All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(3)

“You’re right,” Chris repeats to Tristan. “I regret the day I walked into her life, and I have a million regrets about how I handled leaving it. But I can’t change any of that. I can only do what I think she’d want me to do.”

“What she wanted was for you to stay out of her final affairs.”

“We both know she was lashing out in the midst of her own pain,” Chris replies coolly. “I believe that in her heart, she would want me to handle the future of The Script.”

“You didn’t know shit about what she had in her heart.”

“You were,” Chris says. “I know it didn’t seem like it sometimes. I know I didn’t always give you room to be her true hero—but you were.”

Tristan turns away, and his pain is so powerful it seems to leave room for nothing else, sucking all of the air out of the room. He’s bleeding inside and I bleed right with him, and I’m relieved that I didn’t attack Tristan to protect Chris. I hold on to Chris’s arm tightly, waiting for what comes next, certain it will be a blow.

Seconds tick by, and when Tristan still doesn’t turn, Chris pushes him for a reaction, asking, “Are all of Amber’s final affairs handled?”

Tristan twists around to face us, his eyes ablaze. “Of course her final affairs are handled,” he snaps. “I handled them. I took care of her.”

If Tristan’s implication that he succeeded in protecting Amber where Chris failed bothers Chris, he doesn’t show it. “I know you did, but the expense—”

“Is handled. I don’t need your f*cking money. I’m sick of your f*cking money, Mr. Famous Artist with a famous musician for a father and a mega–cosmetic company inheritance.”

Ignoring him, Chris coolly asks, “Where was Amber put to rest?”

His eyes narrow in a brutal glare. “She didn’t want you to know.”

“Tristan,” I plead.

“This isn’t your business, Sara,” he snaps. My sympathy for Tristan fades and I open my mouth to attack, but Chris turns me to face him, his hands going to my face as he gives me a quick nod, warning me to just let Tristan have his digs. I am almost shaking with my need to protect him, but somehow, some way, I reel myself back in, giving a short nod of agreement.

He looks up at Tristan again, reaching into his jacket pocket and setting an envelope on a small table just inside the door. “I cosigned for the business. This is the release and the fifty thousand euros you’re going to need to survive losing her here at the store.”

Tristan makes a disgusted sound. “Like that, or your fancy treatment center, solved anything. I don’t want your shitty money. I have a loan in process. I’ll buy this place from you.”

“You don’t need to buy it,” Chris retorts. “It was Amber’s. Your having it is what she would want.”

“I said,” Tristan hisses, “I don’t want—”

“Then have your attorney call my attorney.” Chris takes my hand. “His contact information is inside the envelope. It’s your choice, Tristan, but I suggest you think long and hard before you make it.” He leads me toward the door.

“Chris,” Tristan calls out.

When Chris halts Tristan spews several angry sentences in French, and I don’t have to understand the words to know he’s goading Chris for a reaction. Chris’s fingers tighten around mine, a sign of his anger, but he refuses to set it free. He starts walking again, his long, fast strides forcing me to double-step to keep up, telling me that Tristan got to him in a big way.

As we exit into the cold, dark night he unlocks the 911, then pulls open my door. Worried about his state of mind, I turn to him, but when the moonlight glints momentarily off the hard lines of his face, I’m clear on one thing: Now is not the time for questions. He wants out of this place, and he wants out now.

I slip into the car, and he is quick to round the hood and join me. He’s also quick to rev the engine. He maneuvers out of the parking lot and pulls out onto the Champs-élysées, the move feeling too precise, too controlled. I feel he’s overcompensating for the storm raging inside him.

It’s amazing to me how he can be so in control on the outside when I know he has demons waging war in his head.

Only minutes later, we pull up to the gate of our home on Foch Avenue, and Chris rolls down his window and keys in the entry code.

Our home. I’ll never get tired of those words, and I’m finally starting to get used to using them. But what really hits me in this moment is that no matter how out of his mind with grief and guilt Chris might be, I don’t feel insecure. I don’t believe he has any intention of shutting me out, as he did in the face of tragedy in the past. No matter what we have to endure, no matter how ugly life might get, my place will always be with Chris. And he needs that security as much as I do. He needs to know that no matter how bad things get, I’m not going anywhere.

The gate opens and we circle around back of the massive gray stone building. As rich as Chris is, he is without the sense of righteousness that so many extremely wealthy people possess. He’s just . . . Chris. And though he’s indescribably perfect to me, I know that tonight, enduring the aftermath of Amber’s death, he feels wholly imperfect.

The garage door opens and Chris pulls the Porsche inside, the glow of a motion-sensing light surrounding us. He quickly shoves open his door and heads to the entryway to the house, leaving me behind. My gut clenches.