When she actually giggles, I feel it like effervescent bubbles of light within my chest.

Brenna clears her throat. “Fine. How about this? Despite having the body of Ares,”—I stumble a step at her words—“and the musical talent of Apollo, you retain the childlike wonder of…shit, my knowledge of Greek mythology has run dry.”

“That’s still a lot of Greek,” I croak, my cheeks warm.

Her nose wrinkles. “I read a mythology book on the plane. Clearly, the gods stuck in my mind.”

“I have no problem being compared to two gods, Berry.”

Brenna’s head jerks upward at the sound of her nickname. Our gazes collide. And there it is—as strong and hot and insistent as ever—the pull, the need to touch, taste, and hold her.

A fine sweat breaks out along my lower back, and I draw in a steadying breath. She turns away, concentrating on the path, our easy truce falling back to uncomfortable uncertainty. Fisting my hands, I follow her, not knowing how to fix it.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” she asks as we reach the folly.

“All right.” Miserable. I missed you. So much. “Yours?”

“The usual.” Her shrug is almost bored, but her tone is hesitant, as though she’s not sure how to start talking to me again. She stops and leans against one of the stone columns to face me. “I had wondered if you were avoiding me all these weeks.”

The words punch my core, and I let out a strangled breath. But I can’t deny the truth; she’ll see right through me. “I was.”

She bites her bottom lip and glances away. “I was too.”

Yeah, I figured as much.

“I didn’t avoid you because I didn’t want to see you. I just wanted to give you space and try to make things less awkward.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “It still feels awkward, though, doesn’t it?”

Her smile is tight. “That’s probably unavoidable.”

We’re silent for a minute, both of us looking at the small lake that’s gone silver under a pale winter sky. A light but icy breeze drifts over the water, and Brenna hugs her arms to her chest. I step closer, blocking the wind with my body. I want to wrap my arms around her, but it’s not my place to hold her anymore. Maybe it never was.

The thought depresses me.

She hasn’t told the guys she’s leaving. I’ve been waiting for it, keeping my mouth shut until she makes the announcement. But nothing. I don’t know what to make of it but can’t find the courage to ask either.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and my head snaps up. Brenna grimaces. “For avoiding you too.”

My chest hurts. It fucking hurts. I hate this.

“We both did the same thing. Let’s just…Hell, I don’t know. Not be sorry anymore?”

She smiles a little wider. I miss her smiles.

“All right.”

Brenna takes a breath, like she’s gearing up to say something important. I know that look. I’ve seen her wear it when she’s about to give the band bad news and doesn’t want to be the one to tell it.

Panic swells within me. She’s going to apologize for picking her career over me. I can’t handle her pity. I can’t. I am a fucking coward, but I can’t hear the words coming from her lips. I’ll hear them forever.

“I shouldn’t have pressed for more,” I blurt. “It was a mistake.”

She blinks as though surprised by my outburst. I wasn’t exactly smooth with it. Hell, I practically yelled.

“I shouldn’t have pressed,” I say again, trying to gentle my tone. “I’ve got too many things going on in my life for a real relationship anyway.”

The words are heavy in my mouth, but necessary if I want to keep any shred of pride.

She nods, still a little stiff. But her shoulders spread like there’s a weight lifting—which just sucks for me. I don’t want to be relegated back to the sidelines of her life. Doesn’t matter anyway. She wants a clean break. So it’s inevitable.

“Despite everything,” I say past the lump in my throat, “I don’t regret what we did.”

It isn’t technically a lie. If I had to do it all over again, I would still have gone after Brenna. Except, I’d be upfront with what I really wanted: all of her. But life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you only get one chance, and I missed mine.

She turns back to face the lake, and her voice becomes so low, I have to strain to hear it. “I don’t regret it either.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Brenna

 

It was a mistake. That’s what he said. A mistake to ask for more.

I asked him to come for a walk with me so I could gather up my courage and tell him yes, let’s do this. Let’s be together. That it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, I still want him.

But I’m too late. Because he regrets his impulse.

My hand shakes as I try to put on a coat of lipstick. Afraid to risk a smear of brick red across my face, I put the lipstick down and sigh. The face in the mirror is unfamiliar, with her shorter hair and wrecked eyes. Will they all see how much I’m dying inside?

He didn’t. He looked almost pleased with himself when we parted. As if it will be easy to pretend we didn’t lose ourselves in each other for a heady moment in time, that he never asked for more.

I can’t blame him. I had more than enough time to say yes. I should have said yes that day in California. I should have crawled over that bed and gone straight into his arms.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m too late.

Some things are worth the risk, isn’t that what Whip said?

Fuck it, I can’t let this go. I’ll regret it forever.

Earlier, everyone had gone out “hunting,” which really meant they went into the woods to track one another in what Whip happily described as a Highlander—there can only be one!—laser tag extravaganza. I was invited to join, but I couldn’t bring myself to be part of that “fun.” Bruised and remorseful, I stayed in my room.

They’re back now; I hear Killian and Jax debate the merits of the Strat vs the Tele as they walk past my bedroom door on their way downstairs.

I can’t hide in here any longer. Bracing my shoulders, I head out into the hall. A steady throb pulses from a door two down from mine. Rye. He always stays in the Tartan Room—so named for the dark green and blue plaid wool covering the walls.

Music is an intrinsic part of him. If he’s not listening to it, he’s creating it—even if it’s as simple as tapping out a beat with his fingers. The man knows more about music than anyone I know. He loves it all, from classical to obscure bluegrass albums only a hundred people bought. I cannot think of Rye without hearing a rhythm.

It’s early yet, about an hour before dinner. But this is prime nap time for a lot of the house. Rye blasting music isn’t the best idea. Besides, we need to talk.

I freeze, my heart slamming against the cage of my ribs.

Get it together. You can do this.

My fingers are ice.

Don’t be a wuss. Knock on the fucking door!

I rap on it hard, convinced he won’t hear me, but it opens fairly quickly, releasing a surge of music—“Pit Stop” by Lovage. Rye’s large frame is backlit by the room’s lamplight.