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I clench my jaw and shove the unwanted, unnecessary emotions to the side.
Central Park may have been where Blake chose to end our relationship, but there is no way in hell I’m going to let him ruin the park for me. He already destroyed my career.
“Asshole!”
An elderly couple shuffling nearby startles, the gentleman giving me a dirty look.
I wince. “Sorry.”
I continue walking, burning off my aggression with each forceful stride down the curving path. I take a deep breath and focus on my next objective. I will face Turtle Pond. I will return to the scene where it all ended. I have plenty of time until I need to meet Piper.
With each step, my stomach twists tighter and tighter.
I haven’t talked to Blake since the morning everything went to shit, but I haven’t been able to avoid encountering all his social media updates and the press surrounding Jeanette’s pregnancy. I need to keep on top of what’s happening in the industry, and unfortunately, especially lately, updates on their “bundle of joy” are everywhere.
The pregnancy did do one thing: It took all the heat off Rebel Records. Fuckers.
The most recent picture that went viral was of the two of them picking out a crib. It was an obvious setup, completely fabricated, like they don’t have assistants running around at their beck and call to do all their shopping and errands for them. Please.
From a purely PR perspective, it was a good shot. He was standing behind her, his chin on her shoulder while they both looked down at their potential purchase, his arms wrapped around her, one hand resting on her stomach.
It’s like everything that happened between Blake and I was just a figment of my imagination or some kind of fever dream.
I come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the path. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t need to face this demon, not today.
I spin around suddenly and trip over a walking guitar and the ground rushes toward me.
ChapterThree
Mindy
“Are you all right?”
I open my eyes, staring up at a dreary gray sky offset by a swath of red maple leaves flickering in the breeze. A blurry head blocks the view, moving into my line of sight.
I blink a few times and the face comes into focus, right along with the events of the past thirty seconds.
Shit.
I ran over someone—someone’s guitar—and then dropped face first onto the sidewalk like a felled tree.
The man looming over me is . . . attractive. Maybe mid-to-late-twenties, with bright, concerned eyes, an average nose, and wide cheekbones that give him an almost a baby-faced look save for the golden stubble adorning his strong jaw.
He’s vaguely familiar. I swear I’ve seen the same shaggy light brown hair stuffed under that same cowboy hat somewhere before.
Do I know you?
“Are you all right?” he asks again. The vowels are slightly elongated, giving the words the hint of a Southern accent.
I nod and the motion scrapes the back of my head against the hard pavement.
Wincing, I push myself up onto my elbows and black spots crowd my vision. “Um.” My mouth is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I swallow and try again. “I’m okay. How did this happen?”
The man’s mouth pulls into a wince. “You tripped over my headstock.” His head tilts to one side, toward the tuning pegs of the guitar resting next to him.
“That part, I remember.” I got tripped by a guitar. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is considering I’ve been banging my head against the music industry’s walls for months.
“I may have been following behind you a little too closely. You have a subcutaneous bruise here.” His fingers hover over the side of my face.
