Page 101 of Be My Rebound

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I wave him goodbye. They should have a happy dinner without me.

They really should have a happy life without me. What does Juliette need me for? What does anyone need me for? I’m nothing but a selfish— I’m nothing.

Dummy.

Yeah, okay. I’m that too. Laurel figured me out. And she loved me all the same.

“You need to talk to Juliette.” Shane takes off his painting suit.

“Not just try.” Graham joins in. “But get her to listen to you.” He knows what’s going on, of course.

My mouth opens to reply with something scathing, but in the end all I can do is shrug. I am not a quitter, but even I reach a point where giving up is tempting.

Although, that’s not quite right. That’s downright wrong. I am a quitter. I quit on Laurel for reasons that don’t make any sense anymore, and I don’t dare to show my face in front of her again no matter what Vincent said.

“Man, you’re looking more miserable than ever,” Shane says.

I yank the mask off. “How did you… When you and Juliette had that fight where she ran away…” I can’t believe I’m about to ask him for relationship advice. “How did you fix it?”

Shane defies my expectations and doesn’t gloat. “I was willing to abandon everything and fly across the ocean to make things right. Don’t you remember?”

I do. He was in England, she was in Hong Kong, and he flew back without any warning to get Gabe to tell him how to get a hold of her.

“You can fix it,” Graham adds when I stand there silent and way too deep in my head to answer.

“No.” I tug off the work gloves and drop them and the mask onto a workbench. “I can’t fix anything.” A feeling I almost never experience crushes my chest in its relentless jaws—anxiety. “How do I fix stupid? How do I fix Laurel’s broken heart?”

“You do that by loving her more than you ever did before.” Shane sounds easy, convinced. “You don’t let a second pass by without proving to her that she’s the most important thing ever and you support her no matter what.”

I know this, but I’m terrified down to the last calcium atom of my bones that it will not work. That I’ll try everything, and it won’t be enough. That she will never forgive me. That I’ll never get over Laurel if she rejects me. That I will blot her out of my memory if the pain will be too much. I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want to be without her.

“I hate being in love,” I growl.

“Don’t beinlove. Just love,” Graham says before exiting the workshop.

Shane claps me on the shoulder. “What he said.” Then he follows his older brother.

I stay for a few moments to marinate in the fumes and crippling disorientation. My mind’s caving in under the weight of whys and hows and what-ifs. It seems so simple—go visit Laurel, tell her I was an idiot, and hope for the best. But Laurel is a clever girl. She knows I’m not flawless. She’s got a taste of how fleeting I am. Cherry on the cake—she’s got the strongest self-preservation mechanisms. I want to hope she’d take me back, but why would she?

Everything inside me begs to leave and go home, but I return to the main house. No quitting even if I die in battle. I don’t, however, join Juliette and the O’Neal brothers for dinner. I skirt around the kitchen and settle in the living room to play guitar. Shane keeps a beautiful acoustic in there, and the sensation of strings and their vibrations in my skin soothe like nothing else can. At least this has remained a constant in my life—music. Music still consoles and carries me away and buoys me when I’m drowning.

They talk in quiet voices easily overpowered by my playing, but as I switch the songs, I hear Juliette say, “You know what sounds good? One of those raspberry-lemon tarts from that place in the Arts District.”

“I’ll go get you one.” Shane volunteers. Juliette’s inability to tolerate most foods is still quite strong, so anytime she says she’s in a mood for something, he drops everything and gets it for her.

“Just order delivery,” she says.

Chair legs scrape against the floor. “I don’t mind going out. Come on, Graham.”

“I know what you’re doing,” she grumbles. “It won’t work.”

“Then you have nothing to be unhappy about. One or two or more?”

She huffs, he chuckles, then the sound of a garage door sliding open and deafening silence.

I kill it with more playing. Quiet, slow, peaceful melodies that shouldn’t provoke.

Shouldn’t but do anyway.