Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
How do you forgive yourself when you don't even know the depths of what you caused? I know she struggled. But whatever she doesn't want to say—I have a feeling it's a lot more than that. And I'm fucking worried that whatever it is might just break us. That, yet again, I'll break us. She's been through enough. I've put her through enough. If I fuck it up again now…how the fuck do I ever come back from that?
"Teo Kirby."
I spin around halfway to the bus to find a reporter leaning against the wall, his brown eyes locked on my face, a press badge clipped to the lapel of his coat.
"Sorry, man, I don't have time for an interview," I mutter, inching toward the bus.
"This will only take a minute," he says, stepping toward me.
"I said I don't have time."
"You're going to want to make time for this."
I stop walking, narrowing my eyes on him. "What the fuck does that mean?" I growl, shoving my hands into my pockets.
"I have a story," he says quietly. "A damn good story."
"What story?" I grit out.
"One about a young couple torn apart by a horrific car accident." He holds my gaze, unblinking. "He goes on to play college football. She ends up admitted to rehab for PTSD."
I freeze, not even breathing as the world shakes beneath my feet.
Is he saying…? Fuck. Nadia was in rehab for PTSD?
"And two weeks after he's drafted to the league, she ends up back in treatment," he says. "She gets out, runs off to California, and becomes a pop star. Six years later, with his career on the line, they get back together." He meets my gaze. "Or at least that's what they want everyone to think. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this story, would you?"
I shake my head, unable to find words. My mind is spinning. Nadia was in rehab. That's what she's been keeping from me. She fucking…
Jesus. I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.
I knew she struggled after the accident. But I didn't fucking know… Ah, Christ. I should have known. I should have fucking known.
All the years she spent angry with me. All the times she said she needed me and I wasn't there… They were never about the accident. Or at least not entirely. They were about this. Because she was in fucking rehab, struggling with PTSD, and she was fighting alone.
"Any comment?" the reporter asks me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble, stumbling away from him. "Stop spreading bullshit."
Except…he knows it isn't bullshit. And so do I.
This is what she's been hiding. What she didn't want to tell me. She fucking needed me, and I wasn't there. I was too fucking busy hating myself to even know she needed me.
Goddammit.
Goddamn me.
I can't forgive this. I fucking can't.
My throat closes up, agony ripping through me as tears well in my eyes. Grief and pain slam into me like a brick wall. Christ, I'm going to break us all over again, just like I feared. Because that's what I do. I fuck things up. I break them.
I've been breaking her for years, over and over again. And I was too fucking busy with my own goddamn self-inflicted misery to even see it. I don't deserve her. I never will. How the fuck can I when all I do—all I've ever done—is let her down?
I stumble away from the reporter, away from the bus, my fucking heart in pieces in my chest.
"Is that Teo Kirby?"
I push through the crowd, ignoring the whispers following me. They burn my fucking ears like a goddamn scarlet letter branded on me. Teo Kirby, the fuckup. Teo Kirby, the asshole. Teo Kirby, the violent prick. And they're all true. But they don't even know the worst one yet.
Teo Kirby, the selfish motherfucker who breaks everything.
That's the one I can't escape.
"Vodka," I growl, falling onto an empty stool at the bar. "Make it a double."
The brunette bartender doesn't say anything for a long moment; she just stares at me as if trying to decide whether or not she wants to deal with me.
"Did I fucking stutter?" I snap.
She sighs heavily, flipping a shot glass up onto the bar in front of me while reaching for the vodka. "If you fuck up my bar, I'm shoving this bottle where the sun doesn't shine," she says, tipping it up to fill the glass.
"Good." I scoop up the glass, eyeing her over the rim. "Because I fully intend to fuck up your bar. Don't intend to leave until they drag me from this motherfucker in cuffs."
"Great. Guess you're going to make your new girl real proud tonight, huh?" She crosses her arms to scowl daggers at me. "I hope she dumps your sorry ass. She deserves better."
"That's precisely the problem, sweetheart. She deserves better."