He nods, but his body remains tight and tense. “I know. I just wish to God that I had.”

In the dark, I find his hand. Our fingers thread in a comforting clasp. Over the last year, all of us have spoken about John’s depression, and we’ve tried to talk things out more, voicing our burdens when they become too much to bear. It’s helped. But I’ve never shared any of this with Rye. The comfort of doing so is strangely relieving. He lets me be open without feeling weak.

“I used to call John,” I say at last. “When I woke up.”

Rye’s breath stalls for a second. “Me too.”

A soft, brief laugh escapes me. “God, maybe we all did.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Rye says with a smile in his voice. But he’s raw. I can feel it.

“He has Stella now, though.” I ease back a little and rest my head on Rye’s shoulder. “So I stopped.”

“Bren…”

The quiet sorrow in his voice has me speaking over him. “It’s okay, you know? I don’t need—Killian thinks I need to go on vacation, get away from the band for a while. I think he’s right.” Shit. I can do this. I can. “About the break.”

Rye turns my way. I feel the weight of his gaze. Everything is about to change. We both know it. There’s only the matter of who goes first.

“We could stay here,” he finally says, slowly, like he’s forcing the words out. “Take a break.”

God, that sounds so…I close my eyes, my fingers digging into the bedding. “Rye—”

“Don’t,” he blurts out then pauses with a harsh breath. “Don’t say anything for a second.”

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he throws back the covers and sits on the side of the bed. Rye has a tattoo of sheet music for “Amazing Grace” inked in black across his shoulders. To those who don’t know him, it might seem a strange choice, but he once said music was his grace. It saved him more times than he could count. Of course, he never confided that to me. He told the guys when he returned from the tattoo parlor. I simply was within earshot and overheard.

Because, before we started this, we never really spoke past trading insults or basic verbal exchanges. Yet, somehow, he knows me so very well. And I know him. I know by the tense lines of his back and the way he’s staring off, unmoving, that he’s not angry. He’s upset.

I can handle angry Rye. That’s familiar ground. Upset Rye is another story. At some point, his hurts became mine as well. “Rye?”

He sucks in a breath then stands in one fluid motion. “I need to be dressed for this.”

“O-okay…” I don’t know where this is going, but I know instinctively it won’t be easy.

He heads to the clothes he threw on a chair before we went to bed earlier. His movements are easy, tugging on his boxer briefs and jeans, but the bunched hinge of his jaw betrays him. He pulls on his black T-shirt and runs a hand over his stubble. For a moment, he stares down at his bare feet, his hands braced low on his trim hips.

“Why are you standing there like that?” Foreboding settles over me like an itchy blanket. The sensation grows stronger when his lips flatten.

But then he gives me a wry and tired half smile. “For once, I’m trying to follow your advice and think before I speak. I want to choose my words wisely here, Bren.”

“Just say it, Rye. Whatever it is, just say it already.”

He draws in a breath and then lets it out in a rush. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Blood drains from my face, as my chest caves in on itself. “You want to end our arrangement?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Shock explodes over my skin in hot spikes of pain. I knew it would come to this eventually. It had to. We’re in different places in our lives. Even so, I didn’t expect this level of hurt. Not the desolation. I went into it with eyes wide open. Only, I thought…I don’t know what the hell I thought. Coherent thought escapes me at the moment. But maybe that we would ease out of it gently. And, God, I’m ridiculous because I’ve been trying to find a way to tell him my news. Yet here I am feeling rejected when he’s the one being adult about this. The irony almost makes me laugh. Almost.

Standing—because no way am I having this conversation while curled up on his bed—I gather my fractured thoughts. “I understand. I’ll go.”

Rye makes a furtive move, like he might try to touch me, but then he pauses and grasps the back of his neck. “Shit, honey. I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m missing something here. You just told me you don’t want to see me anymore.”

“I meant, I want to cut the crap and actually do this.”

My head is still spinning, and I stare at him in confusion. “Do what? You just said you want to end this.”

“End the lies, Bren.” He takes a step closer. “Not us. I don’t want to lie to our friends. I want to be with you for real. A real relationship.”

I freeze, this new shock replacing the hurt. There is a small, hopeful voice that says I should run to him with open arms. But then I remember where I am and why I came here. My eyes close with bitter resentment. Why is it that when one part of life finally opens up and becomes clear another will get tangled and complicated?

“I went to Chicago to try and distract myself while you were gone,” he says in the face of my silence. “I tried and failed. Because it hit me that where you are is where I want to be.”

God. My toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath me, as if somehow that will keep me upright. They’re the right words. What every woman wants to hear. And yet those words, the sentiment behind them, cut into my air.

Rye sighs, his gaze pained. “It’s not just sex. Not for me. I know that was the plan. But the moment I actually put my hands on you, everything changed—”

“Rye.” He’s breaking my heart. I don’t know how to tell him…

“No, just listen.” He rounds the bed to stand before me. He’s so close, I can smell the scent of his skin, see the spark of earnest need in his eyes. “I’m not playing around. I’m not trying to trick you. I don’t want to hide or wait for a certain fucking day just to see you. That is bullshit—”

“I’m taking the job,” I cut in, the words bursting past the fist of regret clutching my throat.

Silence rings out for an agonizing moment as we stare at each other. I see him struggle to be happy for me. And that hurts worst of all. He lets out a slow breath. “That’s…that’s good. I mean, you should follow—” Rye swallows audibly. “But I don’t see why we can’t still try to be together.”

Head throbbing, I press the heel of my hand to my eye. I don’t know how to make him understand without hurting him. But I can’t lie either. He deserves the truth. Lowering my hand, I hold his gaze, even as mine blurs.

“My whole adult life has been about Kill John. I’ve lived and breathed your world, your music. I go to sleep thinking about all of you: what I need to do for you the next day, week, month, year. I hear your songs in my head. I dream of Kill John. The band has become my air, my heart and soul. And, for so long, I loved it. Loved that you all gave me the opportunity to lift you up.”