him staring at me like that. His expression is severe, confused.
“The mirror in the bathroom,” he says finally. “Why is it covered?”
I freeze. All the wine in my head drains to my stomach in a violent rush of nausea. He tilts his head when I don’t respond, studying me. I don’t like it. I feel naked, exposed. Like he sees past the shine to the dirt beneath it. He softens after another moment, and I hate his look of pity even more.
His sigh. I’ve never hated a sound so much in my life.
“Look, Genevieve, you seem to have a lot going for you. I’m sure you have your pick of guys.” He adds a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. His light is pulling away. I watch it dim with each second, each word of his retreat. I’ve lost him. I’ve lost the color he brought in our brief acquaintance. The panic returns, whooshing through my head in a dizzying swirl. I grip the edge of the pool, my fingers tightening to painful levels on the concrete ledge.
I don’t want my pick. I want real. I want light. I want you.
I don’t say that. I rock against the current of the water.
Don’t go. Please!
He clears his throat. “Anyway, thank you again for your invitation. It was very nice of you.”
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
He starts toward the sliding glass door.
No one cries like her.
His back ripples with tension at each step. His fists are clenched. I can’t see his eyes. His smile. It’s gone. All of it. Before it began, I broke everything.
No one’s heart beats and bleeds like hers.
I’m bleeding. So much blood gushing beneath this polished façade that no one will ever see. Not my parents. Not my manager. Not my millions of fans. Not even Hadley, the only person who actually knows me.
No one. No one. No one.
“I hate them!”
I gasp and cover my mouth as he stops in his tracks. He turns slowly, his gaze deep and intense.
“You hate what?”
“Mirrors. I hate them,” I say quietly. “They remind me that I—I’m not what I’m supposed to be.”
“And what are you supposed to be?”
Tears burn in my eyes. He has to stop looking at me like that. I can’t think. I can’t fight.
“Whatever they want.” The words leak out as a whisper. Wet. Angry. “I have to be what they want.”
He steps forward. “Did you think you had to be what I want today?”
I blink back the hot liquid, but it doesn’t work. Instead, it rolls down my cheeks in a brutal betrayal. I nod.
“Did you think I came here because you’re the Genevieve Fox?”
I nod again.
He almost looks angry as he takes another step toward me. And another. And another until he’s at the edge of the pool, staring down at me. I can’t see his face anymore, can’t read his eyes. He’s just a shadow against the blare of the sun. Towering over me, converting light into darkness. He’s a god in our tiny universe, the one who holds the power of this moment. But instead of exploiting it, he crouches down. The light floods back, and I flinch at his adjustment, knowing how difficult that position is for him.
“Your knee,” I say before I can stop myself. I reach out and brush my fingers over a small scar. That’s when I also see the change in his face. The softness. The sincerity. He captures my fingers in his hand and squeezes gently.
“I came, Genevieve, because you helped me up despite the cameras. Because you asked about my family when everyone else asks about my injury. Because for five damn minutes I felt like more than an injured hockey player.”
He reaches over and runs his thumb along my cheek, catching tears, tracking fresh trails. I close my eyes and breathe in his touch. In. Out. Breathe. I can breathe in his presence.
“I don’t want you to be what I want. I want you to be you. Can you do that with me?”
When I dare a look back, I not only see the question, but the hope. The plea. He wants the girl in the mirror. My pulse pounds. I cling harder to his hand.
“I don’t know her,” I whisper, turning frightened eyes up to him. “I don’t know the girl in the mirror. What if…” I can’t finish the sentence as the tears return. What if she’s too broken to fix?
He straightens his bad leg, drawing in a deep inhale against the discomfort.