Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 32

JACK

The gym is packed when I arrive, chairs in two groups along the floor with an aisle, the bleachers bursting with people.

“Dude. Everyone is here to see you.” Devon gives me a questioning look. “You got this?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar. You gonna puke again?”

He had to pull over once on the interstate. Same thing happened last night when I drove down for the last rehearsal. My stomach is screwed up. I can’t eat. I can’t think. Thoughts of Elena mixing with nervousness over speaking in front of all these people.

“They’re not reporters,” he reminds me. “Just good people who want to see you. There’s Timmy.” He nudges his head as the tornado that’s Timmy sees me and barrels over to us. He’s got jeans and a slightly wrinkled dress shirt on.

I swing him up and give him a big hug. “You look nice, little man,” I say to him, forcing warmth in my voice—when I feel so damn cold.

“You’re late! Mama is asking everyone where you were!”

I grimace. “Sorry. Here now. Go tell her I’m coming.”

He nods and dashes back down the gym floor.

“This is a one-night-only show. The last time you’ll see Elena,” Devon murmurs, sticking his hands in his jeans. “Think about that tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Break a leg, then. Go on. I’m going up front. Elena mentioned they had seats for us and Quinn.”

“Me too,” Lucy says, coming in the door with Quinn and hearing us. She’s a surprise guest. I mentioned the play to her a week ago, telling her about the people of the town. About Elena.

I didn’t think she’d be able to make it since she’s had a recent bout with the flu. Quinn picked her up since she doesn’t drive much anymore, while I rode with Devon.

“I want a good look at this Juliet you’ve been talking about on the phone,” she says, arching her brow. In her late seventies with bobbed brown hair, she’s wearing black dress pants, a white silk blouse, and a strand of pearls I bought her for Christmas last year. They make me think of Elena . . .

“Yeah,” I say tonelessly.

Her eyes are hazel and faded—but sharp. I haven’t told her anything about what happened because I don’t want her to worry, but Quinn . . .

I nod. “Should be three seats up front. I told Laura, and she reserved them.”

She shoos me off. “Go on, then. Don’t worry about us.”

They wish me luck, and I wander off toward the front, but I pause, my chest knotted. I hang back, feeling eyes on me from every direction. My hands tremble as I hoist my duffel bag up on my shoulder.

Part of me wants to just . . . run away.

The other side of me . . . wants to see Elena. Last time.

Anxiousness rides me as people watch me jog to the stage, a wave of relief hitting me as I shut the door and climb the steps to the stage. Curtains are drawn, and everyone mills around with final prepping. Cast members huddle in groups, going over lines. Shit, I hate being late. I head into one of the dressing rooms for the men, thankful it’s empty as I change out of my clothes and into Romeo’s shirt, jeans, and black boots.

By the time I’m out, miked up, and waiting with the rest of the cast, I still haven’t seen Elena.

Is she late?

Did she dread coming as much as I did?

“Jack.”

I whip around at the sound of her voice, nearly stumbling.

She looks . . . beautiful. Her short dress falls above her knees, her wings in her hands. It was hell being around her last night at rehearsal, fucking awful.

“Have you been crying?” I say gruffly. Her face is perfect, but those eyes are road maps.

A slight smile. She thrusts a Tigers mug at me, the first one I bought when I got drafted to Nashville. “You forgot this. Guess you were in a hurry.”

“Oh.” I take it with stiff fingers, fighting . . . shit . . . battling with myself to not brush them against hers.

“Be glad I saved it. Clara wanted to throw it against the wall.” She turns to leave.

“Elena?”

“What?”

A long exhalation comes from deep inside as she faces me again, and I say something I said I wouldn’t, but I can’t stop it, because the whole drive here, all I could think about was her, that torn, angry, yet resigned expression on her face when I left the gym.

I love you. I knew you’d sweep me away—and in the end, you’d crush me. I stayed right with you all the way because I couldn’t bear to not be part of your world.

I recall the pride I read in her eyes that held her strong. Kept her from talking to me.

“What was your phone call about? I’d like to know so I can be prepared.”

She gives me a professional nod, a wan smile. “Yes, of course. You stalked out without getting the whole story.” Her expression is blank—God, I miss her emotions—and never changes. “In a nutshell, Marvin wanted me to see if you wanted to sell your story. He asked on behalf of a coworker, the agent who handled Sophia, who saw the video of us. They thought I’d be able to convince you or give them your contact info for a conversation.”

Ms. Clark waltzes past us in her purple dress. She smirks at us. “Lover’s tiff already, Romeo and Juliet? Can’t say I’m surprised. You two don’t go together.”

Elena never looks at her, voice still toneless. “Fuck off, Sheila.”

She harrumphs and flounces off, shooting eye daggers at us.

I focus back on Elena. “You never told me you worked there.”

“Thought you trusted me. Assumed you knew. I was wrong. I would have eventually, Jack. It didn’t seem pressing, but now I see that I should have said it right away.” Her words are clipped, tinged with anger, and I find that I like that better, because at least it tells me that she feels something.

We’re still staring at each other, and I can’t stop looking at her face, the curve of her cheekbones, the way her hair falls around her jawline. “What do you want from me?”

She breaks a little then, wistfulness crossing her features before she shuts it down.

My control dips, that rabbit hole of emotion tugging at me. My arms ache to hold her.

But . . . shit . . .

She grimaces, looking pained as she plucks at the waist of her dress. “Absolutely nothing, Jack. I keep my promises. No one will ever know anything you told me.”

I’ve never seen her so . . . hard to read.

Empty. Void of that usual light in her aquamarine eyes.

You put that there.

You blew up and walked out on her.

You ignored her words.

She frowns. “Are you good to go out there?”

I give her a jerky nod. “I’ll be fine.” I stare down at my boots. “Helps when you’re out there with me. I don’t even think about the audience.”

“Well, at least I’m good for that. Meerkats work too.”

I close my eyes. And I don’t even know what I’m going to say, only that I don’t want her to leave. I want her to tell me she loves me again. I want her to . . . “Elena—”

“Five minutes until the curtain comes up!” Laura yells, sweeping her eyes over us. She lands on me. “You ready?”

Elena walks away from me, as if she was waiting for the right chance, heading to the other side of the stage, where she’ll enter.

I nod at Laura, my head spinning. I feel dizzy, and it has nothing to do with being nervous about speaking.

I’ll never see her again.

I breathe heavily, as if I’m about to throw a pass to win the game, and the coverage is insane, covered up, and I can’t find . . .

Dread, thick and dark, curls around me, wrapping around my chest.

Clarity settles around me, and maybe, maybe I knew from the moment she snapped back at me the other night without fully explaining, as if I should already know she didn’t need to defend her phone call, but I shoved it down, locked my feelings away in a box, wrapped a chain around them, and tossed them where I put everything that makes me feel too much. She . . . she’d protect me until the end. I recall how she dealt with those women at the bakery, her fierceness, and then I’m lost, remembering sweeping her up in my arms and running for the penthouse.

Where she never wanted to go.

Where she never felt at ease, yet she . . . went.

I’ve fucked up with Elena. I’ve . . . I’ve judged her by Sophia’s actions, when Elena isn’t that girl.

She’s never used me.

She’s never pushed me to tell her anything, except out of genuine concern. I’m the one who willingly opened up more than I ever have with anyone else, and hell, even then I’m always holding part of me back.

I let her go.

Pushed her far away, scared. Afraid of my life repeating old mistakes . . .

But Elena isn’t a mistake.

Even with my shoulder surgery looming, that gnawing worry about my future in the NFL, this month has been the happiest I’ve—

God.

She’s the girl a man dreams of finding someday . . . everything I always wanted.

And I threw it back in her face.

I reacted without listening. I . . . fuck.

You lobbed another interception, Jack.

You lost the fucking game.