Fame

Chapter Eleven

His deep blue eyes met mine and I studied his features for what felt like the millionth time: sharp jawline stubbled with short black facial hair as it looked as if he hadn't shaved in over a day, angular cheekbones and lightly tanned skin that made him seem as if he worked outdoors even though his hands probably hadn't seen hard labor in his entire life, unless you count the callouses from his guitar strings.

I took in a sharp breath when he leaned forward and turned the doorknob, opening the room to me and I realized I must have looked ridiculously stupid just standing there staring at him trying to process why he made me feel the way that he did.

"Well if you need anything, I'm on the top floor. Night."

And then he was gone in a breath and I almost folded in on myself right there. I quickly shut the door behind me and took in the modern decor as I tried to wrap my head around what the hell I thought I was doing.

Sawyer was the enemy in this situation. He was not someone to feel this type of attraction for, and I knew better than to let myself feel these things for him.

Not only was I far too destroyed on the inside, but I was far too gone in the world of hating Sawyer Reeves to allow him to affect me like he had just done.

I threw my bag down on the floor with a force I didn't mean, but it made me feel better.

I made my way to the bathroom and turned the water on scalding hot, almost to the point of burning your skin off but not enough to actually boil you alive...my favorite temperature.

Stepping into the water, I allowed the spray to wash away the pain of the day and any residual attraction I might have held for Sawyer, but all it did was exacerbate my feelings for him somehow.

I couldn't stop thinking about how sexy he might have looked shirtless standing in the shower with me, and images flooded my brain of my arms raking up and down his body and it didn't help that he was mere steps away.

I couldn't quell the sexual energy flooding through me so I turned the water to an icy temperature that only served to turn me into a shivering mess of anxiety and freakish lust that ran through my veins at an alarming rate.

I was suddenly remembered of the times when Ryan would intentionally run the hot water out so I couldn't shower properly and I had to suffer through freezing cold baths because of it.

My lustful thoughts suddenly took a drastic turn and I was remembered once again of the reason I couldn't have knock-down drag-out fights with my big brother anymore.

I sank down to the floor of the shower and put my arms on my knees as I allowed myself to just stare at the walls closing around me and tried to allow the tears to fall...but they refused to come.

I gazed despondently at the tile covering the shower walls around me and felt as if I could no longer breathe, even though the frigid waters splashing down onto my back had cleared out most of the hot steam that had once invaded my body like the images of Sawyer's shirtless body.

How could I think of him in that way when my mind knew all that he was responsible for? Was I a disgusting monster for wanting something that I knew would be to the detriment of me in the long run?

Sawyer had never known of my true feelings for him when we were still friends, and I had always doubted that he could ever feel the same for me, so I was in a never-ending toxic spiral of feelings for someone who didn't deserve them or even want them in the first place.

God, I was more than wrecked. I was a mess, and I knew that nothing could ever fix me.

Shutting off the water, I threw my hair up into a towel and put my previous clothes back on because I'd exhausted my plethora of clothes in my overnight bag I'd packed for Daphne's that morning which felt like over a lifetime ago.

Checking my face in the mirror, my cheeks were abnormally pink from the burning hot to freezing cold water and my eyes were a bit swollen from all the crying I'd done during the day, but for the most part I looked normal on the outside.

But inside I was just...broken.

I always thought my eyes would show the brokenness to the outside world, but if I plastered on a fake smile and put makeup on my dark circles, it looked like nothing was wrong even if I was dying on the inside.

That's what I had done for Ryan's funeral...not necessarily the smile but I covered up my dark circles and red eyes and I had tried to not seem so utterly shattered so the people around me wouldn't feel so bad for me and could focus on their own grief.

I realized long ago that I cared too much about making the people around me happy other than myself and I knew it was making me a doormat but I couldn't make myself change no matter how hard I tried, and it was one of my toxic traits that I had just come to accept.

I'd stopped playing piano because the pain was just too much to bear and I didn't want those around me to see how much I was struggling because I felt like it would hurt them too much to see me in so much pain.

Forget that.

Where was not playing the piano getting me? Swimming in a vat of grief and mourning that I couldn't control until it swallowed me whole, forced to bear with the pain and learn to live with it as if it were a dark new piece of me instead of something to deal with healthily and let go of in time.
Maybe it was finally time to let that go...

I stormed back into the guest room and before I knew it I had found myself at the gorgeous black grand piano in the middle of the spacious living room I had passed earlier.

At first, I only stared at it, allowing myself to remember the thousands of times I'd sat down at the keys and felt myself become lost in the music.

And then I sat down on the wooden bench, and finally let myself gaze at the keys for the first time in almost three years.

My fingers twitched, desperate to latch onto the instrument and welcome it back into my life like a long-lost friend I hadn't greeted in so long, but I paused. I took in the gleaming, black and white keys that would fill the air with such beautiful sounds if only I had enough strength to reach out and touch them, and it was almost as if the instrument was begging me to let go of my hardened mental state and release it all in one singular action that would change the course of my grieving process for the better.

A whoosh of air escaped my lungs and my hands lifted of their own accord, poised over the piano and ready to finally let it all go.

And then I began to play.