Truth

Not until I knew the whole truth. Not until I found her, and knew that she was okay, and I got to the bottom of all the lies. Did it matter? Probably not. Because even if she was pregnant with my child, that child couldn’t have survived what she did. I knew that the Angelina I thought I knew was long gone. In fact, looking back, I didn’t even think I knew her to begin with. But just because the Angelina that I’d spent several nights with, her curled up beside my body, wasn’t the girl I thought I knew, that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less.

Because it did.

And it was something I couldn’t pull myself out of.

The not knowing, the uncertainty of it all, the guilt.

It sunk into my very bones.

Exhaling all the air in my lungs, I pulled my eyes away from my phone that I’d thrown on the bed and looked down at the stupid spoon. I started to sweat out of every pore possible, my breathing even more erratic than before. I jerked my head upward to Brooklyn crying out with sweet laughter.

I focused on it for a few minutes, trying to calm the millions of emotions swarming in my body. I tried to steady the emotional rollercoaster I was on from the voicemails and memories.

Focus on that sweet laugh. Focus on anything other than your own shit for once.

I hurriedly ripped off my shirt, needing the cotton to get off my sweat-covered skin. I felt queasy, and angry, completely out of control.

“Get your shit together, King,” I snapped to myself.

Swallowing, I clenched my eyes and worked on breathing correctly and pushing Angelina from my head. When I opened my eyes once more, my gaze went directly to the spoon.

I quickly grabbed it and a piece of notebook paper and started to scribble the stupidest, almost juvenile, words down.

What does the spoon make me feel? Hopefully something other than what I feel when I think about Angelina.

Once I had enough shit written down and my heart was resuming to a normal pace, I flung the door open, stalked past the bunks, and went straight for Brooklyn who was sitting on the couch in an off-the-shoulder shirt and cotton pants. Her dark hair was pulled into a high pony, and she had the daintiest pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.

Kent, our bus driver, was sitting across the living area, laughing at something Brooklyn had said. I ignored him and walked right in front of Brooklyn, waiting for her to look up at me.

She paused for a second, staring at my naked torso before raising her pink-tinted cheeks to me. “Yes?” she asked, her voice seeming bored.

I gritted my teeth together and held out the crumpled-up piece of paper. “Here.”

Brooklyn snatched the paper out of my hand and quickly scanned the contents and nodded her head. She looked up at me once more with those dark-framed glasses on her face and smiled. “Are you ready to work now?”

I rolled my eyes before nodding my head to the back room.

Was I ready to work?

No, but I needed a motherfucking distraction, and I needed it now.

Chapter Eight

Brooklyn

Calming breaths. Calming breaths. He’s just a normal person. A normal person who isn’t wearing a shirt. A normal person who isn’t wearing a shirt and who sings like a god. A normal person who has abs that look so hard they make my eyes hurt.

It was fine.

Reid and I were both sitting on the bed, on opposite ends, staring at each other.

I was constantly surrounded by awkward moments. I swore it.

“So, are you going to help me write some songs, or…”

Oh, right. I was there to help him write music. What was my plan again? Should I have had a lesson plan? I felt like I should have had a lesson plan.

Just wing it, Brooklyn. Fake it till you make it.