Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Can we make dinner together? I want to try that pasta thing we saw on TV.”
“Of course.” I stand and follow her toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction of normal domestic routine.
I text Gus to let him know I’ll be late. Making dinner with my daughter is far more important to me right now.
We cook together, laughing at my failed attempts to twirl spaghetti properly, part of my mind stays trapped in the memory of Gage’s betrayal. The way intimacy became ammunition. And in the growing certainty that letting Darian touch me was a risk I can’t afford to have taken.
When an alarm sounds on my phone, Lily sighs heavily.
“What’s wrong?”
She shrugs. “I wish you could stay home.”
“Me too, but it’s my job,” I tell her as I meet her gaze. “How about since it’s Friday, you come with me? You can sit at one of the tables and pretend you’re a music critic.”
Her eyes light up with so much happiness. “Yes!”
On our way, I call my mom to let her know Lily’s coming to work with me. I text Jovie and Gus as well, so they know to keep everyone on their best behavior. Thank God the music is mostly clean, and no one will be biting the head off a bat tonight.
Back at The Songbird, I look out at the crowd, and smile. Three bands will perform tonight, to a packed crowd. I love every part of it. After setting Lily up with a Shirley Temple, a notepad, and a bowl of popcorn, I make my rounds. Doing everything I can to forget about my tryst with Darian. It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. From this point forward, any relationship between us is strictly professional.
I take my phone out and look at his texts. They’re innocent and there’s a part of me that feels bad. I’m too messed up and damaged to bring him down with me.
I can’t make it tomorrow. Sorry.
I hit send and immediately pocket my phone.
His response comes five minutes later: I understand.
Two words that somehow contain more disappointment than a paragraph of accusations would have. I stare at the message until the letters lose meaning, then delete the entire conversation thread.
This is for the best.
darian
. . .
My hip rests against my counter, coffee cup in my hand. My mind is full of my sister’s voice; her words echo in my head: hiding isn’t a life strategy. And her parting advice: Some things are worth fighting for. Even if you’re not sure you’ll win.
Slowly, I take a sip of my coffee and immediately spit it out. It tastes bitter this morning, or maybe that’s just the taste of realizing your sister is right about everything. Not that I’d ever tell her she’s right. Her ego is already big enough. She’s not wrong though because after my gig at The Blue Note, I came back to my apartment, locked the door and avoided life. Not all was lost though. I did write some songs that I’ll never play for anyone.
So, yeah. My sister’s right and I need to change that.
Time to stop being a coward.
I grab my keys and head downstairs, nodding to Benny as he opens the shop for the day. The walk to The Songbird takes ten minutes, and I spend every one of them trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to say when I run into Rye.
But when I reach the venue, something’s wrong. The front window has a crack running diagonal across the glass, and there’s a pile of debris on the sidewalk that wasn’t there before. I can hear a lot of noise inside. Not music—construction sounds. Hammering. Someone swearing creatively.
I push through the door to find Jovie on a stepladder, attacking the wall behind the bar with a putty knife. Her purple hair is tied back with what looks like a shoelace, and she’s wearing jeans with more holes than fabric. Drywall dust coats everything within a six-foot radius.
“What happened?” I ask.
She glances down, surprised to see me. “A water pipe burst upstairs last night. Soaked through the floor and took out half this wall.” She gestures at the damage with her putty knife. “Insurance adjuster comes tomorrow, but we can’t wait that long. We’ve got shows this weekend.”
“Where’s Rye?”
“Dealing with the plumber upstairs.” Jovie scrapes off another chunk of damaged drywall, then pauses to study me. “You’re the musician who played here the other night, right? Darian?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Jovie. We spoke on the phone the other day.” She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
So she’s the one who gave me Rye’s number. I should buy her flowers or something as a thank you.
I study the wall. The water damage extends about four feet up from the floor, and the drywall has that soft, spongy texture that means it’s all got to come out. This isn’t a patch job—it’s a rebuild.