by Chloe Cox
For one, he wasn’t all over her. Which was…she didn’t even know what to think about that. Molly was used to Declan being the aggressor, except in unusual circumstances, and she could feel that the vibe was all wrong. She could tell he still thought about it—he still looked at her like he wanted to devour her all the time. But he didn’t. She had no idea why. And Molly didn’t realize how much she could miss sex until suddenly she had to go without it for a day or two after having had Declan maul her constantly for weeks.
How the hell was she going to last while he finished the tour?
Because he had to go back. Even Declan Donovan couldn’t put off tour dates forever. And now he had to go back while something was very clearly wrong.
It was scaring her, how wrong it felt. How when Declan looked at her, he didn’t look happy anymore. He looked wistful. Sad. Worried. He looked the way she felt when she thought about Lydia—before Declan had come to the rescue and made them financially secure for life. And it scared her even more that she was too scared to ask him about it. She hadn’t the courage to tell him that she loved him, as though she still couldn’t risk making her vulnerability real, even though it was real whether she shouted it from the rooftops or not. She hadn’t the courage to ask him what was wrong, either.
This from the woman who was supposed to write a fearless tell-all about the breakup and comeback of Savage Heart. This from the woman who’d become brave enough to face her own feelings because of Declan.
He’d made her brave, and he’d made her a coward, all at once.
So when they all came back to Volare in Venice Beach, after Molly signed a rush lease, Declan’s cash convincing the landlord to make some exceptions about credit checks and whatever, Molly climbed into the bed she and Declan had shared—barely—and waited.
She bit her nails and waited.
And when he came into the room, closing the door gently behind him, she knew.
She didn’t want to believe it. But she knew.
“We need to talk,” he said.
He looked like he hadn’t slept the past two nights. And he hadn’t—she’d felt him tossing, turning. Getting up. Now he stood in the warm evening light filtering in from the Venice sunset looking determined—and sad. She’d never seen him like this.
“Declan, what’s wrong?” she said. “Something’s been wrong, I know it. Ever since…”
“No,” he said. “Don’t try to pin this on anything.”
Molly caught her breath. There was a “this.”
“What?” she asked. She could barely force the word out.
Declan drank her in feverishly, his eyes roaming over her body, her face. Her eyes. Like he was saving it up. Like he wouldn’t get to look at her again.
“Declan, this is freaking me out a little bit,” she said, trying to smile.
“You remember I told you I had those rules?” he said. “About not getting involved. No romantic attachments.”
“Yes.”
“I had reasons for those rules,” he said, still staring at her. “And I broke every single one of them with you from day one.”
“Good,” she said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“I do,” he said fiercely. “Because I love you, Molly. I didn’t just say that to say it. I mean I fucking love you, like I’ve never loved anyone else, like I didn’t think it was possible for me to love another human being. And terrible things happen when I love people. All the time. Over and over and over again.”
Molly was stunned. The force of his words nearly knocked her back on the bed. She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it—around him loving her that much, even if she felt it, in her bones, around him saying that terrible things would happen.
“Declan—”
“Don’t talk,” he said. She shut up. “That’s why I have those rules. Had them. Because at some point, when the same shit happens again and again, you have to take a step back and wonder what the common denominator is. And it’s me, Molly.”
“Declan, you are not making any sense. Like, at all.”
Declan walked forward, his jaw set, his face tense. Molly had risen to her knees on the edge of the bed and stayed there, as though in half protest, riveted by what he was saying—by how much he was opening up to her, finally—and frightened by what she was hearing. By what it meant.
He was close to her now. He took her hands in his, looked down, let his thumbs rub the backs of her hands. When he looked up, she’d never seen anything like it.
Such sadness.
“I don’t know why I fail the people I love,” he said. “But I do, every goddamn time. I knew Bethany was troubled. I knew Soren was, too. I let that shit happen. And then I let Bethany just…drift down. I should have seen those signs, Molly, more than anyone. They were clear as freaking day, looking back. Soren didn’t see that every day when he was a kid; there was no reason he could be expected to see it coming, but me? I should have known. And I still blamed him. I still…”
Declan swallowed, rolled his neck. Pushed on.
“I still cut him off for something…”
Molly searched his eyes, looking for anything, a clue. It was like he was watching something terrible unfold before him, and she couldn’t see it.
“Declan, what’s happening?”
He shook his head and looked at her, his eyes burning. “I don’t know if I do it or if I’m just not good enough to prevent it, or what the fuck happens, but I can’t do it to you, too. I fucking cannot. I will not fuck up your life. Because I love you, Molly, I can’t let you depend on me. I can’t become the guy that you need.”
Molly wanted to scream. This was all, all wrong. She wanted to yell at him that he was too late, that he was already the man that she needed, that she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it, but it wouldn’t come out. For the first time, being with Declan meant that she wrapped up her emotions and hid them away. She didn’t know why. It felt like drowning, like trying to wake up from a nightmare and finding herself paralyzed.
Why was this happening?
“Declan,” she said, and hated, hated to hear her voice quivering, hated that it was the wrong words coming out. “What is this? Seriously, explain this to me like I’m five, because I really want to make sure I understand. Why would you say this about yourself?”
You idiot, just tell him! Tell him you love him!
“Molly, you deserve better. That’s what I’m saying. I know better than you do what happens with me, and I love you too much for that.”
“So what, you’re saying you can’t be with me?” Molly said. God, that sounded angry. She was angry. She was incredulous. And it was so much easier to be pissed off than to tell him that she loved him. She squeezed his hands and said, “I am calling bullshit on this, Declan. Complete bullshit.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “I love you.”
“Then what the fuck?” she shouted. She was angrier at herself at this point for not saying she loved him, for regressing at exactly the wrong moment, for hiding back within herself. “Do you know what you’ve done for me already? Do you know how much happier I am just for having known you? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Molly,” he said, his voice stern. “I love you.”
Molly ripped her hands free of his and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him down to her. She kissed him and felt him respond, felt his body wanting her the way it always did.
“Then be with me,” she said.
Gently he took her arms and brought them down to her sides. He was shaking his head, like she simply did not understand.
He said, “You don’t get it. I need you to be happy more than I need to fucking breathe. I would rather hurt you a little bit now than break your heart later. I’m in love with you, Molly, and for your own sake…you can’t fall in love with me, too. You deserve better.”
“No,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he kissed her.
And then he left.
Declan walked out of the room he’d shared with Molly and went straight to the car he’d rented. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone, didn’t make any phone calls. Knew he couldn’t afford to prolong his exit if he was going to make it out of there. It had taken every ounce of self-control he had to tell Molly he was leaving without her. The only thing that kept him going was that image of a broken-hearted Molly in his brain, the thought of what it would do to her if he screwed up. What Lydia had said: “She goes all in.” He never wanted to see that. Not ever.
At least now, at least today, he could leave knowing she didn’t love him.
He would go to the airport and book the first flight back to New York, charter another private flight if he had to.
But first he had a stop to make.
He’d always been good with spatial reasoning. Remembering directions, paths. He found his way back to Pleasant Valley Park in no time, the windows down, the dust covering his sweat-slicked skin by the time he got there.
Just as dry and hot and full of assholes as it had been the last time he was here.
He drove around aimlessly, drawing stares from kids who saw a car they didn’t recognize, until he found a group of men about Molly’s age. Standing around a grill. Smoking cigarettes. Laughing. Drinking from bottles of beer.
He turned his shitty rental toward them and kept driving. Drove right up onto the lot, right next to the grill, watching their faces to see who got the most outraged. Who wanted to be the big man.
Most of them shut up when he got out of the car and saw his size.
“Which one of you is Robbie?” he said, stretching out his neck.
Silence.
He spoke slower. “Which. One. Of you. Is. Robbie?”
They all looked at each other, each one trying to take a cue from the others. Maybe they were drunk. Maybe they were just that dumb. Declan didn’t give a shit.
It was a skinny one in a denim jacket that he’d cut up into a vest who spoke up first, laughing in a high-pitched, nasal tone, his eyes all bloodshot like he’d smoked a joint too many.
“Holy shit, are you really Declan Donovan?”
The rest of them broke. Slapping their legs, putting their hands up to their open mouths, yelling, “Oooh shit!”
He didn’t have the patience for this. Not today.
“Robbie,” he barked.
“Mr. Donovan,” a smooth looking, pretty-boy punk said, stepping out from the group and offering his hand. “Can I just say that I am a huge, huge fan of your music. You have been a serious fucking inspiration to all of us while we’ve been working on our own demo.”
“Are you Robbie?”
“Yeah, man, I’m Robbie. I’m actually the lead singer of our band, Vicious Circle. I don’t know if you’ve heard of us, you know, we’re kind of local, but we’re getting—”
“You’re the Robbie that used to be with Molly Ward?”
The men grew quiet.
Robbie plastered a quick smile on his face. Gave Declan a look, like, you know what it’s like, man, chicks. Robbie said, “I mean, we had a thing for a while, but she wasn’t, you know, serious.”
Declan took a deep breath and let it flow to every single part of his body. This was something he could do. This was one small part of the world he could make better for her.
“Robbie, you should run now,” he said. “Because I’m going to break your nose.”
“What?” Robbie said, and then tried to laugh, looking to his friends. But Declan was already walking. Just two quick strides on his long legs. One easy straight right. One broken nose.
He thought about throwing a bottle. Decided she wouldn’t want him to.
Robbie was crying through the blood, clutching his face from where he sat on the ground, his friends keeping their distance, wide-eyed and dumb.
“Why did you do that, man?”
“You know why, you piece of shit. And if I ever hear about any of you bothering her or her sister ever again, I will break every single fucking bone in your body. Twice.”
Declan shook out his hand and walked back to his rental. As he opened the door, Robbie was getting to his feet, realizing he’d just been humiliated by his idol in front of all of his friends.
“Take a fucking picture!” he screamed. “You’re all witnesses! Fuck you, Donovan, that’s going to be the most expensive punch you’ve ever thrown!”
“Worth it,” Declan said.
Thirty-One
It was Adra who finally got Molly off her ass, in the end.
Molly tried to get all her old repression skills back, but it seemed like all the things that Declan had taught her had stuck too well. The irony: it burned. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t just carry on as though nothing was wrong, couldn’t lie to herself and pretend she wasn’t broken. Only this time, she had to; she had Lydia to take care of.
And it was Lydia who brought it all crashing down. Molly actually thought she might be able to soldier on reasonably well until she took a dumb reality TV break with Lydia, just trying to relax while waiting for their new furniture to be delivered, secretly thinking about what she’d get for her sister’s belated eighteenth birthday present, when she realized Lydia was furiously texting.
Molly’s first thought: the father.
Lydia still wouldn’t tell her who the damn father was. To the point where Molly had another panic attack, thinking her sister might have been raped or molested or something, and Lydia had to swear up and down it wasn’t anything like that. She just didn’t want the boy involved. That’s what she’d called him—a boy.
Molly knew it had to do with what Lydia had seen four years ago. Molly hadn’t been the only one traumatized by the whole thing, and she wasn’t going to win that argument right away.
But this? Furious texting? How could this not be a good sign?
“That the father?” Molly asked. Trying to be casual.
Lydia shot her a look. “Smooth, big sister. No, it’s not the father. It’s Declan.”
Lydia misinterpreted Molly’s expression for—what? Jealousy? Confusion? Molly would probably never know. She would remember, forever, though, what Lydia said next.
“Don’t worry, you bagged a good one, Mol. He’s just been texting me to make sure everything’s ok with the apartment, the baby, all that stuff,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Like big brother stuff, you know? We had a talk the other morning while you were still asleep. We get each other.”
At which point Molly proceeded to lose her shit.
Just complete bawling. Crying. Cursing. Like she was possessed or something, just letting it all out in front of her poor, confused little sister.
Molly was still kicking herself for that.
But finding out that Declan was checking up on Lydia had set everything off all over again. How could he be there for Lydia like he was for Bethany and say he couldn’t do it for Molly? Molly wasn’t even asking anything of him, she wasn’t pregnant, she wasn’t in a psychiatric hospital! She just fucking loved him.
She was consumed with red-hot jealousy.
She was consumed with regret.
Why hadn’t she told him she loved him? Why hadn’t she been able to do that one thing? Would it have made a difference if she’d been able to say, “Well, too late, buddy, I do need you? Guess I’m already screwed, might as well stay together!”
She didn’t understand it at all. If he really wanted her, if he really loved her, wouldn’t he be there? She should have told him. She should have found a way, instead of just standing there in stupid, slack-jawed shock.
And then, right on cue, she’d remember that it had been Declan who had taught her not to blame herself. And then it would be back to the crying.
Round in round, in the same circles, digging a worn, raw groove in her shattered heart, never getting anywhere, and always coming back to the same reality: he was gone. Declan had dumped her. Did it matter if she understood why?
He was gone.
And she was helpless
. Until Adra finally sat her down.
“Yeah, so, why haven’t you been eating, Molly?” Adra said.
“I haven’t?”
Molly hadn’t really noticed. She just hadn’t been hungry.
“No,” Adra said.
“Oh. Well, that’s pretty dumb. I’ll start doing that,” she said.
Adra cocked her head to the side and gave Molly a look normally reserved for crazy people. She said, “You know, Lydia is seriously worried about you.”
And that got Molly’s attention. That was unacceptable, no matter what the circumstances.
“Shit,” Molly whispered.
And after that it was pretty much impossible not to tell Adra all about it. Adra, who made her feel slightly less crazy just by confirming that the whole thing was nuts. By saying that yeah, she would have called bullshit, too. By being shocked.
And just in the process of actually telling someone about all of it from the beginning, Molly realized that her biggest problem was that she felt weak all over again. Powerless and out of control—and not in the good way. And she needed to take all that back.
Which was when she called Declan.
And a woman answered.
Bethany had seen the last show. Declan could tell by the look on her face.
“What is wrong with you, Dec?” she asked.
Declan shook his head. Where could he even begin? He hadn’t figured on how this would affect him. Hadn’t even thought about it honestly; he’d been thinking about Molly. So here he was, trying to make up the dates on a tour, barely fucking functional. He was like a zombie. He didn’t have a decent show in him anymore.
The crowd had noticed.
It was almost kind of amazing. Physical. He hadn’t understood that being away from her—that knowing he couldn’t be with her—would do something like this to him.
“Declan, are you listening to me?” Bethany said. “Brian, what the fuck?”
Declan wanted to laugh. Bethany, sitting here on the tour bus, looking at him like he was the one with problems. It was almost too perfect. And she looked fantastic. She looked healthy. He was happy for her, he really was—somewhere underneath all this shit.
