Blue Horizons (A Horizons Novel Book 1) (35 page)

SHIT, THAT HURT!

“What the hell, Clay?” Rubbing my jaw, I lick my lip and taste blood. I can’t believe he just punched me. In all the years that we’ve been friends, we’ve never fought, and he’s never hit me.

Keeping my eyes on him, his nostrils are flared, his face is red, and he’s breathing hard. He’s really upset over this, whereas I’m silently panicking over Ava.

I don’t understand why she left. There was no note, no missed call, and no text—well except one from Juliet—but nothing from Ava.

Ava.

My face hardens as I stare at my best friend. Whatever. I can’t deal with this right now. He’s not ready to have this conversation with me, and I’m not ready to share. It doesn’t concern him anyway.

For almost twenty years, we’ve been friends, and just like that, a fissure splits into the core of us. He’s my family, and yeah, families get upset with each other, but to me, this is more. It’s more than that. At least I now know what he really thinks of me. All this time, I thought he’d be happy for Juliet and me. Guess I was wrong.

Without saying another word, I turn, leaving him standing in the living room, and walk back to my bathroom to grab a towel.

The front door slams and the silence resumes.

I’ve never been one to cry, but damn, if I sure don’t feel like it right now. To think I was so happy when I woke up.

Hands down, last night was
the
best night of my life.

Between the show and her, I’m not so sure it could ever get any better. Leaning against the counter and staring into the shower, images of us flash through my mind at a rapid pace.

Her smile, her touch, the willingness, the passion . . . I never expected her to be so responsive. It’s been so long since she’s allowed anyone to touch her, I was worried I would be too much for her. Nope. She wanted it just as much as I did.

Damn, I adore her.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips, perfect body that fits so well with mine. My heart squeezes in my chest and I slide my hand up to rub it. Between her, Clay, and Juliet, I’m at a loss and just dumbfounded.

Breathing deeply through my nose, it’s subtle, but the bathroom still smells like us, smells like her. I want to permanently fuse that smell into everything I own.

Squeezing the edge of the counter, I wrack my brain for what to do. I mean, what do I
do
? Again, I don’t understand. The panic I’m feeling turns to worry. My jaw clenches and the muscles across my shoulders and neck tighten. Twisting my head back and forth, I flex them to try and dissolve the tension.

Did I do something or say something to upset her? Did I unknowingly hurt her? Sweat beads across my forehead, so I run the towel across my face. Taking in a few deep breaths, I need to calm my racing heart, pull myself together, and figure out what to do next.

There has to be an explanation. She owes me one after last night, and I’m going to get it, even if I have to track her down.

Walking back to the living room, I drop down on the couch, lean forward, and run my hands through my hair. I just don’t understand. She was fully invested in us last night, and I thought we had officially committed ourselves to being something more, something deeper. I know I felt it. And I for damn sure thought she did too.

Shaking my head, the more I think about it, the more I’m certain this doesn’t make any sense. Four hours ago, her head was on my chest, her arm was draped across my stomach, and she had completely tangled her legs with mine as she went to sleep. She was content, she was happy, and now suddenly she’s gone.

The panic I’m feeling borders a little on fury that she would leave without, one, saying goodbye or, two, confronting me if something happened. She’s not the type of girl to have a one-night stand and do the walk of shame. She’s also not the type of girl to stir up a bunch of unnecessary drama.

Picking up my phone, I hit her name, and it goes straight to voicemail.

Voicemail.

Dammit!

I HATE TECHNOLOGY.

If I’d never picked up his phone, I never would have seen her text, I never would have walked out, and I wouldn’t be reliving this heartache seven years later.

A stupid text message!

Eleven words that now have more meaning behind them than when I first saw them. Eleven words that have cut open my chest, ripped out my heart, and stomped on it over and over again. Had it been a simple
call me later
or a
I hope you’ll come see us soon
,
I might have reacted a little differently. But
I think it’s fair to say after hearing his answer to Clay my knee-jerk reaction to what I read was spot on.

It’s been two and a half weeks since I left him in Nashville, and I don’t feel even the slightest bit better. Over and over in my mind, I keep hearing him saying, “We did,” and each time my heart breaks all over again. I can’t believe he asked someone else to marry him and then spent all that time with me.

The front door opens and closes, and Tank launches herself off of the bed to go greet Emma.

“Who’s a pretty girl? Who’s a pretty girl?” I hear float down the hallway. My mouth turns upward in a smile and it pushes on my cheeks. The feeling is foreign; it’s been a long time since I smiled.

Emma wanders into my room and sets down a large Starbucks latte on my desk. Just the smell has my stomach growling and me moaning. I do love coffee.

“Please tell me you are not still in here watching YouTube clips of him,” she frowns at me.

“I’m not.” I stare up at her guiltily and blink.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve watched every clip of him performing, giving an interview, and accepting awards. It’s like a drug and I can’t quit. The way he smiles, laughs, sings . . . I need it and can’t get enough.

“Then what are you doing? Because I’m looking at your screen and there’s Mancake front and center.”

A deep sigh slips between my lips and I glance back at the screen. “I’m scrolling through Google images of him while I wait for the cupcakes to cool so I can frost them.” She sits down on the edge of my bed and looks at the photo of him walking with Juliet, holding a tiny brown-haired baby. She frowns and then flips to another one.

Looking at these photos of him, he looks so different from the guy I’ve grown to know. In the pictures where he’s by himself, he’s smiling, but there’s an apparent brooding and a ruggedness to him that comes across as standoffish. In the pictures where she’s with him, he looks relaxed, there are permanent laugh lines around his eyes, and those sexy dimples are present more than they’re not.

“You do realize how pathetic this is, right? You need to stop wondering and ask him about her. Clearly he wants to talk to you, so answer his texts! And you need to stop baking. If it’s there I’m gonna eat it, I can’t help it, and today my pants were tighter.” She glares at me, and then her eyes turn sad as she takes in my appearance. I had accidentally thrown his t-shirt I’d worn after the benefit into my bag, and upon discovering it, I haven’t really taken it off except to shower and wash it.

“Yeah, I know, pathetic, and next batch, I’ll drop off at the studio.” The thought of her not wanting anymore baked goods makes me frown. She’s always loved them, but I guess I have gone overboard.

And pathetic doesn’t even describe the person I’ve become. Work doesn’t pick up again until this weekend, so I haven’t been needed anywhere, Instead, I’ve been sitting in the apartment wondering how he’s spending his days. Is he with that little boy, is he with Juliet, is he really even disappointed that things ended?

On the way back to the hotel, I opened Pandora’s Box. I never should have typed his name into the search bar on my phone. Photo after photo, page after page, article after article. There are so many of him. In hindsight, I feel extremely stupid for not recognizing him sooner. Especially the first night at Smokey’s. He even had his signature black hat on then. Everyone knows him, regardless if they like country music or not. But what broke my heart and continues to break it into a thousand pieces are all of the pictures of him and her together.

Not once did he mention her.

I would feel differently if she was some girl passing in the wind, but she’s not. There are years of photos of them together, and after hearing his confession, I’m just sad.

Torturing myself, I did scroll through the pages, hoping to see him in photos with lots of women, and sure, there were a few here and there, but it was obvious they were with fans. All of the promotional and awards photos,
she
was in them. She is the one he spends his time with, and as far back as these photos go, she is the one his heart must belong to. Juliet Brooks.

But the images that took the pieces of my heart and pulverized them were the ones of him, her, and the little boy. Most of the boy’s pictures are censored, but Ash is in them from the very beginning: from stroller walks to playing on the playground. If my guess is accurate, he must be around four or five now.

“Has
he
texted you yet today?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts of squashed dreams of him, me, children, and a playground.

He’s texted me every day since I walked out. Multiple times. At first they were urgent, then they were short and pleading, now they are determined.

“Yes. Early this morning he asked again if I would come spend Christmas with him at the lake house.” Why he wants me there, I don’t know. Shouldn’t he be with her? After all, from the way that text sounded at his condo, he’d spent Thanksgiving with her.

Emma even tried to play detective for me, slipping Juliet into one of her conversations with Clay, but he refused to talk about Ash, Juliet, or me. He said it wasn’t his story to tell, and that Ash and I needed to work it out on our own.

Maturity points there for Clay. And even though we didn’t find anything out, it endears me to know that he won’t gossip about his friend.

“Did you respond?” Emma asks, taking a sip of her latte.

“Not once, although that hasn’t stopped him.” And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ll be even more crushed the day it does.

I don’t even know why I’m not texting him back. Me! I’m probably the real problem here, not him. He’s been nothing but a complete gentleman to me. A simple question asking him to explain who she is to him would be sufficient, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. What if he really is planning on marrying her? She obviously means enough for him to broach the subject. I’m just not sure if I can handle the truth when he means so much to me. I do feel horrible though, and that makes me the worst friend in the world to him.

Emma stands up and turns to face me. “Well, heads up, a little birdie told me the guys are headed to New York.”

“What?!” I jerk toward her in the desk chair, almost knocking the coffee over.

Right then my phone dings and lights up with an incoming text. I grab it, and read it.

Ash: I’ll be at your apartment in thirty minutes. You better be there and make sure you tell your doorman to let me up.

Oh my God!

Nerves. Excitement. Worry. Anticipation.

He’s on his way here.