“Deadly. Unless I went into some kind of fugue state, I did not text you because I never had your phone number. You held all the power when you left that hotel room, and I sat on my ass waiting for you to show me mercy.”
Sliding my phone from my purse, I pulled up the text I had read more times than I’d ever admit. Reading it was like picking a scab off a wound—you couldn’t resist even though you knew it would scar.
“Here. Tell me you didn’t send this to me.” I passed him my phone, then took a massive bite of my burger, grinding it between my teeth.
Mo stared at the phone for a long, long time, motionless except for his thumb, scrolling up and down the screen. There was nothing else to see, though. Just my original text followed by his reply.
When he finally looked up at me, his eyes were wide, and he looked like he was shaking. “Michaela…” My phone clattered on the table. “I had a stalker.”
“Okay?”
He shoved his fingers through his hair, cursing under his breath. “I told you about the crazy dancer chick who snuck into my dressing room.”
“The one who assaulted you. Yes, you told me.”
“She got my number and spent two weeks harassing me. I blocked her, and she kept cloning new numbers, texting me again and again that she missed me. I would have changed my number, but—”
“You were waiting for me to contact you,” I filled in.
He tipped his chin at my phone. “I thought your text was from her. I hadn’t replied to any of her other messages, but that adorable fucking emoji sent me over the edge. I felt so damn helpless, waiting on you, not being able to get her to stop, entirely alone—I snapped. I didn’t for one second think you’d be getting the brunt of my anger. Not for one second. I would never. Never, Michaela.” His fist came down on the table, rattling the silverware. “Shit. I’m so fucking sorry I did that to you. Picturing you down on the tour bus floor makes me want to tear down the world if it would make it right.”
I should have felt relieved, but I wasn’t sure what to feel. More than anything, I was confused about who the man across from me was. He scared me. Not that he would hurt me physically—I knew without a doubt he’d hurt himself before he ever came close to touching me in anger. It was more the raging intensity that hid below his surface-level affable, party boy, rocker facade. Moses wasn’t who he appeared to be at first or second or even third glance.
My hand rested on my bump, and his eyes followed. “I forgive you, Mo. And I hope you’ll forgive me for waiting so long to get in touch. I feel awful you had to go through that because I dragged my feet.”
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. If you don’t remember everything from that night, I get why you might be unsure.”
“But it’s all clear to you?”
He looked at me, unblinking. “Everything. I remember every word, every touch. The way you smell, the sounds you made. The promises we made to each other. I’m not sure I have another memory so incredibly stark in my mind.”
“I wish I remembered more.” Then maybe the way he was looking at me would have made sense.
He heaved a sigh. “Me too.”
“Let’s not hurt each other anymore, okay? Can we try to be friends?”
“Friends?” He spat the word like he couldn’t stand the taste. “You’re my wife.”
The way he said it, like I was the crazy one, startled me. “Mo…come on. I filed for divorce two months ago. I saw you at that party, smelled the other women all over you. I don’t blame you, but you haven’t been living like you’re somebody’s husband all this time. Let’s not pretend.”
“You have no idea, do you?”
I pushed a curl off my forehead. “I guess not.”
He stole a fry from my plate and popped it into his mouth. “You might not remember our wedding, but I sure as hell know you remember what happened in the bathroom at that party. That was the first time I’d kissed or touchedanyonesince you left my bed. I haven’t been with anyone else, despite appearances. I told you I was stupid and high that night, but I was also pissed at you and gave in to the childish need to make you jealous. But you are my wife, Michaela, and I take that seriously.”
“I find that really hard to believe.”
“Which part?”
I circled the air with my hand. “All of it. That you haven’t been fucking around and you take our quickie Vegas marriage seriously.”
His lip curled in a way that made me think I’d just insulted him. “Are you claiming there’s nothing between us?”
“There’s attraction,” I said.
His curl turned into a sneer, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I came to your house yesterday, prepared to let you go, because I thought it was what you wanted. But I don’t think it is. What if none of this mix-up had happened? If we’d talked, kept in contact while you toured? Would you be saying this now?”