I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(36)

My hand clenches around the phone. It’s been two months since he called, the longest he’s gone, and I thought he was finally done. Holding the phone to my ear, I sit down in a chair in one of the lounging spaces. “Okay.”

Background noise fills up the silence between us, muted rock music playing, glasses clinking together—female giggling.

“Hang on, let me go out on the balcony. Too loud in here, and I can’t hear you.” His words are husky with a slight slur.

I picture him in a hotel room, probably the penthouse suite somewhere, his riotous black hair swishing around his shoulders as he cradles the phone to his ear, moving past his bandmates, the alcohol bottles littering the tables.

We met at a bar in Magnolia my sophomore year after my parents died. I was in a weird place, still grieving, and he provided the perfect distraction. When he sang that night, I was mesmerized by the tender way his hands clutched the mic, his ripped-up jeans that hung on his lean hips. His songs called to the music lover in me. He was charismatic, the kind of sexy that tells you he’s going to be a star someday. He kept his gaze on me the entire night, and after he finished his set, he jumped off the stage and took me in his arms. Be mine tonight, he whispered in my ear.

I was his—for several nights that morphed into months, then years.

I dip my head, keeping my voice low. “You have to stop calling me. I need to go. Take care of yourself, okay? Lay off the booze.”

“Baby, baby, the sound of your voice…it’s like the sun after a storm, like a candle in a dark tunnel—”

“Pretty words you don’t mean,” I say faintly, memories of him tugging on my heart.

He exhales gustily. “Tour is over, baby. You should have been here. Sold-out crowd in Chicago last night, fifty thousand screaming fans. I’m leaving soon, coming home to Memphis.”

“That’s good. I’m sure you need the rest and your family misses you.”

“It’s been over a year since…” he murmurs thickly.

Our divorce was final. My lungs squeeze.

“Do you need anything? Money?”

“You don’t owe me anything, Vane.”

“I wish you’d let me see you. We have unfinished business, you and me, things I need to say, and if you give me a chance, I’ll make it right, I promise.”

So many promises… “You can’t fix what you did.”

“I’m gonna work on the new album, and you can come to my house on the river. It’ll be just like old times.”

Old times? My jaw tightens. Like the times I skipped class to see him? Or the entire weekends I spent at his house, leaving Romy with Nana? Other memories batter me, a darkened tour bus after a show in Nashville, the drummer of his band trying and failing to hold me back from going inside. The sounds of moans, the naked girl kneeling at Vane’s feet, his hands cupping her scalp as she—

He knows exactly where my head is… “Serena. Please. Let me explain about that night—”

“I saw what I needed to.”

“Just listen. I should have loved you better, I should have, and now look at us, look at what we are…just let me see you…” His voice breaks and I hear him gasping for air. “We lost each other, and the baby, and you were it for me. Please, baby. I fucked up, I fucked up…”

My eyes shut, willing my voice to be calm and firm. Should I have let him explain himself after what I saw? No. He cheated, probably more than I’m aware of. He broke all his promises to me. End of. I divorced him, and lucky for me, he didn’t even have to be there.

“I’m happy, Vane. Don’t call me anymore.”

There’s a long pause from him. Then, “Who is he, Serena? Who are you dating?”

Leave it to a man to assume I need another man to be happy…

I swear under my breath and throw a glance around the student center, my chest hitching when my eyes catch on Dillon’s. Through the glass wall of the pizza place, I see him sitting at a table. Bambi is next to Sawyer, and Ashley is next to him. Guess she won rock paper scissors today.

“I have to go.” I click my phone off and tuck it in the pocket of my leggings.

Dillon…

This past Saturday, the Tigers defeated Virginia Tech on our home field. I watched him with rapt attention as he kissed his hands and ran out to his teammates. At halftime, he stopped in front of the fifty-yard line and sent me a long look, seeming to soak me in. Then, he shook his head as if to clear it and ran to the locker room. As far as the game, he led his team like a maestro, orchestrating passes that always hit their target. I loved that quote from my last article, although it was a bitch to write, dry as toast. Warren was happy at least.

Over this past week, I’ve seen him around, once at a red light a few blocks from campus while I was on my way to the Gazette; another time I glimpsed him leaving the library as I peered over the third-floor railing. The third time was yesterday morning when I looked out my window and saw him and Owen jogging past my house.

And now, tonight. The universe is tossing him into my path at every turn.

As if he knows I’ve spotted him, he looks up and freezes. He watches me, deep and penetrating. My eyes shut briefly, trying to break this weird thing between us, and when I open them, he’s weaving his way through the crowd to the exit.

I dash for the right hallway. I tell myself I’m running because I’m late, but the truth is, I can’t get Dillon out of my head.