of him—brash and a little rough around the edges, but protective and thoughtful. But maybe… Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
We spent our last evening catching the train and walking around Shibuya. I bought snacks for my family, and little trinkets I wanted to keep. Ryan did, too, although he only bought a few things, mostly for his mom and sister.
We’re leaving tomorrow and I can’t help but find it odd that we hadn’t done anything public for his album promotion. “We’re not having dinner out?” I ask curiously when we get in his car.
“Did you want to?” he asks, considering. “I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Well, not really, but you know… You needing the people to talk and all,” I point out the obvious.
“No,” he bites out. “I don’t know. You’ll have to explain.”
When I pull my gaze away from the window to turn to him, I regret my words immediately. His brows ar
e pulled together, forming a scowl.
But… He can’t not get it. He’s the one who proposed it in the first place. “Promo for your album? Being seen out there? Wasn’t that our deal?” My words trail off, uncertainty ringing in my voice.
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I can tell something’s wrong. “We’re not here to do promo, Blaire. I wanted to do this for you,” he replies, his words razor-sharp.
“But I haven’t done anything at all,” I grasp, befuddled. I thought that was what he wanted. “How am I supposed to hold my end of the agreement?”
He snorts. “Let me worry about that.”
He’s done so much good for me, and I haven’t once helped him. What kind of friend does that make me?
“Ryan, really, I don’t mind doing something small,” I say, feeling a little guilty.
His laughter rings, dark and rich. “You want us to be talked about? Want some views, Blaire? That what this is about?”
I recoil from his words. I don’t know why it stings. This is more like the Ryan I know. The person I’ve spent years building my defenses for.
He lets out a deep breath, like realization struck him. “Fuck. Blaire, I—”
“You did say it’s for networking, too,” I recall dryly. Well, if he wants to think of me that way, he can. “Call your people, or whatever. Let’s do this.” Even though I steeled my voice, my heart feels brittle.
“If that’s what you want to do,” he replies curtly, his face granite. And what else did I expect?
I hate to admit it, but he chose the place well. We’re having dinner in a hotel restaurant, glossy, marble walls and a deep teal carpeted dining area. I wonder how this was arranged on such short notice. If I ask Ryan, he’d probably answer with, I have friends.
Watching him interact with people is like watching a skilled magician weave their magic. He has a way with people that draws them to him. He talks, and everyone pays attention. His presence fills a room, his charisma magnetic, you can’t seem to pull your eyes away.
At least, I can’t. He barely spares me a glance. His silence is almost as vicious as the heat of his temper. We haven’t really talked at all since our argument at the car. We headed straight here after he made a few calls. The game began since we came here. He introduced me to several people. In the blur of it all, I could hardly remember all their names. Some looked friendly. Some with a calculating look, as if sizing up my worth in a glance. It was deeply unnerving.
But if he can be cold, so can I. You learn to be, when the only other option is to break. I plaster a smile on my face in front of the next person we meet. This is what I have been expecting from the start. This act in front of people. It’s all a facade. It’s so painfully clear to me now.
“Hi, I’m Blaire,” I introduce myself. The man, beady eyes and hair graying at the sides, pastes a stiff smile on his face. Then his eyes swiftly move on to Ryan and he starts talking to him like old friends, as if I’m not here.
I’m just arm candy, huh? Suck it up. You agreed.
I nearly roll my eyes but manage to stop myself in time.
With a small squeeze of his hand on my back, Ryan gives me a look as if to say, Don’t start anything.
I blink innocently. I wasn’t planning to.
We’ve mastered conversing with a single look over the years. It’s practically a skill.
I shift on my feet, my shoes starting to become painfully uncomfortable. At the time, I thought they were sensible shoes. I guess now I’m learning that they’re not. I release an inaudible sigh. I just want to go home.
We’re touching, close to each other the whole time, but I’ve never felt him more distant from me.
And God, being this close to him is slowly driving me crazy. Little touches here and there. Hand over my shoulder, lips on my cheek when he whispers something in my ear. Thumbs brushing over the outside of my hand. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but the bolt of heat each time we touch makes me think he’s doing it on purpose. Bringing my senses on alert, making me hyper-aware of him.
This is what he did in the past—pretend to play nice, only for it to blow up in my face. Except this feels worse than before. A part of me thinks, If you didn’t ask him about promo, we wouldn’t be here. I thought it was an innocuous question at the time… Now it’s a mess.
In a small corner of my mind, perhaps part of me tried to deny that we really came here because he wanted to give this to me, with no strings attached, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
I can’t even enjoy the food. A few bites here and there, and a drink that I take small sips of, for show. Trying not to look rude, I watch the people around me instead, fighting the urge to yawn. Yawning would be rude.
The back of my ankle stings from my shoe strap, but I ignore the pain. Looks like this is going to take a while.
I’m quiet on the ride home, thoughts stirring in my head.
I only speak when I notice that the car has stopped by a small street, bright lights of restaurants around us. “Still hungry?” I ask, wondering about our stopover.
He gives me a long look, a brow raised in challenge. “You tell me.”
Oh. “I had sushi.” One piece of it, but still.
He gives his head a small shake, lips forming the first hint of a smile. “You think I didn’t notice you barely touched your plate?”
Oh. I didn’t think he noticed. “Well, I was kind of busy trying not to stumble over my words.” It’s draining, putting a smile on my face the entire night. I don’t know how he does it. I look down at my cream-colored shoes.
My feet hurt. I didn’t think we’d be out for this long and I didn’t want to back out after he pretty much said I was with him for the views. “I’m allergic to shrimp. I couldn’t eat the pasta.”
“You didn’t say anything,” he says, scowling.
“You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking now. What do you feel like having?”
I shrug. “Not shrimp. But I’ll eat anything.”
I pull my wallet out. “Blaire—” he starts to say, but I meet his gaze evenly. This, I’m not going to back away from tonight. “Since this isn’t a real date, I feel it’s appropriate that I pay.”
I hear him mutter fuck before he grabs my wallet and shuts the door without another word.
I hiss in pain the moment I remove my shoes. Walking in uncomfortable, high wedged shoes tends to do that. It was stupid. And I’ve definitely filled my social interaction quota for the month. I’m exhausted just thinking about all the people I’ve met. Ryan went straight to our room as soon as we arrived without a backward glance. Just as well.
Red blisters and some minor cuts have formed on the soles of my feet and strap areas. I massage my aching feet.
When Ryan said I was with him for the views, to be noticed, it hurt. It spurred me to do just exactly what he said I’d do. Does he really think that’s what I want, after everything? Does he think Chris wants that, too?
No. It’s only easy for him to think that way when it comes to me. The door slides open, and I find Ryan stalking towards me, bringing a tube of ointment.
He bends down, his eyes on the blisters on my feet. The crease on his forehead deepens.
“Thanks.” I grab the tube, but he’s not letting go.
I realize his intention, and immediately, I feel the need to convince him otherwise. “Um. I can do it.” I pull the ointment over to my side, but he’s still not letting go of the tube.
“I know,” he says, pulling it over to his side. “Let me.”
The firm authority in his voice makes me relent. Who wants to argue at this point? Not me.
A victorious grin touches his lips. Geez.
He applies the ointment carefully. “You should’ve said something,” he says. His voice is hard, but his touch is so gentle. It’s so at odds that his unexpected tenderness makes me feel conflicted.
I don’t get it. Nothing about him makes sense anymore.
I wince when his fi
ngers brush over the back of my ankle, now sporting an angry red color. “I handled it.”
He makes a sound of disapproval. The stinging pain isn’t so bad now—the soothing effect of the ointment.
“So,” he starts so smoothly I nearly miss the edge in his voice, “did you exchange numbers?” Seeing my blank expression, he continues. “Don’t forget we have a deal.”
What in the world? “Ryan, what are you talking about?”
He looks up, frowning. “Brent,” he utters the name like a curse.
I try to put a face to the name, but I met several people tonight, and I come up short. I yawn. It’s been a long night. “Which one was Brent?”
“Didn’t even realize he’s been looking at you,” he mutters. “Wears glasses. French guy. Sitting too fucking close for my liking.”
“Oh.” This sparks my memory. There was a guy who talked to me and about the work I do. He seemed impressed that I set up my own channel and kept it successful and asked me how I did it. He leaned in closer than others when asking questions, but I thought he was just interested in what I was talking about. That was Brent?
Eyes narrowed to slits and fingers lightly brushing the side of my ankle, Ryan adds, “You seemed awfully close when I came back.”
“Well, you left me there. Brent and a few others seemed friendly enough. The rest of your friends…” I grimace. “The rest of them, not so much.” They looked down on me having started a channel. As if that makes me less of an artist.
“Not friends,” he denies.
“Then what do you call them?”
“Potential collabs, business associates. Acquaintances.”
Wow. “That’s… cold.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His gray eyes, now arctic, swing up to meet mine. “They want something, Blaire. They all do. Never forget that,” he imparts dispassionately.
All warmth had fled from his voice. They want something. Who made him feel that way?
