Sean didn’t even look angry. Instead there was an odd contrition shining through his drunken haze. He came to sit gingerly beside me where I was slumped on the bed and put his hand over mine. “I’m really sorry, Libby.” He leaned in to hug me.
“No,” I said as I pushed him off and stood up. “I don’t want you apologizing when you’re drunk. It doesn’t count.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’d love to hear all about how sorry you are when you’re sober.” I pointed to the bathroom, which was filling up with steam. “Now go. I wasn’t kidding about the shower.”
He nodded mutely then stood and stumbled toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. “I still love you the most, Libby,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know,” I muttered to myself as I left the room, shutting the door behind me.
I forced a deep breath to keep the tears at bay then walked over to the couch and sank onto it, resting my head in my hands as I berated myself.
I’d been so stupid. So naïve. As a teenager, I’d had star eyes and winged feet, and I used them to push Sean into the limelight. I convinced everyone that it would be good, that he would be great and I’d keep him out of any trouble. And he had been great. He’d been better than great for a couple of years.
And then his twin sister died.
And his mom fell apart.
And Sean clammed up, refusing to talk about it.
And he wrote an entire album in less than two months.
Those songs.
Those. Songs.
The most honest, open-hearted, soul-wrenching songs I’d ever heard—like his bleeding heart lay beating for everyone to see, but in the most beautiful way. People ate them up. Then they wanted more.
And more.
And more.
At first I thought it was a good thing. It was his way of coping. He would work through his grief by writing out his feelings, right?
And it probably would have worked that way. If he hadn’t been a celebrity. If he hadn’t had fans falling over themselves for any scrap of him. If the record label vultures hadn’t constantly demanded more.
If I hadn’t given him to the world, he probably would have done just fine.
A knock at the door pulled me from my half-awake stupor. I went into defensive mode, ready to beat off any overzealous fan or reporter coming to invade Sean’s privacy.
“Room service,” someone called from the other side of the door.
Right. It was the food I had ordered. I opened the door, and with the help of Will, convinced the girl delivering it to just hand over the tray instead of coming inside. I didn’t trust people coming into Sean’s room. They tended to look around and linger.
I shut the door and padded back across the plush carpet in my bare feet, my shoes having been discarded next to the phone when I’d first ordered. I pulled off the cover and found a juicy filet mignon and a cute little scrap of paper with a phone number, the name Megan, and a smiley face.
Yeah. This was why I didn’t let employees in. I ripped the paper into tiny little bits with more venom than necessary and tossed them in the trash.
I was halfway through my steak when Sean came out of his room, his wavy hair damp, still unsteady on his feet. “You ordered room service,” he said.
“I didn’t get to eat dinner tonight.”
He blinked and shook his head, as if trying to get that information to settle into his brain. “Right. Sorry.”
I wanted to brush him off, but my need to take care of him was ever present. “Did you eat tonight?”
He shrugged.
I sighed the kind of sigh that comes from deep down within your soul, and then I scooted over. “Come eat something.”
He sat obediently, acting like the derelict child I treated him as. I shoved a water bottle in his hands. “I don’t care how much you eat, but you need to drink that entire bottle before you go to sleep.”
He downed half of it and then took a couple bites before smashing his fork into the mashed potatoes. “I know you don’t want to be here, Libby. It’s okay if you go.”
“Just eat the food.”
He didn’t argue anymore, and ten minutes later he wandered back to his room, not bothering to close the door. I heard him hit the mattress, and the sound of his quiet snoring followed a few minutes later.
That’s when I let myself cry.
♪♫♪
After I’d cried myself out and decided that calling to blather to my father was a very bad idea, I was left with a decision. I could call a car and go back to my place, but if I did that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, because I’d be worrying about Sean waking up on time, making his flight, being presentable, eating. Everything.
So instead I raided his luggage for a t-shirt and another pair of athletic shorts, brushed my teeth with my finger, and crawled into his huge bed.
I wanted to be mad. I was mad. Furious. But I was also sorry—so, so sorry—for the part that I had played in getting him here. So I would continue to pay my penance. I would continue to care more than was healthy.
I stared into the darkness, cataloging all my bad decisions until Sean rolled over, his arm flapping onto my stomach and practically knocking the wind out of me. I pushed his arm off and rolled away until I was hugging the edge of the mattress. Then I went over the morning schedule in my head, over and over until I bored myself to sleep.
I woke up to the sight of Sean standing at the side of the bed, looming over me. I jerked awake and rolled to my back. “Geez! You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said with the smile that I loved, the one that said he was sober and happy to see me. “I’m just not used to waking up to a woman in my bed.”
At least there was that. As much as I hated that Sean had fully embraced the total inebriation that was stereotypical of so many celebrities, he’d never been a womanizer.
I looked at his eyes, which were blessedly clear. “Do you have a headache?”
“I woke up in the middle of the night and downed another bottle of water and some painkiller.” He lifted one shoulder. “I should be fine.”
“In that case”—I pushed the covers off and sat up—“I’ll let you take care of yourself.” He let out a little snicker, which brought my attention back to him. “What?”
He grinned. “You look good in my clothes.”
I glared. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
The grin slipped and he shoved a hand into his hair. “Yeah. I think. Most of it.”
“Well,” I continued in what he had dubbed my I’m-going-to-kill-you whisper. “When you have something worthwhile to say about that whole debacle, you let me know.”
“Libby,” he begged.
“Seriously,” I said while brandishing a finger at him. “I want you to think before you speak to me again.”
“I’m leaving town today.”
“I know, Sean,” I said, my frustration leaking through. “Randy gave me the schedule so that I could make sure you follow it.” I walked toward the bathroom where I had left my dress hanging over the shower door. “I should start charging them an hourly rate for keeping you in line.” I turned in the bathroom doorway to lance him with a glare. “Maybe then I could finally pay off my student loans.” I slammed the bathroom door and quickly changed out of his clothes and back into my dress. I’d spent an entire day looking for this dress. I’d been looking forward to my date with Jonas for a week and a half. And now he probably wouldn’t speak to me again.