“I didn’t break up with him because of that. Though it helped my decision, okay? We didn’t ever connect on a level that made the relationship worth keeping up.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he demands.
“Maybe I needed a little time after breaking up with my boyfriend of seven months before—before considering anything else,” I say, keeping whatever is between us as vague as possible.
He glares at me. “You could have told me. I wouldn’t have been such a dick this past week.”
I clench my hands into fists. “Nice. You seriously think you had a right to be a dick. Nice,” I repeat with a shake of my head. At least my tears are starting to let up.
“After the way you left and went back to him . . .” He sighs and leans close again. “Never mind. Just tell me why you’re crying.”
At the thought of why, my stupid eyes start tearing up again.
His hands come back to my shoulders. “What’s going on?” When I draw in a deep breath, his fingers grip me tight. “Peyton?”
“I figured out the lyrics,” I say, my voice choked.
He cocks his head. “Lyrics?”
“To—to ‘Trace.’ ”
“Oh.” His eyes widen in surprise. He lowers his hands from my shoulders and looks down. “I wrote that two years ago,” he finally says.
“Do you feel any different now?”
He swallows, then says in a hoarse tone, “No.”
The look of pain on his face has my tears flowing again. “I’m sorry, Sam,” I say, stepping forward into his chest and wrapping my arms around him. “So, so sorry.”
His arms encircle me. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He draws in a deep breath. “No one does. It’s something I have to learn to deal with. To accept.” He releases a whoosh of air that blows the hair on my shoulder back. “It’s just damn hard to let the old Seth go.”
“The whole thing sucks,” I mumble against his shirt.
His arms crush me as he holds me tighter. “I miss him so fucking much,” he says into my hair, his voice cracking with pain.
Both crying, we stand holding on to each other, drowning in sadness together because there’s nothing else we can do.
Chapter 27
Though I can’t make out the words, I can hear Justin in the hotel bathroom as he facetimes with Allie. Romeo sits at the desk, intent on shuffling papers. I lounge in a chair and flick through TV channels. There is tons of stuff to do in Pittsburgh but I’m too whipped to leave the room. After I did my daily blog stuff, Justin and I spent most of the afternoon fighting over TV channels. He likes to watch stupid reality crap on MTV; I prefer the old-style videos. At least now that he’s busy with his girlfriend, I have the remote to myself. Romeo looked at sales numbers in between phone calls that he took out on the balcony. Apparently, we’re all too tired to do anything away from the room. And obviously, after the tiff Sam and I had the other day at the diner, Romeo put the rollaway in his room when we checked in.
My phone on the table next to me dings, signaling an incoming message. I pick it up halfheartedly. Gabe texted, Come down to the bar. I’m bored out of my mind, sitting by myself.
I reply, Too tired.
Please! pops up right away, then, Just one drink before dinner.
We’re all supposed to meet in one of the hotel restaurants for dinner.
He sends several more begging messages, until I text back, Fine!
I slip on my flip-flops and grab my purse. “Heading down to the bar for a drink with Gabe,” I tell Romeo, trying to be polite.
Without looking up from his spreadsheets, he shrugs.
I exit the room with a huff. Fine, so he doesn’t give a crap where I go. It just seemed impolite to get up and leave.
Sam’s room is right around the corner, so I tiptoe down the hallway to the elevator. Facing him has become uncomfortable. We’ve come full circle after the other night of crying together about Seth. Both of us are being distantly polite. Now that I have internally admitted my feelings for him, his proximity is far more painful than before.
Lucky for me, the coast stays clear of Sam all the way down to the lobby. I find Gabe sitting on a stool in the bar, picking at a bowl of nuts on the counter. There is a couple at a table in the far corner. Other than that, the lounge is empty.
“Hey,” Gabe says with a wide smile, and pats the seat next to him. “Let me buy you a drink.”
The bartender comes over and I say, “A Diet Coke with a lime.”
Looking up from texting on his phone, Gabe shakes his head and smiles at the guy. “How about a little rum in it? Vodka? Whiskey?”
“Just a lime,” I repeat. I’m planning on going to bed early and getting a good night of sleep. Rollaways suck, but they beat the couch on the back of the bus any day.
His expression is exasperated as he reaches for his beer. “So what are pussy-whipped Thing One and Thing Two up to?”
The bartender sets my drink in front of me.
“One is going over sales.” I reach into the bowl of nuts. “The other is busy on FaceTime.”
Gabe’s eyes light up. “Phone sex?”
I toss a nut at him. “Don’t put shit in my head like that.”
Suddenly, Sam is on the other side of Gabe.
My fingers pause inside the bowl. My pulse goes up a notch at Sam’s nearness, and I’m instantly, embarrassingly nervous.
“Thought you were alone and bored,” Sam says tightly to Gabe before his eyes flash to me.
Gabe stands. “I was.” He finishes his beer in one long gulp and throws a ten-dollar bill onto the bar. “Need to hit the restroom.” He turns to go but as Sam turns too, he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Dude, you two need to figure this shit out. If I’m sick of the tension between you two, it’s gotta be way worse in your shoes.” With a hand on Sam’s shoulder, he steers him toward the empty bar stool next to me.
When nerves have me shoving away from the bar, Gabe pushes my stool in. “Come on, Peyton. You’re tougher than this.”
Then he’s gone.
Sam and I both stare forward at the wall of glass shelves filled with liquor. Stupid Gabe and his stupid games. Things need to settle between Sam and me. But time, not conversation, is what we need.
Sam finally breaks the silence, saying, “So he bombarded you with texts too?”
“Yup,” I say, sipping my drink and wishing I hadn’t come down.
Sam orders a beer, and I keep my gaze on the bartender reaching into the cooler for a bottle. With the beer now in front of him, Sam draws in a deep breath, sighs, and says, “Haven’t touched anything but alcohol since that night you helped me with the nosebleed.”
Though I’m aware he’s trying to break the ice and get on my good side, my nerves disappear at his news. Immediately understanding that he’s implying I helped him get off drugs, I turn. “That is awesome. Has it—has it been hard?”
“A little,” he says with a wince, reaching for the bottle in front of him. “I knew using was a crutch, but that night and your reaction to it made me realize how close I was coming to addiction. It had become habitual to use when I was down.”
My eyes widen as I realize how close to the edge he had been. “I’m really glad to hear you’ve stopped.”
He nods.
Silence reigns as we both stare at our drinks until Sam says in an absent tone, “Why does it feel like we’re back to where we started?”
“Because we are?” I say, my voice a low grumble.
“I’m trying to do what you asked for. I’m giving you time, Peyton.” He takes a long swig of his beer, then sets it down with a clunk. “I’m not sure for what, but I’m trying.”
I twist my drink on its coaster. He’s not giving me anything to go on. I’m clueless where I stand with him. “I’m not sure either.”