CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SKYLAR
BREAKING NEWS: Skylar Stone is going to win tonight. I already know it.
I BREATHE IN THROUGH MY NOSE FOR THREE, OUT THROUGH MY MOUTH FOR three. But the butterflies crashing against my rib cage don’t seem to care.
This isn’t my first award show, but it is the first one where I’ve felt truly invested in the outcome. I want to win. I want to win so badly it hurts.
Not for the clout and not for what it could do for my career going forward.
I want to win solely to prove to myself that I can. That, all on my own, I can create something worthy of an award. With my own words on a page, a small production studio, and a lot of passion, I am worthy of my career.
That not every bit of it was fake.
That’s what I need to finish my story. To prove that—not for lack of trying—I cannot be defeated.
My limo progresses through the red-carpet line, and I take out the compact in my purse to check my red lipstick one last time.
I’m not fucking around. I’m in full vixen mode and I don’t care how I look to anyone else.
The car ahead moves into the unloading spot and I give myself a quiet, “You got this, Skylar. You’re a fucking badass.”
No one else is here to tell me, so I might as well tell myself.
Ford will meet me at the entrance, since he’s attending with his dad, whose band will be performing tonight, so at least I won’t have to walk the red carpet alone.
I’m sure my ex-parents and ex-agent will be here too, acting like all is well in the Skylar Stone world. But the joke will be on them when Belinda rakes them over the coals for failing to work in the best interests of the asset.
Then I’ll sit back, sip champagne, and watch them all sink.
The divider drops. “Ma’am, we’re next. I’ll get out to open the door for you. Security is already in place.”
I nod to my driver in the rearview mirror. “Thank you.” Then I wipe my damp palms over my red Oscar de la Renta dress. It’s structured, classy, and powerful. My parents didn’t choose it and neither did my agent. There’s no “image” I’m going for—I just plain liked it.
“Here we are.” His kind eyes flash to mine. “You ready?”
I smile back. “Hell yeah.”
“Good luck, Miss Stone. I’ll be rooting for ya.”
I nod to him in thanks, grateful for that final vote of confidence, and step out into the chaos. The sun is bright, but the camera flashes are brighter.
My shoulders stiffen, and I steel myself to carry on.
I hate this.
And then…relief. Relief that I can finally admit I hate this circus. This show. This life.
I blink once and step up the gently sloped ramp with a natural smile on my face. It doesn’t hurt my cheeks, and I’m not faking it.
I intend to fully enjoy this walk down the red carpet.
After all, I intend for it to be my last.
“Skylar!”
“Miss Stone!”
“Skylar!”
People call my name from every direction, and I tune them out. What I hear in my head is the soft lapping of waves on a lakeshore and the call of a loon as it floats across the water. It centers me, but I start when a hand lands
on my back.
I turn, expecting it to be Ford.
“Oh, there you —”
I stop short when my gaze lands on baby blues I’d know anywhere.
“West,” I breathe as I soak in the sight of him as though he might be
some sort of cruel mirage.
He’s here.
He looks fucking edible in a tuxedo. Hair styled. Stubble the perfect length so that he doesn’t look too put together.
He’s here.
He’s a sight for sore eyes. And yet…I can find no words to say to him.
He’s really here.
I’m shocked.
His hand wraps around my hip possessively as his head dips close to my ear. “Surprise?”
I can’t stop the shiver that races down my spine, and I don’t hesitate at all as my body turns in toward his. I want nothing more than to be close to him.
To touch him.
“You’re here” are the only words my addled brain can string together.
His smile. It’s warm. It’s safe. It’s all for me. “I’m here.”
“What are you doing here?”
One cheek tugs up, a dimple forming in its wake. “Didn’t really think your number-one fan would miss his girl winning tonight, did you?”
“I haven’t won.”
His eyes work their way over my face. He doesn’t rush. He soaks me in, like I’m water after he’s been stranded in the desert. “You will.”
The way West believes in me will never fail to take my breath away.
I step closer, seeking his heat despite the warm weather.
“I—” My voice cracks, and I blink faster to cover the emotion. I refuse to cry on the red carpet for everyone to see. “I’ve missed you.”
His head shakes softly from side to side, his eyes brighter than usual. “Me too, fancy face. Me too.” He pulls me against him—with cameras and fans and people screaming my name—and hugs me like I’m his.
Because I am.
And neither of us cares who sees it.
“I’m so fucking sorry. So sorry I let you walk out that door.” His words rasp over my scalp, tangling in the loose waves that cascade down my
shoulders. “I froze. And I should have fought harder. I was busy licking my wounds when what I should have told you is that it doesn’t matter how hard the road is. Bears. Paparazzi. The lowest lows. You and me? We do this thing together. You’re my person. Nothing will change that.”
I gulp to swallow the tears. “You’re my person too. I’m fucking miserable without you.”
He breathes me in, and I nuzzle him, knowing I’m getting makeup on his lapels but finding that I don’t especially care. “What about the kids?
They —”
He holds me out now, gripping my shoulders and bending his knees so he can look me in the eye. “Will be fine. We’ll make sure they are. It’s better when we do it together, yeah?”
My molars grit as I nod back at this man. This big, beautiful man who I get to call my own. At this moment, I can’t help but hate myself for walking
away from him.
He got to me first.
But my plan for tonight was always to make my way back to him.
And now he gets to be here to see me do it.
“Always better when we’re together,” I say, smiling as I repeat the words back to him. Then I step in close and kiss him squarely on the mouth.
Cameras flash as they capture the moment.
And for once, it doesn’t bother me.
“The nominees for song of the year are…”
The screen filters through snippets of songs and music videos, but when it gets to mine, they pan to me. Sitting next to West, in what was supposed to be Ford’s seat.
Earlier, after Ford checked to make sure West and I found each other, he mumbled, “Good. Now I can leave. I fucking hate these things. I’ll watch you win from the hotel.”
Turns out he wasn’t accompanying his dad at all.
He was playing matchmaker.
West squeezes my hand and grins down at me. I smile and dip my head, a
hint of shyness creeping in. My cheeks flush and the voice from the stage carries on with the other nominees.
“Don’t be nervous. You’re going to win.”
“How do you know?” I whisper to West.
He shrugs. “I just do.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I settle for resting my head on his broad shoulder while squeezing the hell out of his hand.
Eventually, the moment comes.
“All right, here we go.” The ripping of an envelope filters over the speakers. “And the award goes to…Skylar Stone for ‘Photosynthesis’!”
I literally feel like I can’t move. The only thing that gets me up out of my seat is West shooting up to cheer with abandon and pulling me into the strongest, happiest hug. “You did it. You fucking did it. I’m so proud of you,” he shouts in my ear over the thunderous applause surrounding us.
We both turn when there’s a boisterous, “That’s my girl,” shouted from
several rows back.
My fucking dad.
West’s muscles tense as he glares back, and I tap him with my hand.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s pathetic, and everyone is about to know it.”
With that, I kiss my man, hold my head up high, and make my way to the stage.
Hugs and thank-yous are exchanged as I take the trophy in my hand. The applause stops when I finally let out a heavy sigh at the podium.
“Wow, this…” I look around the auditorium, soaking in this moment.
Wanting to commit it to memory. Hoping I’ll remember it clearly enough to tell West’s and my children one day. “This is an incredible honor. This has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. And I don’t mean just winning an award because I’ve done that in the past. I mean winning an award for something I am incredibly proud of because I have not done that in the past.”
The theater is quiet save for the odd murmur.
“As some of you may know, I’ve been at this for a long time. So long that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t performing. Even my personal life has mostly been a performance. And it’s recently dawned on me I am very, very tired of performing. And this new album…is not a performance. It’s a labor of love. It’s pride. It’s joy. It’s heartbreak.”
My eyes find West’s across the rows of attendees.
“I was raised in a household where nothing I did was good enough, where any misstep was met with abuse and condescension.”
Gasps echo to the stage, but I don’t stop. I expect music to start playing to cut me off. But it never comes.
“But I’ve recently sought shelter in a household where all my anxieties and all my missteps are met with unconditional love and support. It’s taken me a long time to accept that I deserve that kind of happiness. That what the media says about me isn’t actually who I am. I’ve only recently felt empowered enough to write my music and produce an album—shout-out to Ford Grant and his daughter, Cora, both of whom are endlessly kind and talented—that I am proud of from start to finish. It’s with this sense of pride that I have finally come to realize what I will and will not stand for in my life.
Ford, you have given me a gift that is invaluable and yet integral to the woman who stands here on this stage.”
Someone whistles their support, and I flash a smile in their general direction.
“I’ve also recently met two small children whose strength and good nature make me want to be in their company always. I’ve met a man who loves me at my lowest of lows, who is my number-one fan. West, I love you.”
I hold the award up in West’s direction and his cheeks are bright red but he still blows me a kiss back. Cheers and hoots ring out and all the words I planned to say flow from my lips.
“This album, and this title track in particular, is about growing and changing and evolving and the process of taking energy and turning it into life. This album is my permission to do the same. After years of faking it, I’m going to be real. I’m taking this life, the one I do not enjoy at all, and I’m turning it into one that I do.”
West whoops from his seat and tears spring up in my eyes.
“I will be forever grateful for this career and the privileges it has afforded me. And this award? This award is proof that I can do hard things. That I can rise above even the cruelest attempts to tear me down. I can turn a heaping pile of shit into a win. And it’s the perfect place to hang my hat. Thank you for the award. Thank you for the years of inclusion in this industry. I hope you all love the rest of the album too, because it will be my last. You may see me around, or you may not.”
I shrug and scan the audience over watery lashes. “I’ll be busy living my best life in a small Canadian mountain town that feels like the safe haven I’ve
always dreamed of. Ollie? Emmy?” I hold the award up to the camera in front of me. “This one’s for you. See you at home.”
A smattering of applause builds. It builds and builds until I can barely hear myself think. I grin a real, wide grin as I lift my dress in one hand and make my way down the stairs.
Peers congratulate me on my way past. They shake my hand. They hug me. But it’s all a blur, a holdup. I don’t care about schmoozing. All I want to do is get to West.
I can see him. Standing. Clapping. Smiling.
So close and so far away.
When I finally get to our row, he steps out to hug me again. “Was that always part of the plan?”
I smile into his neck and breathe him in. “Once I realized I couldn’t live without you and I’d be miserable for the rest of my life if I tried? Yes. But I’m glad you were here to hear it in person. My flight out is tonight. I was
coming straight back to you.”
“Home.”
I pull back, one hand on each of his cheeks. “Home.”
Then I kiss him again. Hard. I can’t get enough. He smiles against my mouth, and it makes me melt against his hard body.
“Remember how I don’t do things I don’t want to anymore?”
He chuckles, as an usher hustles toward us, likely rushing to tell us to sit down. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to stay for the rest of this show. Get me the fuck out of here, Coach Thick Thighs.”
West smiles down at me. “With pleasure.”
“We’re going, we’re going,” I politely assure the usher as West takes my hand to lead me out of the building.
“Yeah, we’re going.” West holds up his index finger to the scrawny kid.
“I just have one thing I need to do.”
My brow furrows as he leads me several rows up the aisle.
Right to where my parents and agent are seated. My dad is red-faced.
Again. Clearly not a fan of my acceptance speech. But he still has the gall to stand up and reach around West to shake my hand.
Which is when West strikes.
His fist flies hard and fast. The blood that sails from my father’s mouth, though? I follow its arc in fascinated slow motion.
There are gasps. Shouts.
West takes my dad by his collar and sits him back in his seat like he’s a rag doll. “You want to talk to my girl, asshole? You go through me. And I’m not letting you anywhere near her ever again. Understand?”
I blink and step in close to West, leaning on him for safety like I have since day one. Not because I need to but because I trust him to protect me.
He towers over my dad, whose face is in his hands, and points at my agent next. “The same goes for you. You see her walk past? I want you both to look the other way.”
I shouldn’t feel as satisfied as I do by this spectacle. But my dad is certainly having exactly the type of day he deserves. And I find myself loving West even more for this wild protective streak of his.
When he straightens, he tugs at his lapels to smooth his jacket and then takes my hand.
“Skylar, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
And we do.
I can’t take my eyes off him as he leads me out of that auditorium. The powerful way he carries himself takes my breath away. And the twitch of his lips has me tilting my head in with a whispered question. “What’s so funny?”
His eyes slice over to me and his fingers pulse around mine. “Three.”
“Three what?”
Now he grins.
“Noses.”
I bark out a laugh as we step into the sun. “It’s okay, I heard he knows a great surgeon.”