Page 186 of One Wild Wish

Letting him down after this would be another painful blow.

A knock at the door cut through my worry, and I groaned. Last thing I wanted was a witness to this sham, but Clean Your Damn Area Claire must have forgotten her key again. That emo girl would lose her black fingernails if they weren’t attached.

Tossing on an oversized tee, I stood and breathed through the fog of bad decisions this night had become. I couldn’t even blame the Jäger.

Unable to swallow past the lump in my throat, I hurried to the door and yanked it open.

I nearly passed out.

August Cruz was in my doorway, at my apartment, a crazed look in his stunning hazel eyes. “Happy birthday,” he said, a slight pant to his words, as though he’d run here.

Then he kissed me. Callused fingers gripping my jaw, he crushed his lips to mine, devouring me like I was air in an airless world. This wasn’t mechanical. This wasn’t pretend. This was the love of my life twirling his tongue around mine sensually, moving his lips and body the same way he played guitar: with animal abandon.

It was too good. He was too good. And I let it all go on too long. I somehow managed to push him away. “You gave her a promise ring,” was the first thing I said.

Not, I slept with your brother . Not, your brother is in the next room .

My brain cells had vacated the building.

He winced. “You saw that post?” Before I could answer, he breathed harder, talking over himself. “I’d bought that ring for your birthday, and she assumed it was for her.”

He tugged at the back of his dark hair. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop lately. Not sure why now—maybe it was your birthday coming up or the school year ending—but I knew I needed to set things right with you. I’d decided to end things with Kayla tonight. I got your address from your mother and planned to face you, then you sent me that text. And it was like…the whole thing kind of floored me.”

Creases sank into his furrowed brow. “I’m sorry I lashed out at first. I wasn’t expecting for all that shit to resurface. But I think it’s good, you know? That we cleared the air. Now we can finally do this, be together. Because this thing with us?” He prowled closer and lifted the ring in question. “It’s always been you, Gwen. No one holds a candle to you.”

That’s when Finch walked into the living area, nothing on but his boxers.

That’s when I realized the extent of my Worst Terrible Fuck-up.

2

Present Day, 12 p.m.

August

I couldn’t remember names to save my life. I sucked at Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit, and every video game ever created, but I could play guitar in my sleep, and if there was an Olympic procrastination event, I’d take gold.

Gear slung over my shoulder, I joined the melee of sweaty men gathered around the soccer field. Being a full-time musician—touring, writing, recording—left me little time for my old obsession, but I missed soccer. The quick footwork. Working with a team. Plus finding a pick-up game meant I could put off the real reason I’d returned to San Francisco.

Handshakes were passed around for a game well played. Others, like me, readied to hit the field next. The grins and laughs brought me back to my high school days playing in the California Regional League. It also forced a montage of a giggling Gwen front and center.

Her shoving grass down my shirt as I dribbled around her.

Me tickling her while she tried to steal the ball.

I ground my teeth, something I’d been doing too much of since returning here. Since avoiding Gwen, specifically. Considering she was the reason I’d flown home, I needed to get over myself, or I’d end up with a hefty dental bill.

I tossed my gym bag next to the clothes piled near the field. A game was what I needed. Sixty minutes to focus on nothing but marking an attacker, stripping the ball from him, and executing clean passes. Sixty minutes to forget why I’d cut my European tour short, and to pretend tomorrow’s April 12th date didn’t still affect me.

My molars worked harder, as though chewing that memory into sludge. I even spat out a wad of saliva, but my tongue still tasted bitter—bitterness laced with guilt, the latter emotion new when it came to Gwen. But when she learned what I’d done, she’d have more right to punch me than the retaliation I’d unleashed on Finch nine years ago. Not that I regretted the sting of my fist connecting with his nose.

Jaw locked, I yanked my cleats from my bag. I nearly snapped the laces tying them up. I’ll call her after the game , I told myself. Meet her face-to-face and say what I came to say, then get out of town.

Unless this was like the April my second album had been due to the record label. That procrastination-athon had involved walking the Paris streets and a ridiculously clean apartment, forcing me to mainline coffee as I busted out the album in five endless days.

If I didn’t get my head together, I’d have to ransack my hotel room like a bona-fide rock star, then spend my avoidance time tidying up.

Tired of my looping frustrations, I swept aside thoughts of Gwen and tried to enjoy the sun on my back. It was a welcome change to Germany’s recent drizzly spell. The fresh air beat the smoke-filled clubs I’d played the past year, the stage spotlight nowhere near as nice as the California sun.