I have friends who are putting me up. You’re a good kid with a big heart, but leave me be. Please, don’t set this letter down and try to find me. I don’t want to be found, so please listen to me when I say stay put.

My breath hitches, a desolate emotion replacing the anger. He’s left me. He’s fucking left. I’d pay his bookies, I could get him in rehab if he’d just go, I’ll spend more time with him, I’ll make it right . . .

“I know,” Giselle whispers, and I realize I spoke aloud. She leans over me, running her hands through my hair—soft, easy strokes. “You love him.”

I’m sober as I write this. Woke up and promised myself I’d get the words down before the first drink kicks in. I want to say the right things to you, to make sure you know that these years in Nashville, the times we talked—I remember those moments, but when the end of the day is here, all I have is a thirst for the bottle. You’ve done more for me than a son should have. Just . . . don’t give me anything else. I’ll only hock it or drink it. I want to be better, but another side of me doesn’t. It’s a battle every single day.

You’re the best part of me.

Forgive me for not being the father you deserve.

I’ll call you when I get settled.

I love you,

Garrett

Giselle eases in front of me, takes the letter out of my hands, then gets on her knees in front of me.

“Did you read it?” I whisper, my eyes stinging.

She shakes her head. “I just watched your face.”

Shit, there’s no telling what she thinks. “Read it.” I want her to know. Out of the hurricane of my life, out of everyone I know, she’s become a true constant, a calm breeze that eases me.

She picks it up and stands as she reads it quickly, then folds it carefully. “I’m sorry he’s left you hanging. He’s at rock bottom, I imagine, and feels guilty over the gambling debts. This letter was probably very hard for him.” Her words are gentle. “I wish . . . I wish I had some kind of experience to draw on to help more, but I don’t.” She pauses. “There are groups for families of addicts. You’re a star, so that’s out of the question, but talking to someone might help.”

My chest feels tight as I shove a hand in my hair. “Just you being here with me helps. No one’s ever with me when things happen. I tried to give him everything.” I stand up and walk to the sink and gaze out the window. A long minute passes as I grip the edge. After grabbing a clean glass, I fill it up with water from the fridge and drink it down. “I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, walking over to me. “Maybe he needs this time to decide who he is and where he’s going.”

I suck in air. “Part of me wants to find him, see if he’s okay.” I swallow down dread. What if he gets hurt, and there’s no one to take care of him? I’ve spent most of my life being the adult for my dad, and here I am, still doing it. I can’t make him change; I can’t just snap my fingers and his addictions are gone—but I want to, so fucking bad.

“Yes, you can do that, of course, and if you want, I’d go with you and be your support. We can fly all over the country and look for him.”

My eyes find hers. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” She pauses, thinking. “Just, I want you to know you aren’t responsible for his actions. You can’t make him change. It has to be him. Those are his decisions, and they don’t make you any less of the wonderful, kind, beautiful person you are. You’re such a good person, Devon, a true light, and every time I look at you, I see it glow with all the parts inside you. Seeing you hurt like this, it feels so unfair, and I’m trying hard, really damn hard, to be impartial and understanding on his behalf, but I . . . I’m angry for you, livid, that he’s hurt you all your life, even though it wasn’t intentional—he hurt you . . .” She blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath, her lower lip trembling. “You . . . you raised your own father, and it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t pretty how you were abandoned by those who are supposed to take care of you—but you, God, look at you, the most . . . amazing man I’ve ever met.” Her voice catches.

My heart tightens, the emotion so fierce I have to catch my breath. I meet her eyes, and there’s a shimmer of tears there. Longing for her stretches inside me, clawing to get out and claim her, to listen to her heartbeat with my hand pressed to her chest, to have her in my arms for as long as she’d let me. “You really think that about me?”

“Oh, Devon. You are the best person in all my universes.” She wraps her arms around me, holding me tight, so tight, and I cling to her.

Chapter 18

GISELLE

The alarm on my phone wakes me. Despite lids that don’t want to open, I force myself to slap at my cell on the coffee table. Eleven. The sun coming in from the windows makes me squint, another niggling reminder that I have to be at Mama’s by one for my birthday lunch.

Devon and I got back to the penthouse around three in the morning and sat down on the couch to talk, the TV droning in the background. I think he turned it on because he didn’t want to look in my eyes when he told me more about his childhood. My head spins, picturing Devon chasing his mother as she left for another life. What does it do to a child when a mother never comes back? He escaped his dad with a football scholarship, but as soon as he made it big, he went back to his dad and moved him to Jacksonville, then Nashville.

No family is perfect. Mine is a roller coaster, but we get on the ride and cling to each other.

But Devon’s . . .

Listening to his husky, quiet voice ripped me apart, but I wanted to be strong, an ear for him to let go of his burden. He locks down his emotions when he senses he’s getting too close and retreats inside his castle walls, cannons pointed at the enemy. Because of his dad, because of that one time he gave his heart, he doesn’t want to care, and I understand it. Love hurts when people leave, no matter the reason why. Even now, my heart pangs, knowing it’s the anniversary of the day my father died.

I felt helpless as Devon talked, not knowing what to offer except to be the best friend I could and listen. Garrett is his father. The only one he’ll ever have. And Devon, behind that cocksure smile and hard exterior, is a man who can care with a deep devotion that means forever.

Around four we were still awake playing video games, me sitting in the V of his legs, as we pushed aside talk of his dad and went into a serious game of Madden NFL; then I must have fallen asleep, my head back on his shoulders.

He’s behind me now, his chest against my back, his arm curled around my waist as we lie on the couch. A muscled leg is on top of mine, curled, and his breaths are low and deep, his face in my hair.

I debate for a millisecond on begging off on the birthday lunch, but I promised I’d go, and Mama promised champagne.

Reaching out, I attempt to leverage myself up off the couch without waking him, but his arm tightens as he murmurs something.

He moves, his fingers slipping higher, inside the hoodie and underneath my camisole. He cups my breast, his leg drawing me in closer as he massages, brushing my nipple. The tip of my breast must have a million nerve endings, and every one shoots a blast of heat to my pelvis. He fondles me, caressing me against his thumb, and I feel drunk on sensation. A low groan comes from him as he breathes into my hair, the bristles of his unshaven jaw brushing against my nape.