Read All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Liberty Kontranowski
“Kallie. I’m not going to fool myself anymore. Or try to fool you. I am who I am. And I’ll just hurt you.”
“You won’t. I know you won’t.”
“I do love you,” he says, with a fire in his eyes. “And that’s why I won’t promise anything to you. I just won’t. Because then I can’t regret anything if,
when
, I fuck it up.”
My knees go weak and every bit of my breath leaves my lungs.
He said it.
Niles Russell just said that he loves me. I heard it. It was not a book passage or a fantasy or a hallucination. It was real.
But now what? Now he’s backing away from me instead of walking toward me. Where is he going? This is supposed to be the part where we hug and take each other’s hands and walk back to his apartment so we can finally seal the deal. That’s what’s supposed to come next. But, it’s not.
“I probably can’t totally be without you,” he says, “so I’m sure you’ll get a random text from me here or there. Write back, or ignore them if you want. I get it.”
My feet are frozen to the ground. He takes a few steps toward me, then quickly brushes his lips over mine. I feel his breath in my ear and hear his whisper down my spine. “I really do love you. I need you to know that.”
Then, in the next breath, he’s gone. My hand goes out to grab his shirt, to reach for his arm, to stop him. But he’s gone. There is no more pleading, no begging, no rationalizing, no words. Just like that, he’s out of reach, then out of earshot, and then finally out of sight.
What in the hell just happened?
Carry On
The plane ride home was tortuous. So was the cab ride. I refused to call Sara to pick me up so late, and besides, I have no interest in filling her in yet anyway—or maybe for the next forty years—so I managed on my own.
I burst through my door and heave my bags onto the couch. For at least the two millionth time since Niles left me standing in that passageway, I check my phone. There’s not one bit of communication from him. No new emails, no new texts, no missed calls.
Why isn’t he calling me?
I flop down on my floor and stare up at my ceiling. After so many flight delays, it’s clear I should have just kept my original. It’s 3:00 a.m. and I should be dog tired, but all I think about is how I should be with Niles right now, staring up at
his
ceiling. Or asleep, snuggled up next to him. Or, better yet, making love to him.
I reach for my phone and scroll to his number. I have to call him. I have to hear his voice. But wait, it’s 3:00 a.m. Wouldn’t that make me the Mayor of Crazyville? Yeah, for sure it would. And besides, I’m pissed at him. He left me there. All alone. In New York City, where a newbie finding her way around is like setting a two-year-old in the middle of a corn maze. It took me ages to find my way back to the hotel. (But not before I walked past what could have been our apartment, because that, of course, I easily found.)
My mind spins with memories of the past few weeks. It’s hard to grasp that’s all they are now. Memories. Is that really what we’ve become? How did that happen? How did we go from insta-bond to seconds-away-from-having-sex to let’s-rent-a-NYC-apartment-together to we’ll-probably-never-talk-again, all in the course of a few weeks?
Oh yeah, I fucked everything up. At least that’s what it feels like. But so did he. So there’s that.
I scroll through the pictures on my phone. The last one was of Niles and me sneaking a selfie in the master bedroom of the apartment. Mindy was in the hallway waiting for us, and Niles and I had just exchanged knowing looks. Knowing that the apartment was a win and knowing that we’d make some beautiful memories there. Neither of us even had to say anything. Niles just reached for my phone, arranged himself beside me, stuck out his arm, and snapped the pic.
I study our faces. They’re full of hope and excitement and anticipation of what’s to come. We look so natural. Like any normal couple about to make a big decision together. In this pic, I’m not an author and he’s not a rock star. I’m just Kallie and he’s just Niles. And we’re so uncomplicatedly happy.
I can’t help myself. I call him.
“I was hoping you’d call,” he answers. “I just didn’t think it’d be at three a.m.” He laughs a little, his voice hoarse and sexy.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea what I want to say.
Thankfully, his tongue and brain are working better than mine. “Are you home? Like, home-home?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I was worried about you. I’m so sorry I left you alone like that.”
Though I
should
give him a good tongue lashing for leaving me stranded, then not even texting to check in on me, I have no interest in talking about my crash course in New York City foot travel, horrific (and multiple) flight delays, or creepy late-night cab rides. I want to talk about us. I want to tell him what he didn’t let me tell him this afternoon. I want to set things straight and make a game plan for making this right. No pussyfooting around. I want to get down to business.
“I miss you already,” I whisper. I barely hear myself, so I’m not sure if he heard me either.
“Trust me,” he says, almost as softly, “I miss you more.”
My heart pangs as I dig my fingers into the carpet beneath me. “If that’s true,” I sniff, “then why am I here and you’re there?”
There’s a long silence. So long that I wonder if the call got dropped. But then he says, “We’re getting back on the road at ten sharp. I suppose I should get some sleep. Thank you for calling. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m
not
okay,” I protest, because playing it cool is absolutely not on my agenda. I knew going into this call that I had no hope for keeping my composure, so I’m just putting it all out there. Because, really, what do we have left to lose?
“I know, Kal,” he says, quietly. “I just meant that I’m glad you made it home safely.” I hear him breathing, and I swear I hear a sniff, too. “I’m not okay either. Not even close.”
“We need to fix this, Niles. We shouldn’t be sad like this. It’s just proof of how much we really do love each other.”
“I’m too broken to be fixed, Kallie. You and your girls? You need so much better than me.”
Those terrible—and completely untrue—words are like BBs penetrating through the tin can that is me. I cannot stand to hear him talk like this. Why is he so, so hard on himself? Why can’t he see that his past doesn’t have to define his future? Why can’t he realize that one mistake doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve me? Why am I failing so hard at helping him understand this?
“You’re better than you give yourself credit for, Niles. So much better.”
There’s another silence, and it hangs there for ages, like fog over a lake. “I need to go,” he says finally, his voice shaking. “Thank you for . . . all the wonderful memories.” Then he pauses again, just for a beat and says, “I love you.”
I try to answer back. Tell him that I love him, too. Tell him that I don’t care about his past or how awful he thinks he is or how much he feels the girls and I need someone better. I try to say anything at all to keep the lines of communication open, but it’s all for nothing. He’s gone and “Call Ended” glares back at me from my phone.
I allow a new wave of tears to wash over me as I grab a throw pillow from my couch and hold it in my arms. I fall asleep, just as is, on my floor. I wake up at least once an hour and my mind immediately goes to Niles, but I don’t move. I stay there on the floor, fully dressed, a crumpled mess with airplane hair and smeary mascara. Doing anything to make myself more comfortable seems too self-indulgent and I want to make myself pay. Pay for using him, pay for hurting him, and pay for inadvertently confirming the POS viewpoint he has of himself. And, of course, pay for sabotaging our future.
Finally, at 9:00 a.m., with stiff muscles, crusty eyes, and a phone that stayed silent the rest of the night, I get up.
What am I gonna do next?
***
Showers were made to renew the soul; I am convinced of it. While standing under its heated, pulsing comfort, I make a plan for how I’m going to tackle the day, because Lord knows that’s as far ahead as I can think right now.
I’m going to email Lucy to tell her that Niles and I are keeping to ourselves for a while. I won’t offer explanations and I won’t make it sound like it’s do or die. I’ll just be succinct and matter-of-fact and professional. That’ll take care of that. For now.
Then, I’ll sit my butt down and work on Book Two. This is dangerous, maybe, because I have no idea what will pour out, given what’s transpired over the last couple days. But I need to get some thoughts out, some words on the page. I need to sort through some of the stuff that will surely dominate my thoughts, maybe forever, and see if there’s any inspiration I can pluck from it all. Writing is my therapy and I need it now more than ever.
I’ll stay glued to my keyboard for as long as necessary, ignoring the rest of the world, until my mind is empty for that moment. Then I’ll get up and clean this apartment. With all my jet-setting and rock star loving, I have neglected it to within an inch of its life. The flowers Niles got me over a week ago are testament to that, as they sit, wilted and rotty-stemmed in the vase on my table.
Or maybe I’ll just sit here and cry. Because that’s what I really want to do.
I look at my phone and will it to ring. It doesn’t. I look at my door and wish for a knock on the other side. There isn’t one. I look at my couch and long for it to be cradling Niles’s bum, like it had when he came home with me the day after we met. It isn’t.
I think about how I am going to write when just days ago I was sitting on Niles’s rooftop, with the New York City skyline and hot kisses as my inspiration. Now, I’m alone, staring at the walls of this lonely apartment, with not a single morsel of inspiration to be found.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What am I thinking? I can’t just sit here. I’ll go mad. And I’ll no doubt have to start coming up with answers for all the questions that will surely be fired my way once people figure out I’m home.
Nope, there is no way I can stay here. I need to get out. And not just out, as in out for groceries. I mean out, as in totally away from here.
Where can I go?
I think about the next leg of Niles’s tour. Baltimore tonight, then Virginia Beach, then a couple dates in North Carolina.
North Carolina. Where my girls are.
My crazy mind can’t help but piece together a plan. What if I hopped on a plane to go see the girls? I’ve been wanting to. In the beginning of this whole Niles whirlwind, I entertained thoughts of going to see them but, alas, got a little, well, sidetracked. Maybe this is the perfect time. I’ll rent a cabin in the woods and spend a couple weeks down there. Toward the end of my book, Emily had rented a cabin in the woods so she could write, so I’ll totally channel my inner Emily and get some work done, too. Yes, this is perfect!
For the first whole week I’ll write until my fingers fall off and my butt cheeks go numb. I’ll see the girls for a few days during week two and we’ll enjoy a little mommy-daughter time together in a neutral place. That’ll help chop up our long summer apart and give Brad a little break, too. And maybe, since I don’t exactly expect that Niles will surprise me there like Nash surprised Emily, I’ll sneak into one of his shows just to see him perform again. I won’t stalk him after or even tell him I’m there. I’ll just admire him from afar, as I did before any of this happened. Just watch him and indirectly be with him, since I can no longer actually
be with him
. Yes, this is good! I’m loving this idea.
I head straight to the cabin rental website and sift through my options. I click through picture after picture of nature-infused coziness and can’t believe my luck when I find a place about an hour from Brad’s parents. It’s absolutely darling and close but not too close. I’m smitten. What’s more, the concert venue Niles is playing at is a couple hours in the other direction. Not wild about the aspect of highway driving to get there, but maybe I’ll just spend the night in town that night. Sounds perfect. I’m in!
I close my eyes and my mind immediately sets me on the cabin’s quaint little front porch, where I’ll type away for hours on end. Honestly, I can’t think of anything more heavenly, unless Niles was seated in the chair next to me, working on his album. Now,
that
would be heavenly. And then we’d sneak little peeks at each other, and after we caught each other’s eye and tossed out some overly hokey eyebrow raises and air kisses, we’d head inside and then, well, you know.
Whoa, girl.
C’mon back. Focus, focus, focus.
I close my eyes again and shake those gutterific thoughts from my mind. This is serious. If I’m going to do this, I better get my shit together before I chicken out.
Okay. Next stop, StubHub. I poke around for a ticket to Niles’s show, resisting the urge to grab a front-row spot and picking one in the eighth row instead. Still close, but not likely to be discovered from the stage. Even though I
do
kind of want him to see me. Or do I? Yes and no. More yes than no. Ugh, this is ridiculous.
So what happens if he does see me? Will it be weird? I imagine maybe a little. Will we smile at each other? Exchange knowing looks? Will I throw him off or make him mad? Will he send Zeke over afterwards to invite me backstage where we’ll make up and pretend that none of this yuck ever happened? Or will I go totally unnoticed and he’ll leave the stage, head to the after-party without me (or worse, with someone else!) and I’ll head back to the cabin and cry myself to sleep yet again? Seems like all I do these days is cry. Do I really want to do something that will surely take me for a spin down The Road of Tears once more?
Yeah, okay. Maybe I shouldn’t go to the show.
But I have to. I absolutely have to.
I buy the ticket and say a silent prayer that fate will intervene and what is meant to happen, will. I can only control so much. I can put myself in his path as much as I always have and see what happens from there. It’s worked before—whether I intended for it to or not—and I have to have faith that it will work again. I can’t imagine we’d have gone through all this for just a few weeks’ worth of memories. There must be more in store for us. There’s gotta be more in store.
And judging by the subject line of the email that just came in from Lucy, I have to believe there is.