Sly looks like a deer in the headlights as he searches for what I’m sure he considers an appropriate response to my question. It’s obvious he can’t find one when he finally settles on a simple, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

    Part of me thinks he’s lying because he doesn’t want to deal with such a difficult subject in the middle of a date that went south half an hour ago. But then I look at him—really look at him—and realize he’s just as clueless as he says he is.

    How is that possible? How the hell can he be twenty-seven years old and not know what I’m talking about? He was in college when it happened, at a time when a huge percentage of Jarrod’s fan base, and my own, were eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-olds. I know he must have lived and breathed football to make it this far, but it’s hard to imagine he was so dialed in that he never heard anything about how my entire life went up in smoke. God knows, just about everyone else on the did.

    As I stare at Sly’s concerned but clueless face, I don’t know whether tough or scream or cry at how fucking unfair this all is. Here I was, beginning to think Sly actually liked me despite my past. And not because of it, either, like some of the creeps I’ve met through the years. Now I find out it’s neither. He simply knows nothing about it.

    No wonder it was so easy for him to decide he was interested in me. He missed all the warning signs screaming at him to hightail it in the other direction.

    I probably should have paid more attention that first night, when he told me he only knew the lyrics to a few of my songs. Apparently, he actually meant it—not just about the songs, but about the whole pop culture that surrounds them. It boggles the mind, but it’s also…refreshing.

    For a moment, an incredible sense of freedom tears through me, making my heart pound and my blood sing.

    Freedom from my past as a siren who lures men into danger. Freedom from my present as the ck Widow, the pop star who kills the men who love her.

    And maybe most importantly, freedom to pursue a future with someone who doesn’t have a clue about the darkest days of my past.

    Who wouldn’t be tempted?

    The bubble bursts as soon as I acknowledge it. Sly’s ignorance about my past doesn’t change its existence any more than it changes who I am because I lived it.

    “The song was ‘No More,’” I tell him, because surely he’s heard the title even if he doesn’t know the meaning behind the lyrics.

    After all, the song shot to number one as soon as it was released and stayed there for months, even racking up a posthumous Grammy for Jarrod—his third. The fact that I was also nominated for Best Song that year didn’t exactly go unnoticed by the musical world, and neither has the fact that I haven’t been nominated even once in the five years since.

    “Okay.” Sly nods like it’s no big deal. What the hell? Apparently he really was living his best party life back then.

    “Do you know what it’s about?” I ask.

    “Umm… A rtionship gone bad?” he asks and answers. “The singer is asking for forgiveness from the woman who’s left him.”

    “He wrote it for me right before he died.” It’s not just a confession. It’s a detonation. The kind that leaves ash in the air and bitterness on my tongue.

    I wait for him to speak, to connect the dots the way everyone else has and create a picture that paints me as the viin everyone else wants me to be. But Sly doesn’t say anything. He watches me through eyes filled with more emotion than I’ve let myself feel in years.

    Again, I think about not saying more. We could just finish the date, go on our merry ways, and never say another word about it so long as we both shall live. But Sly doesn’t talk about this date like it’s a one-shot deal. He talks like he wants there to be more—even after I jumped out of that damn SUV.

    The fact that I’ming to realize I want more dates, too—more chances to sing along to the radio or shop for ridiculous disguises or be kissed like nothing and no one else in the world is watching—only makes this whole conversation more difficult.

    Because now I have two choices: not tell him and go on another few dates, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, or tell him and end whatever this is before it has a chance to begin.

    The fact that I want to choose the former—even knowing the heartbreak it will bring—tells me more clearly than anything else that I need to pick thetter. Better to get rid of Sly now. Before I actually start to care.

    Even as I think it, my mind shes back to the damn ca lilies and peonies he insists on sending me. To the way he calls me corazón. To the kiss that reached inside me and made me feel things I never thought I could.

    That’s the real reason I have to tell him. Because I’m already starting to care far more than is safe. It’s better to get out now, with what few shards of my heart and reputation I have left intact.

    “Can we walk?” I ask after several long seconds go by. While I’m still working on redirecting the spiraling thoughts surrounding what happened five years ago, it’s been a long time since I’ve deliberately gone there. I don’t know much right now, but I know that if I have to stand still when I’m talking about it, I’llpletely lose my mind.

    “Yeah, of course.”

    Griffith Park is a great ce for a fun, no-pressure first date. It isn’t exactly a fabulous ce to have this conversation. Between the zoo, the observatory, the modeling shoots, and the kids ying on the yground after school, the park is usually a hotbed of activity. But school isn’t out yet, and everyone else seems upied elsewhere. For now, we have this small trail to ourselves.

    As we start down it, I cross my arms over my chest and rub my hands along my upper arms in a futile attempt to keep the encroaching chill at bay.

    It’s a beautiful afternoon in Los Angeles, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The cold ising from within me. Right now, there’s not enough sunshine in the world to chase it away.

    Sly walks next to me, his hand resting lightly on my lower back and gaze focused intently on my face. I want to tell him not to look at me, that sharing this is hard enough without looking him in the eyes. But that will only make me look sadder than I already feel—if that’s possible—so I just let it go as I scramble for a way to begin this talk that I have absolutely no interest in having.

    “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” Sly tells me when several minutes go by and I still haven’t figured out how I want to start it.

    “Do you want to go out with me again?” I ask him point-nk. “Or did you write me off after my freak-out earlier?”

    “Does anything about thest half hour suggest I’ve written you off?” he shoots back, looking insulted for the first time today.

    “Well, then, we need to have this conversation. Because if I don’t have it with you, someone else sure as hell will.”

    Probably Marquis—he seems like the type who would know all the drama, real or imagined.

    The insult fades from his eyes, reced by a wariness I understand but still wish wasn’t there. “Okay.”

    Again, it’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for, but when have I ever let that stop me? I walk a little farther before I actually begin. And when I do, I look anywhere—everywhere—but his face.

    This story is painful enough without me having to see his condemnation when I tell it.

    “I met Jarrod when I was neen years old,” I start. “We were both on Saturday Night Live. He was doing double duty as host and musical guest, and they brought me on to do a duet with him because the woman he recorded the song with was touring in Europe.”

    I have to work not to shudder as I go back to a time I normally do everything I can to never think about. “He was funny and charming and talented, and I was hooked from our very first meeting.”

    Apparently, falling for the charming, funny, smoking hot guy is a trend for me, considering I’m in the middle of doing the same thing with Sly, whether I want to admit it or not.

    “I’ve seen pictures,” he says as I try to internalize the truth I just now figured out. “The two of you looked really happy together.”

    “For a long time, we were. And then…then we just weren’t anymore.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At first, we had a really good time together. We’d stay up all night talking about books we’d read and ces we wanted to go. We’d write music together or watch the most ridiculous movies at three a.m. because we traveled a lot—for work and pleasure. I went ces with Jarrod I’d always dreamed of but never had the chance to go to because my mom couldn’t afford it when I was younger, and by the time I could, she was already gone.

    “He wanted me to travel with him, and I wanted him to do the same with me. So, in an industry where people who are together are rarely in the same ce, we were rarely apart—for a while, anyway.”

    Sly and I approach a tricky part of the trail, and he steps in front of me without me even having to ask. Then he takes my hand and guides me steadily over the exposed tree roots and down the rocky slope to the t trail below.

    You’d think it would make me feel closer to him, but somehow it just makes us feel farther apart.

    “And it was amazing. Jarrod was always the one to get the party started. People—women especially—gravitated toward him whenever he was in the vicinity. He was charming and funny and always super kind to everyone he met. No matter how tired he was or how many things he still had to get through in his day, if someone wanted to talk to him, he always stopped and gave them a few minutes. It was actually one of his best traits. And he had a lot of really good traits.”

    Until he didn’t.

    My heart starts beating faster as I let myself think about Jarrod, my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in even though it’s been five years since Ist saw him. Then again, those five years have been rife with times I wanted to flee…and times I had to fight instead.

    “Somewhere around our two-year mark, things started to change for the both of us. The album I put out that year really took off, and the apanying tour sold out all over the world. Between merch and ticket sales, it became one of the highest grossing tours of the year, beating out almost everyone else…including Jarrod.

    “He was happy for me—he wasn’t the type to care about which of us was doing better as long as we were doing what we loved. That never changed, or at least, if it did, he never acted like it. Jarrod had a lot of ws, but professional jealousy wasn’t one of them. He loved his job, and he loved that I loved mine.”

    It’s hard to think about that time for so many reasons. Not just because I was young and in love, but because it was back before I had stage fright. Back when I couldn’t write fast enough. When I couldn’t wait to get onstage every night and share the energy of the crowd.

    Still, I force myself to fight through the pain and the memories to the truth beneath.

    “But those jobs started taking us away from each other for longer and longer periods of time. We tried to coordinate our tours so I could apany him and he could apany me. Eventually, though, it became impossible. There were too many ces to be—photo shoots, interviews, tours, appearances, the recording studio. We were apart a lot more than we were together, and though we lived together at his ce in California and my ce in Chicago, it wasn’t the same.”

    A gust of wind whips through the trees around us. It’s warm and dry, but it has goosebumps pricking my skin and a shiver working its way down my spine. “You okay?” Sly drops my hand, and I immediately feel the loss—until he pulls me into his arms so he can rub his hands up and down my back. “Do you want to go have a cup of coffee or tea somewhere?”

    “I can’t imagine anything worse than sitting in public while I’m trying to tell you this story,” I say, ducking my head to avoid his eyes—and whatever he must currently be thinking of me. “The fact that you’re here while I’m telling it is already two more people talking about this than I’mfortable with.”

    “We can stop, then.” He puts a hand under my chin and tilts my gaze up just so, until I can’t help but meet his soulful brown eyes. “I feel like you’ve been hurt enough. Thest thing I want to do is hurt you any more.”

    I scan his face, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth. I find nothing but sincerity in the kind look he directs my way. Sincerity and concern and a willingness to let me lead the way through the minefield of my past.

    It’s that concern that gives me the strength to say, “I’d rather tell you everything now. You deserve to hear the truth from me instead of reading some gossip site’s version of it.”

    My stomach revolts, my whole body turning to ice at just the thought of going back there. But I know if I don’t do it now, I’ll never tell him. And that silence will rot whatever might be of this before it ever has the chance to be.

    “That’s what I’m telling you, Sloane. I’m not going to look this up on some gossip site. I can wait for whenever you’re ready—”

    “That’s what I’m telling you,” I interrupt, because my gut tells me it’s now or never. I’d rather blow the mines all at once than wait for them to go off one by one. “I’m ready now.”

    “Okay, then.” He slowly pulls away. “You want to keep walking?”

    What I really want is for him to put his arms around me again. It’s an ufortable feeling for someone who’s spent years perfecting the art of not being touched.

    I don’t need Sly, but I do want him. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

    So instead of asking him to hold me again, I simply nod and start down the path before us. I’ve barely taken two steps before Sly reaches for my hand, locking our fingers together. “Just because you have to do this,” he tells me, “doesn’t mean you need to do it alone.”

    Considering that’s pretty much the opposite of what I’ve believed for my entire career, I don’t know what to say. So I just nod again and keep walking.

    Above us, wind dances through the trees, making the leaves chitter and the branches sway. But I’m already lost in the past, in thosest terrifying and terrible years.

    “Long-distance rtionships are hard,” Sly prompts when a couple of minutes pass without me saying anything.

    “It’s not the long distance that was hard. It’s that Jarrod…wasn’t okay. Like really not okay. For a long time, I didn’t know anything about it.”

    “He didn’t tell you?” Sly asks. “Or he didn’t know?”

    “I wish I knew. I mean, he walked the line between fast and too fast, drunk and too drunk. Reckless and really, really fucking dangerous. He told me it made him feel alive, like he wasn’t so alone in the world.”

    “Alone?” Sly repeats. “How could he feel alone when he was with you?”