“That’s Marlon.” Rhyson runs a hand over my mussed hair and rests his hand at my neck. “I can send him away so we can talk.”

“No, no.” Even though our clothes are back on and Marlon is only moments away, his hands on me comfort and incite, so I step back, struggling to think clearly with him so close. “Do you mind if I don’t sit in on the session after all?”

He glances at me from under that fall of dark hair, brows knit into a frown, and blows out a heavy breath.

“Pep, I fly out for Chicago in the morning. If we don’t talk tonight—”

“I could actually use the time.” I twist my fingers together at my waist. “A few days to sort this out. A little space.”

“I’ve given you as much space as I can.” He searches my face, eyes concerned. “This wasn’t some quick fuck, Pep. This meant something to me.”

I don’t think I can measure what it meant to me. I’m afraid to assess just how much of me he absorbed when our bodies joined. Even standing apart, I still feel connected to him, but I have to start breathing again on my own. He feels like life support right now, and I will pull this plug. I cannot rely on him. I’ve seen where that gets you.

“Can we just talk when you get back from Chicago?”

When we were locked together on that table, neither of us held back—not our thoughts, our bodies, our responses. There was no hiding, but at my words, Rhyson’s expression shutters. I’m hurting him, but I don’t know how to stop, not and still preserve myself.

“If that’s what you want, Pep, then yeah.” He looks toward the door as Marlon’s footsteps on the stairs reach us. “We can talk later.”

I’ve bought myself a little time, but I’m not sure for what. After what we just shared, my body and my heart, my soul won’t be able to stay away. I’m not only resisting him. I’m resisting myself. I’m resisting the inevitable. I have no idea how to stop what’s happening between us, and despite the memories that haunt me, I keep forgetting why I should.

EXHAUSTION FROM DOING SOMETHING YOU LOVE is so different from doing something you can’t stand. When I drag myself into bed after a long shift at The Note, I have nothing but tips to show for it. There’s always been some satisfaction knowing I’ll make a tiny dent in Mama’s colossal medical debt. Since Rhyson paid off the bills, I don’t even have that anymore. But this exhaustion that stems from the preliminary rehearsals for the music video Dub booked, is kind of nice. I’ll take it any day over feet aching from slinging hash and serving customers.

It’s not just my body that aches. Not just my feet, my core, my arms that throb from doing today’s routine over and over. I ache with regret over how I handled things with Rhyson. I should have been more grateful. I shouldn’t have pushed him away. Chief among my regrets: I shouldn’t have had sex with him on a pool table.

I guess he has regrets too, since he hasn’t called, honoring my request for space. I got used to him always moving in my direction. I thought this would blow over. Maybe we’d exchange a few texts volleying movie quotes. We’d figure out a way to get past knowing one another in the Biblical sense and get back to pretending to be platonic.

But no dice. No calls. No texts.

I enter our apartment completely spent. Aching. Limp with fatigue, but still satisfied. San’s studying his phone, leaning against the counter that separates our kitchenette from the small patch of leisure passing as our living room.

“How’d rehearsals go?”

“Great.” I drop my bag to the floor and fall back on the couch. “The actual shoot is the day after tomorrow, so I have some time to polish. We just learned some basics today. Dub is a tyrant, but I caught on pretty fast because he’s a great teacher.”

“I’m sure you’re teacher’s pet.” San crosses into the living room and props himself on the arm of the couch. “He ask you out again?”

I roll my eyes and drop my head back against the cushion.

“Yeah, but I still said no. I’m gonna shower before I need to leave for my shift.”

“Ah, the glamorous life.” San chuckles and pulls his phone back out when it dings with an alert.

“Speaking of glamorous life, how’s it going with Spotted?” I drag myself to my feet, weary but waiting for his response before I hit the shower.

“Good.” He holds up his phone. “Just got a tip about a big party tonight.”

“Cool.” I start toward the bedroom.

“Talked to Rhyson yet?”

I know San so well that the hesitation in his voice stops me and turns me around to face him.

“No. Not since he left.”

For once, I didn’t tell San every gory detail of my life. I told him Rhyson and I fought over him paying my bills, but I didn’t tell him the fight ended on the pool table, with Rhyson as the cue stick and me the ball he hit. “Why?”

“No reason.” San averts his face from me, which is always a bad sign.

“San, what’s up?” I gulp. “Is he okay? Did you hear something? Or get a tip?”

“Nothing like that. We just ran a story today about him and Petra Adreyev.”

That name rings a tiny, disturbing bell. Bristol asked Rhyson if he would see Petra while he was in Chicago.

“What’d the story say?”

“She’s pretty active on Instagram and just posted a picture of them out at dinner last night. Since he’s so private and we don’t get much of him, lots of outlets picked it up.”

What right do I have to be jealous of him spending time with someone else? Even so, I can’t lie to myself about what sears my peace of mind. It’s jealousy.

“Cool. Glad he’s finding time to connect with . . . old friends.”

“Well, more than friends, but yeah.”

“What do you mean more than friends?”

“You know. They did a tour together when they were younger. Dueling pianos kinda thing. They were both prodigies and dated years ago. The classical music scene loved it.”

“Dated?” I’m confused, and I’m sure my face shows it. “No, Rhyson’s only dated one . . .”

He said he dated a girl his parents wanted for him. Petra would fit that bill perfectly. And he would have known her in the right time frame.

“You got the link?”

“Pep, I’m sure it’s nothing. You don’t want to—”

“Rhyson and I aren’t dating, San. I’ve made that abundantly clear to him.” Obviously he can see who he wants to see.” I wiggle my fingers for him to hand the phone over. “I want to see.”

The picture is a selfie of them at dinner posted to Petra’s Instagram account. She’s kissing his cheek, but looking into the camera. Rhyson wears an exasperated grin, but looks like he’s enjoying himself. Her plate is empty and there’s a to-go carton in front of Rhyson. I wonder if he still only eats out with me. If he trusts that part of himself with only me. That contrary bitch inside who won’t let herself have him hopes so.

Petra’s beautiful. Blonde with green eyes. Another stunning, insanely musically gifted person is walking around in the world. There are two of them, and of course, everyone would want them to couple up and clone themselves. Breathing hurts when I think of Rhyson with some gorgeous fellow genius piano prodigy who is perfect for him and whom his parents love.

The pain of losing my mother—that happened to me. I had no control over how loss raided my life, stealing one thing after another that I loved. But this? Rejecting Rhyson when he wanted me and then seeing him possibly move on . . . move back . . . to someone who hurt him before, who doesn’t deserve a second chance, this I inflicted on myself.

I hand the phone to San and walk back toward my bedroom without answering the question on San’s face.

“It’s just dinner, Kai,” he calls after me.

I close my bedroom door before he can offer more assurances that don’t make me feel any better. Rhyson’s been gone for days and hasn’t called. I’m the one who asked for space, so calling him would defeat that purpose, but missing him feels like a sad flower growing inside of me every day—an ache that keeps budding, opening up in my soul. I’d forgotten how much fun life could be until Rhyson entered mine. As much as they tried, San and Grady couldn’t drag me out of that solitary confinement my grief had consigned me to.