The last couple weeks of challenging myself to not hide from the past so much, I imagine, make a difference in how I’m coping with the new information. The reawakened anxiety that accompanies it.

No panic attacks though.

It’s early, so I expect everyone to still be asleep. But when I descend, all the emotions surge again. Foster’s on the couch in sweatpants and no shirt. He’s facing me, his back against the arm, both knees bent to prop up his notebook as he writes.

He flicks his eyes up to me and slides out an earbud. The apprehension’s evident in his face while he waits for me to decide how the scene unfolds. I feel the new tear, which first developed last night. Hearing the strain in his voice when talking about Chase had part of me wanting to run into his arms. But the other part can’t reconcile how he played a role in what nearly cost Roman his life—and broke me in ways I never thought possible.

Suffice to say, I hate this tear as much as the old.

Especially since Foster’s no more at fault now than five years ago—I’m still the root.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I admit.

He nods. “You don’t have to know. You just need to feel it.”

What I feel is the tug. To him.

So I follow it.

Foster moves the notebook aside when I come to crawl between his knees to lie on his chest. He adjusts to accommodate. Once we’ve settled, he kisses the top of my head. My cheek presses against his heated skin, and he sets his music to play through the speakers. His fingers run up and down my back as I absorb everything him and fall asleep.

If dreams were premonitions, mine would be something about lights and tunnels and annihilating trains.

* * *

By the end of the night, my picture’s plastered online.

Nothing concrete, but half a dozen shots of Adams North and the girl on tour with him. No mention of the documentary or my name, but fuzzy images of me with my legs wrapped around him, his hands on my ass. His mouth shamelessly devouring mine. Those are amplified by one of me tucked under his arm when the fans were rough.

It’s the most visible I’ve been. Not only in the last several years but in my life.

“Baby, I’m so fucking sorry.” Foster takes his phone from my hand, pocketing it.

We’re tucked away backstage in a dark hallway, my back pressed to the wall. Christian gave him a heads-up right after the encore and sent him screenshots.