Too Good at Goodbyes

by RC Boldt

  The entire reason I’ve avoided looking too closely at Kane is because every time I allow myself to do so, I end up falling further under his spell.

  “Sorry.” I clear my throat awkwardly. “Yes, I’d planned to stay in for the night.”

  He nods, his eyes darting around my room, and he looks cagey as hell. “I wanted to make sure before I had Vance and Jed stand by while I went for a run.”

  His entire body oozes with tension. Something’s wrong. But I can’t ask what. It’s not my place. I’ll just let him off the hook, tell him to go for a run, and hope it’s a good one. That it works off whatever stress he’s got going on and—

  “Would you mind company?”

  Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit. The words just spill out. Before I can rush to take them back, more follow in rapid fire. “I mean, I won’t chatter on. I like to run with my earbuds in, so I—”

  “Fine.” That’s it. That’s all the response he offers. Fine. But I get it. He’s my babysitter, of sorts. And when he wanted to go off alone and not be saddled with my high-maintenance ass, I go and practically beg to tag along.

  Well done, Simone. Well. Done. God, I’m utterly disgusted with myself at this point.

  “You know what? I’m sorry,” I verbally backstep. “You probably want time to yourself, and here I am, just—”

  “Get changed. Be ready to go in ten minutes.”

  He turns abruptly and leaves, pulling my door shut behind him. I stare at it for a second, trepidation barreling through me.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Running with Kane Windham is officially the dumbest thing I’ve ever volunteered to do.

  Ever.

  The only positive out of this is, I haven’t spotted anyone lurking, ready to snap photos of me looking disgustingly sweaty. Praise the gods for that small mercy.

  It could also be the fact that Kane must have mapped out a running route ahead of time. A route that’s about three miles longer than my legs can handle—and that’s one way. Good grief, the man’s barely broken a sweat, whereas I’ll be dying in the morning when I do my usual Versaclimber workout. Doubtful I’ll make it more than five miles on that sucker tomorrow.

  Finally, I let out a strained exhale, dislodge an earbud, and huff out my words in pants. “I’m about to collapse, so you go on ahead to whatever golden running mecca you’re aiming for. Have fun with that.”

  When he lets out a short laugh, I don’t even have the energy to revel in it. Which pisses me off.

  I slow, nearing a vacant bench along the side of the park, and bend at the waist, bracing my hands on my knees. My breaths are ragged as I work hard to drag in lungfuls of much-needed oxygen.

  His footsteps slow, and his sneakers come into view beside my own. I slowly raise my head to meet his eyes. “Seriously. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

  His eyes spark with what looks to be amusement, and my heart lurches at the fact that I somehow managed to chase away some of the pain that had been there earlier. “I’m not leavin’ you behind.”

  “Well”—I heave out another breath—“bad news is, I’m not sure I have it in me to run back.” I straighten and stretch my arms above my head. When his eyes drop down, I realize my shirt has risen a notch to bare part of my stomach. Something flickers in his gaze, but it’s gone before I can decipher it.

  “Can you manage to walk back?” An edge of his mouth hitches up in the barest semblance of a smirk.

  I nod. “I can do that.”

  We turn and stroll in easy silence as dusk begins to settle. Finally, I glance over at him warily. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Whatever’s bothering you.” I lift a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug as if I’m not antsy at the prospect of getting to know him better. “I’m actually a pretty good listener.”

  “That so?” Blue eyes dart to me before returning to survey our surroundings while we walk. He scans for threats, and from that simple act alone, I feel safer with him by my side.

  Silence hangs over us once again. I don’t want to push, so I take in the trees and the quaint quality of the downtown area. We pass by a small shop with their magazine display near the window.

  Of course, a particularly trashy tabloid is included in the variety of magazines with a photo of me plastered on the front. I swear it’s like some demonic gift they have for snapping a photo of me right when I’m speaking, catching the worst and most unflattering facial expression.

  The headline, though, is what has me making a misstep and nearly face-planting.

  The Ice Princess of Pop, Simone King, Sent Jackson Diaz into the arms of his new fiancée!

  Trusted source discloses details of her affair with her choreographer.

  Kane’s fingers cinch my upper arm to steady me, and I wrench my eyes away from the nasty printed trash.

  It never gets easier. Countless people have told me I’d learn to grow thicker skin and let it roll off me. But it’s been over a decade now, and I’ve come to the realization that I can’t grow thicker skin. I’m the same tender-hearted person I’ve always been, and nothing will change that. Not a bunch of failed relationships, not my own mother stealing from me, and certainly not a bunch of strangers spreading goddamn lies about me to garner a fucking paycheck.

  Attempting to steel my spine, I notice Kane’s eyes snag on the headline before returning to scan our surroundings. Hell, he probably thinks it’s all true and likely believes every word that’s been printed or spoken about me.

  “You probably want to know about that, huh?”

  My attempt at a light, easygoing tone is subpar at best.

  “If you wanna talk about it…” he offers politely.

  I deepen my voice to sound like I’m announcing a game show. “Fact or fiction: Did I have an affair with my choreographer and run off my ex-fiancé?”

  He tosses me a curious look. “Never played this game before, so you’ll have to help me out here.”

  I avert my eyes, and instead, concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. “The fact? No way in hell did I have an affair or do anything while engaged.”

  Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I focus on each step, fighting against the hurt threatening to break free and take hold.

  “I’ve never been unfaithful. Ever.” I put so much concentration into each step that he startles me when he finally speaks.

  “I’ve gotta be honest.” His tone is hushed, and thankfully, I don’t detect any animosity or judgment. “You havin’ an affair with your choreographer would rank up there with NASA discoverin’ the moon was made of cheese.” When I whip my head around to gape at him, he only catches my eyes for a split second before returning to his vigilant awareness. “I, uh, don’t reckon you’re his…type.”

  I can’t help it. I stare at him. No, that’s not right. I flat-out gawk.

  Finally, his eyes cut to mine, brows knitted. “What?”

  “I’m not his type? As in, what exactly is his type?”

  He frowns in confusion. “Men?”

  I stop short, stunned. “Wait a minute… You think my choreographer is gay?”

  He stops and turns to face me, looking at me like I’m not quite right in the head. His words come out slowly, tentatively. “You didn’t know?”

  I’m stunned. Connor Blandstone, the ruggedly gorgeous man who was a professional soccer player before retiring and returning to his love of dance and choreography and making a name for himself with big names in the entertainment industry, plays for the other team?

  I shake my head, dazed. “I had no clue.”

  One corner of his lips quirks up. “He’s definitely not interested in you.” At my raised eyebrows, he quickly adds, “Or anyone else with your kind of equipment.”

  “How did I not see this?” I muse more to myself than to him.

  Kane shrugs and tips his head, gesturing for us to continue walking, and I fall into step once again. “If you want people
to see somethin’ bad enough, and you put on that image, that’s usually all they’ll see.”

  Wow. Wonder what else this guy’s picked up on that I haven’t.

  “So, that’s how I know you didn’t sleep with your choreographer.” There’s a pause. “But I still think printin’ it in a magazine is a shitty thing to do.”

  I revisit the moment I knew it was all falling apart with Jackson. Before I realize it, it’s like the dam bursts free, and my words tumble past my lips.

  “The night I got the news I’d landed the role in The Last Love Letter, I was so damn excited. I’d never been given a chance like that before, and I honestly felt I could do the part justice.

  “And to have Jon Hammel specifically ask the director to have me audition with him was…” I falter, trying to find the right words. “It was the most incredible compliment, coming from someone who’s been in countless films and received awards for his talent.”

  I draw in a breath before exhaling slowly. “I tried to call Jackson as soon as I’d finished the audition to tell him they’d asked me on the spot if I’d accept the role.

  “He knew where I was, what I was doing, and how important it was to me, but he couldn’t be bothered to pick up his phone.” I shake my head in disgust. “He’d been playing some goddamn video game.

  “So, I called Matty, and he”—I break off as my throat grows tight with emotion—“he hollered so loud I think he nearly ruptured my eardrum.” Recalling the moment, I feel my smile widen. “He was so damn proud of me, kept telling me so, saying he knew all along they’d pick me if they had any”—I hook my fingers in air quotes—“‘goddamn sense about them.’”

  Kane sniggers in amusement.

  “When I made it home, I walked in, so excited to tell Jackson, and as soon as I did—while he was still playing his game because God forbid he pause it for even a split second—he said, ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’”

  My anger rises to the surface now, my fists clenching at my sides. “Not, ‘Congratulations, baby!’ Not, ‘I’m so proud of you!’” I give a terse shake of my head. “Nope. Nothing of the sort.”

  We fall quiet a moment before I add softly, “Looking back, the signs were there that he wasn’t supportive, and he wasn’t in it for the right reasons. So, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when he broke off our engagement the next day.”

  I release a heavy sigh. “I should’ve been the one to do it the night before, but I didn’t want to tarnish the excitement of my good news any more than he already had. Selfish, I know…” I trail off with a shrug.

  “Nah, that’s not selfish. Selfish is someone who can’t find it in themselves to be happy for someone else’s achievements. You weren’t the selfish one. You were just bein’ human.” Kane’s deep, husky voice settles over me in a surprisingly soothing way. “Wantin’ to sit a little longer in the sun at the beach just to feel its warmth doesn’t make a Christian a pagan sun worshipper. You wanted to savor that moment a little more. No one should hold that against you.”

  I peer up at him. “You really believe that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Somehow, hearing the affirmation and the assuredness in his tone lightens a portion of the burden of the past from my shoulders.

  We walk in companionable silence for a long moment before he finally speaks, catching me off guard.

  “Fact or fiction.”

  I snap my head around to look at him curiously. “Excuse me?”

  “Wanna play fact or fiction?” He tosses me a quick glance before continuing to scan our surroundings in that casual, easy manner. “But I’m gonna go rogue on the rules and let you pick whether you want the fact or fiction.” His jaw tenses. “About my reason for runnin’ tonight.”

  I’m rendered speechless for a moment before I scramble to recover. Attempting to calm my racing heart over the fact that he’s offering me a glimpse, a chance to get to know him, I release a slow breath before answering.

  “Fact.”

  18

  Kane

  Am I really fixing to do this?

  I stretch my neck to one side, then the other before I answer her.

  “There’s a chance you’ll think less of me once I tell you.”

  She scoffs. “Doubtful.”

  I shake my head and return my attention to everything around us, remaining vigilant even though the people here seem much more chill about Simone staying in the area. They seem more acclimated to seeing their fair share of musicians and aren’t nearly as rabid about it as fans in the other areas we’ve been.

  “I got, uh, spooked by an engagement party invitation.” Unsure of how to go on, I let the silence hang between us.

  “Ah,” she finally says. After a pause, she tacks on, “Not a fan of engagement parties, then, huh? It’s the whole true love, happily ever after, blah, blah, blah bullshit, isn’t it? Can’t say that I blame you. I mean”—she breaks off with a sheepish laugh threaded with self-recrimination—“I’m a prime candidate for love not working out, so I get it.”

  Her little tangent pulls a rough, derisive sound from me. “Not quite that.” I try to figure out how to phrase it best but come up short. Fuck it. “The invitation came from the woman I’ve been in love with. The one I thought felt the same way until…”

  I exhale a heavy breath, attempting to forge past the hurt and anger while I try to choose my words carefully. “Until she told me she didn’t.”

  I’ve taken two steps before I realize Simone’s stopped. Spinning around, I pin her with a questioning look.

  She just stares at me, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry.” Tipping her head to the side, she holds up her index finger. “I just need you to clarify a few things for me, please.”

  I stay quiet, curiosity battering away at me and slowly overpowering the other emotions as I wait for her questions.

  “Did you cheat on her?”

  I rear back. “Hell no.”

  Without any reaction, she continues. “Did you steal her money?”

  I frown. “Again…hell no.”

  “Did you spread rumors about her? Abandon her physically? Emotionally?”

  “No and no.” I’m not sure where the hell she’s going with this line of questioning.

  “Did she give you a reason?” Simone’s eyes, a unique mix of golden and green now, bore into me.

  I glance around before running an agitated hand through my hair and focus on everything—anything—but her face. “She told me she loved me, but she didn’t think she loved me the way I loved her.”

  “Oh.”

  My laugh is humorless. “Yeah.”

  We resume walking. “And she’s marrying…?”

  “The guy her family wanted her to marry all along.” I can practically feel her confusion, so I add, “She’s Colombian-American, and her father’s the epitome of old school. She decided she’d comply with his wishes and marry the family friend.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “Yeah, well…” I hesitate. “I didn’t take it very well.”

  “No normal person with a beating heart would.” Her emphatic response makes me turn to look at her. Simone stares back with an expression of outrage.

  “Well, let’s just say I got a major deduction from my man card over the way I dealt with the rejection.”

  “Who can blame you? I mean…love pretty much sucks.” I let out a little grunt. “I have written songs about it, after all.”

  Amused, I arch an eyebrow. “Reckon that means you have an expert opinion, then?”

  Grin in place, she attempts to mimic my Southern accent. “I reckon it does.”

  Sobering, she appears thoughtful. "If there’s any one thing I feel I’ve learned about life, it’s that heartache doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care about your age, gender, skin color, or if you’re rich or poor. It can happen when you least expect it or give you a few hints ahead of time.” Simone’s voice grows smaller. “It doesn’t always pertain to
romantic love, either.”

  I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that last part is a reference to her mother.

  “And I hate that guys are expected to be so stoic all the time. To hold their shit together even when something hurts.” Exasperation is heavy in her words. “If you feel like crying, go cry, for God’s sake.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I stay quiet as we venture along the well-lit sidewalk. We’re due to make a right turn up ahead and have about a mile to go before we hit the hotel.

  “Wanna know a secret?” Her sudden question, spoken in a hushed, almost embarrassed tone, catches me off guard.

  “Depends on what kind of secret,” I hedge. Attempting a teasing tone, I tack on, “Not the kind where you tell me where bodies are buried or anythin’.”

  Her forced smile makes me nervous. She puts her hands behind her back, linking her fingers. “I think I’m broken.”

  I frown. “Broken, how?”

  “I can’t cry.” She shakes her head, avoiding my eyes. “It doesn’t matter how much I hurt or get hurt. Even with everything with my goddaughter, Zoe, it just…won’t happen.” Her lips twist. “It started after I won my first Grammy award. When I found out about my mother.” She lifts a shoulder in a weak shrug. “Honestly, I wonder if I’m just cursed, and my emotions are just like, ‘Meh, fuck it. We’re done.’

  “Every time something great happens in my career, my personal life crashes and burns. First Top 40 hit song? I lost Will, my first real boyfriend, and he’d sold the story of our breakup to the tabloids, claiming I was frigid, which kickstarted the ‘Ice Princess of Pop’ nickname. Then I sold forty million records, and Luke couldn’t handle it. The year I won four AMAs, my boyfriend, Taylor, broke up with me less than a week later. I got the movie role in The Last Love Letter, and my engagement to Jackson ended.” She mutters darkly, “Of course, each time I was spotted out in public, the press had a field day just because I wasn’t letting it show how upset I was.”

  With a long sigh, her voice sounds defeated. “Now, I’ve got a sold-out tour, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like who’s next? Who’s gonna deal the next blow?”