Tell Me Why It's Wrong

by B. Celeste

  I barely get out “thanks” because it doesn’t feel right to thank him for anything when I should be groveling and begging for his forgiveness. As much as I want to apologize, I can tell it’s the last thing he wants to hear.

  He clears his throat and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. They’re looser, not showing off the toned legs I know he has from working out. He used to talk about how much his trainer made him hit the gym to stay in shape for appearances sake.

  He looks good.

  Healthier.

  His eyes are brighter, unlike the last time I saw him where they looked distant and dull. I have no clue what he does or doesn’t do these days and haven’t asked Garrick because it’s none of my business. I’m not sure the man I married would even tell me. Everything we’ve talked about, the little tidbits about ourselves, are things that wouldn’t be groundbreaking if leaked since there’s no evident trust between us.

  I risk civility. “You look good. Hopefully everything is going okay for you now that you’re back from tour.”

  I spent almost two weeks with Zayne before I’d ruined any chance of even a friendship with him for money. He told me he didn’t want to go back on tour because he enjoyed being closer to home, but he knew the guys were eager to start traveling again once Garrick was out of rehab.

  I don’t know if he remembers telling me that he didn’t want to stay in the band for much longer. The first time he’d disappeared to the bathroom at the restaurant he’d taken me to, I didn’t know what he was doing behind the closed door. But by the third trip, always longer than the last, I noticed the shift in him—the way his eyes wouldn’t sit still, how his leg always had to move. It was when his nose started bleeding halfway through dessert that I’d suspected the drugs.

  After he’d cleaned himself up, he’d told me, “I wish Garrick would stay there longer because I’m over this shit.”

  But here he is. Still doing it.

  I want to ask if he’s happy, but I don’t.

  I heard the audio clip that sparked this whole situation I’m involved in, and I picked out little bits and pieces but nothing that painted a full picture. But what I heard that nobody else seemed to was the pain in his voice when he talked to whoever recorded him.

  “I’m not using,” he states.

  My eyes widen, lips parting to say something before he cuts me a look that challenges me to stay quiet.

  “I know that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I…” Words get trapped in my throat.

  He nods. “Thought so.”

  “I just…”

  “Listen, can you tell Garrick I swung by? I don’t think it’s a good idea if I stuck around. Doubt he’d be okay if he knew we were alone.”

  My nose scrunches. “Why?”

  He shakes his head, chuckling dryly. “I know my best friend, Rylee. He doesn’t do things like this. Even for someone in need. Give them money? Sure. Marry them? Hell no. I wouldn’t be surprised if he liked you the day I introduced the two of you.” There’s a silent question in the sure statement, but unlike him, I don’t answer it.

  Clicking his tongue, the drummer turns to the door and grips the handle. “I hope you’re doing okay too. Being with him can be a handful I’m sure, no matter the reason why.”

  I hesitate only for a minute before softly admitting, “It’s not so bad. He’s a good guy.”

  Zayne takes a few long moments to look at me, but it doesn’t make my toes curl the way Garrick’s sweeping gaze does. “Yeah, he is.”

  Neither of us say goodbye before he leaves, and it’s only then I take a deep breath and head up to my room.

  Picking up my phone, I type out a text to Garrick before staring at it and backspacing each letter. He’s busy.

  Tell him later.

  About what? Zayne? New York?

  Dropping backwards onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling and hug a pillow to my chest. If Grandpa Al were here, he’d tell me everything would be all right. If Grandma Birdie were here, she’d tell me to go after Garrick and “make a man out of him” like she told me to do at my high school graduation when a family member of one of my classmates that was dressed in army greens was walking toward the parking lot.

  “You don’t see men like that every day, Rylee. You have to snatch them up before you let all the good ones go.”

  I used to get embarrassed whenever she’d forget to use her inside voice and let everyone in the tri-state area know how single I was, but now…

  I’m going to take her advice.

  18

  Rylee

  Encroaching on Garrick’s space feels wrong as I raise my hand to knock on his closed door where music is playing. It’s soft, acoustic, and I wonder if it’s his own or someone else’s. I haven’t even lingered by his door since the morning he put me in here after the incident.

  Before I can even touch the wood, the door swings open. Startled, I stumble back, nearly tripping on the floor rug in the hall. Garrick reaches out and catches my arm before I fall on my ass, trying to hide his amusement by pressing his lips together and steadying me.

  “You good, Ry?”

  Ry. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to him saying my name like that. But we agreed.

  Friends.

  I repeat that again as I peel my arm out of his grip and nod, flattening my shirt like he wrinkled it somehow. “I’m good. Er, can we talk? We don’t have to talk here. We could go somewhere else, or—”

  “You’ve been pacing outside my room for five minutes, love. It’s fine to talk in here, though you’ve created a bit of a draft. May want your Snuggie to keep warm.”

  My cheeks fire at his teasing tone. I didn’t realize he’d known I was out here. “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to come here. It’s your space…”

  Hurt flashes in his eyes, but quickly vanishes into something neutral. “What’s mine is yours now, remember?”

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek, giving him a lame nod. “Right.” My voice isn’t convincing as he gestures toward the open room, watching as I sneak past him and stop in the middle of the space that’s so…him. “Wow.”

  He sidles up beside me, crossing his arms and examines the room like I’m doing since I didn’t bother to last time. As soon as I felt better, I’d rushed out of here like it was on fire, like if I stayed too long I’d get far too comfortable. “My home away from home,” he muses.

  It’s painted an off white, sans the wall with the bed frame built in, which has built in expresso brown shelving. His king size bed fits perfectly into the open space, like the shelving was custom made exactly for it. Each shelf surrounding the bed is full of books, awards, CDs, and other knick-knacks that seem random to me, but probably mean something to him, just like the décor scattered around the house. His bed is covered with different tones of white and brown, and there are guitars, pictures, and posters of his band hanging up strategically on the other walls. The music is coming from the small desk set up in the opposite corner that has a laptop and speakers stacked on it.

  “Is this your song?” I ask, gesturing toward the laptop. “It’s pretty.”

  He smiles, warmth settling into his face as he walks over to the computer and hits a few buttons to turn it down. “It’s a work in progress. Haven’t been very motivated lately, but I’ve been working my ass off to get shit done.”

  “Why haven’t you been motivated?”

  “There’s been a lot going on.”

  “Oh.” I nudge the beige carpet with my toes and stare at the chipped blue paint on my nails that I need to redo at some point. “Because of me, you mean?”

  I don’t hear him approach, but he’s suddenly guiding me to sit on the bed. I hesitate a few seconds, staring at the comforter and wondering how many other women have been in here—something I was too sick to wonder before I passed out wrapped in his linens.

  “Everything is clean,” he murmurs, causing me to glance over my shoulder at him. I blush knowing he read my face.
I sit on the very edge of the mattress, feet hovering off the ground and eyes trained on anything but him. “Are you here to ask me to go with you to New York to see your parents?”

  My eyes deceive me, flying to his with a fish-out-of-water expression on my face. “How did you—”

  “Chase called me earlier.”

  I frown at the admission.

  “He didn’t think you’d tell me, so he wanted to give me a heads up.” There’s a heaviness to his tone that I can’t fully read, and I’m not sure I want to. It reminds me too much of how Grandpa Al would sound if I did something that upset him. It was never often, thank God, but enough to make me recognize the tone.

  There’s quiet between us only for a few moments before I move my head up and down to confirm his suspicion.

  The side of his lips kick up. “Then Chase owes me money.”

  “What?”

  He shrugs casually, walking back over to his laptop and tinkering on it for a few seconds until the music cuts off. “He bet me that you wouldn’t say anything, and I countered saying you would. Got me $100. I’ll split it with you.”

  All I can do is stare.

  When he turns to me, he’s smirking. “I told him you’d feel guilty for not telling me. I’ve got to admit, I figured you’d blurt it out tomorrow because you couldn’t keep it in anymore, so I’m glad I didn’t specify when you’d come clean, or I would have lost the bet.”

  “It isn’t like you’re hurting for it,” I grumble, a little offended they’d use me as a means to gamble.

  “Aw, don’t be like that. I’ll give you the Benjamin Franklin when I tell him to pay up tomorrow. He’s out with friends tonight or I’d bother him now about it.”

  “I don’t want your money, Garrick.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  I don’t answer that very loaded question considering my response changes by the day. If he knew how many times I’ve touched myself in the bed he bought, this conversation would turn very quickly. “How would you know I’d feel guilty anyway?”

  “Because that’s who you are.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You stole some Swedish Fish from Chase’s stash in the kitchen and then replaced them with a whole new bag.” His eyebrows raise as if to challenge me to argue, but I don’t. “You used the money you got from the article to get something you didn’t even need to.”

  All I say is, “Do you have cameras in here or something? I swear, you and Chase always know when I do something.”

  “You’re not exactly sneaky, Rylee.”

  Well…true.

  “I was low on sugar,” I tell him to explain why I took the candy. “I get like that sometimes after my flares. It’s not always as bad as it was that day you helped take care of me but sometimes it can be.”

  “Who did you have to take care of you before when it’d get bad? You could barely keep your eyes open, Rylee. You need help.”

  I shake my head. “Sometimes Tiffany would come and go, or if she could tell I was really sick she’d stay home instead of going out with her friends. But I never asked her to because it’s not fair to her or anyone who has to deal with me when I don’t feel good.”

  “Why not?”

  The fact he asks that so genuinely, confusion pure in his eyes, makes the flutters in my stomach rise to my chest. “It’s not anybody else’s problem. That’s why. My parents used to drop everything for me when I was sick. They’d take time off work to go to doctor appointments with me and flex their schedules to make sure one of them was home in case I needed them. In the beginning, it probably wasn’t a bad idea. Before we knew what was wrong I’d lost a ton of weight and looked…not so good. Mom cried, Dad would struggle to look at me, and my grandparents would always threaten to take me to the hospital to get fluids or a feeding tube put in.

  “It was hard for them to believe something was going on internally. Most people assumed I had an eating disorder or something. But then the pain would start and the headaches…” Sighing thoughtfully, I shake my head. “When you have a chronic condition, the realization that you’re in it for life doesn’t hit you right away. The right medicines will help, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be days when you’re feeling perfect. As soon as you realize you’re in it for the long haul, you also start understanding that so is everyone else around you who cares about your wellbeing. It’s suddenly not just your life that your disease is controlling, it’s theirs too.”

  He lets me take a moment to let that soak in, the words rehashing old thoughts and bitter feelings over what I’ve been handed in life.

  I’m lucky. So lucky.

  One—they found the psoriatic arthritis early enough that it didn’t cause too much damage.

  Two—it only took a year to find the right medication combination to make me feel halfway human.

  Three—despite being worried, my family still gives me enough space to breathe without checking in 24/7 like they used to.

  “It’s not fair to anyone for being stuck with somebody like me, having to change their plans or cancel them to take care of me if I can’t for some reason. They would in a heartbeat, but…”

  “You’re prideful.”

  I offer a small “guilty as charged” smile.

  “I get it. It’s not easy feeling like you have to rely on anyone.” His words are light. “If it changes anything, I’d cancel plans for you anytime.”

  When I look at him, I see someone who is too good to be true, like I’m waiting for the moment it’s going to melt away like an illusion.

  Sighing, I fidget with my hands. “Chase says you’d want to go with me to New York. It isn’t like I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d say no. I just know you’re busy. I’ve already caused enough of a stir for you—”

  “I already bumped up our tickets to first class. We’ll leave at eight the same morning you’d booked,” he says plainly, sitting at his desk and stretching his legs out in front of him. “I suppose we could have done coach, but there’s more room in first class, and less of a hassle when we’re recognized.”

  I blink slowly. “Oh.”

  “’Oh’ is right. You also probably didn’t think of what will happen when, not if, someone posts that we’ve been spotted on a plane headed to New York. By the time we land at the airport, there will be paparazzi everywhere wanting a first look at the newly married couple. Airport security will barely be able to control them, and they’ll need to call in reinforcements.”

  I gape, saying nothing.

  “So,” he continues, “I got my manager to get us a car. It’s the least the asshole could do. He also called security to ensure that we’d be safely taken off the plane by police escort and brought to our ride without any problems.”

  Swallowing, I look down. How many videos have I seen of those scenarios that I always brushed off like they were fiction. Completely made up. Unimportant, which to me, they always had been. It isn’t like anyone wants an exclusive with a broke ass girl from the middle of nowhere. “I didn’t think of any of that.”

  “Why would you?” he asks softly, voice caressing me with comfort. “If anyone should apologize for causing such a stir, it’s me. You entered my life and have to deal with everything that comes with it. That means no more privacy. No more plane rides where all you have to deal with is a little turbulence and the horrible snacks. It’ll take time getting used to this lifestyle now that you’re in it for a while.”

  “And do we have that?”

  “Do we have what?”

  I meet his eyes. “Time?”

  He understands the question I’m not asking, his answer causing me to suck in a deep breath. “If you’ll allow me, Mrs. Matthews, I’ll give you as much time as you want.”

  There are no expectations attached.

  No assumptions.

  I simply nod, a silent agreement between us left unspoken.

  Swiping my tongue along my bottom lip, I bring up his visitor. “Zayne stopped by earl
ier looking for you. I’m not sure if he said anything to you about it.”

  By the surprise raising his brows, I’d say not. “When was that?”

  I shrug. “This afternoon sometime.”

  His nose twitches, and I realize it’s similar to what mine does when I’m lying. Except the discomfort on his face tells me something else is going on in his mind.

  When he decides to speak, I’m wary of the question. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  Nibbling my lip, I give a hesitant nod. It’s the least I can offer him.

  “How did you feel about him?”

  I should have expected that to come up eventually, but it still makes me squirm when he directs those blue eyes on me. “Zayne was sweet to me. Talked to me about anything. Didn’t act like he had a bunch of money even though it was obvious that he did. The world knew him, everyone we saw loved him, and it was…strange.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  He’s right, so I stop stalling. “If I’d have given it a chance, I could have seen us becoming friends. I enjoyed the talks we had. Anything else would have never worked for a lot of different reasons.”

  Garrick seems stricken by that. “Why not? You’re beautiful, Ry. A—”

  “Catch,” I finish for him, remembering his little speech. Fighting the heat rising up my neck over how that conversation ended, I rub my palms down my thighs. “I know. But back then I was a much different person, and so was he. Today he seemed a lot more levelheaded compared to when I knew him. He told me he wasn’t using.”

  The man in the room cocks his head.

  I frown. “Was he lying?”

  “He and I don’t necessarily talk about that sort of thing. I’ve noticed a difference in him too but didn’t want to assume.”

  Makes sense. “Nothing happened between us if you’re worried about that. Then or now. And nothing will. I’m not like that.”

  “I never said you were.”

  I tap under my eye. “It’s in your eyes.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” he says.

  “I think we already did.” I sigh, knowing it’s true even if we both hate it. “But he seemed okay. Not angry. He must take after you.”