“And yet I’d put all my money on you,” I shout. “I’d do it in a second. But you won’t do the same for me.”

She flinches but that stubborn chin of hers remains firm. Like she’s already committed to her plan. “Finn—”

“No.” I back away, holding up my hands to ward her off. “You know what? I want you to go. Take that job in New York, stay there and find yourself. Because North is right. It’s too hard as it is. Going into this with doubts will just set us up to fail.”

She just stares at me as if she’s been frozen, and I wait for the denial, for her to tell me I’m wrong. Slowly, she starts to breath, her chest lifting and falling with the effort. Her rage gathers, and it is a beautiful thing to watch. Her glare is like justice and judgment all rolled into one, and it is directed at me.

“All right, I’ll go. But let me tell you this.” Her voice rises, growing harder. “My parents always followed their hearts. They never stopped to think or work out the consequences of their actions. Not once. It was always instinct and emotion over logic and planning. Well, guess what? I got left behind.” Her small fist punches her chest with a hollow sound. “I suffered. Not once did they consider the effects their actions would have on me.”

She blinks rapidly and her voice changes again, cracking. “I’m sorry if I worry. If I weigh pros and cons and ignore my heart sometimes. But I can’t be like them. I can’t be like you. I won’t. When I chose forever, I want it to be forever. I need that.”

I’ve made a grave mistake. I’ve pushed her too far when I should have yielded. “Chess…”

“No.” Her hand slashes through the air. “We’ve said enough. My head hurts and don’t want to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either,” I whisper. Her head hurts, after all. “It’s bullshit, all this worrying.”

She visibly flinches. “I’ve lost everything that is safe and familiar to me. My home, my place of work, my best friend. And I’ve replaced it with you. You ask me to have faith in us while you protect yourself. All I want is one simple thing.”

The stale air of the room presses in on me. “You want me to predict the distant future. I can’t do that. I can barely focus on tomorrow.” What if North and Chess are right? What if I can’t divide my attentions and succeed?

It’s a testament to how well she knows me because it’s clear she sees my fear. “You can’t give it to me because you’re thinking now about what he said, aren’t you? And the answer isn’t what either of us wants to hear.”

My heart pounds to hard now, my whole body throbs with the rapid beat. Sweat breaks out on my skin. “I’m sorry, Chess. Just…” I swallow past the panic. “Give me a little time…”

Her gown rustles as she moves past me, not looking me in the eye. “I’m going to New York.” She pauses at the threshold of the doorway. “And while I think about taking a leap of faith and following my heart, maybe you think about how you’re going to make your life work. With or without me.”

I let her go on ahead to give her some space. It’s a mistake. By the time I return to the party, she’s left it when Meghan. And by the time I get back home, she’s gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chess

* * *

I left Finn and New Orleans like a thief on the run. I’m not proud of it. I should have said goodbye. But panic took hold of me, and I needed to see a familiar face that wasn’t Finn’s. I went to New York, my hometown, and to James, my oldest friend, thinking that maybe distance would make it easier to breathe again, and figure out what the hell just happened.

Finn doesn’t call or come storming after me, demanding we talk things out.

Did I expect him to? I can’t say. It’s horrible to admit that I’d wanted him to maybe show even a little bit of resistance. But he let me go.

A week out, I get a text from Charlie, asking for my address. Since I’m not trying to hide, I give it to him. Charlie sends me the bulk of my clothes.

I cry myself to sleep that night.

Weeks pass. I throw myself into work. And I guess Finn does too. He wins one game and then the next. I cry again when I watch him celebrate on the field with his teammates, the sight of his smiling, victorious face too much to bear. But I’m not a masochist, and when they go to interview him, I turn the TV off.

Two days after they officially announce Finn and his team are in the playoffs, a New Orleans gossip e-mag I subscribe to shows a picture of Britt and Finn walking into a restaurant, Finn’s hand protectively on her arm as they shy away from the camera. Another grainy image of them siting at a table for two follows.

I cry myself to sleep for a second time.

Do I think he’s with Britt now? My heart says no. My brain keeps flashing to the image of them together, and I am sick with bitter jealousy. Part of me thinks I deserve this. It’s my own fucking fault for leaving. Another, far more angry part of me says, fuck that noise.

Ironically, every other aspect of my life is fantastic. Michael’s SoHo loft is so prefect it makes my bones hurt with envy. I remember that he’s from New York real estate royalty and probably doesn’t have to work a day of his life if he chose not to. And I’m grateful all over again that he offered me this opportunity.

The project is a dream come true. Every day, I look forward to working. I meet established Oscar winning actors who flirt shamelessly, and young Hollywood A-listers who act like overgrown boys, which, unfortunately reminds me of Finn and his guys.

I keep waiting for someone to throw attitude or be a dick, but it doesn’t happen. It’s as if the stars have aligned and fate is telling me this is exactly where I need to be.

I hate fate.

I’m sitting in the sun-drenched living room of Michael’s loft, curled up on his oversized Italian leather couch, and eating a New York bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, when Finn calls.

I should have known he’d hunt me down when I was the most content I’d been since leaving him. Face prickling with heat and heart pounding hard, I stare at the phone, his name lit up on the screen, as if it might up and bite me.

I don’t want to pick it up. But the damn phone won’t stop. It rings and vibrates, making the coffee table rattle. My fingers dig into my thighs. Finn.