31. Tatum
31
TATUM
M y eyes feel like they’re glued shut, but I pry them open anyway. Well, for about a millisecond. Grimacing, I toss my forearm over my face and let out a groan.
Noooo. My head is killing me. I can feel it pulsating behind my eye sockets and between my brows. Smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, my nose wrinkles. Yup. My breath tastes like ass and my mouth feels like it spent last night traipsing around the Sahara Desert. I roll onto my side and open my eyes again, this time squinting in hopes of blocking out the morning light filtering in through the window.
Okay, morning might be a bit of a stretch. It appears the sun is high in the sky, refusing to wait for anyone, including a very hung-over Tatum Taylor, AKA me. Or at least, I think I’m hung over. That, or I got hit by a truck and don’t remember. Actually, I don’t really remember much at all.
Where am I?
White walls. A four-poster bed. Silk sheets. A guitar in its stand. Wait. Am I at…Paxton’s? Shit, why am I at Paxton’s? And not just at Paxton’s, but in his room. In his bed. Blindly, I reach for my boobs, confirming I’m not naked, and let out a, “Thank you, Jesus,” under my breath. I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t break my rule. That’s something, isn’t it? I sit up slowly in an attempt to keep the walls from spinning—it doesn’t work—and press my palm to my temple. The party. What happened at the party? It’s all a blur. A really foggy, blur.
Perfect.
Stairs creak outside the bedroom, and I tug the sheets tighter around me, my head still throbbing. When Pax appears in the doorway, my spine straightens, but I don’t say a word.
Balancing a tray of…something, he enters the room. “Drink this.” He offers me a glass of water. “And take these,” he adds. In his hand are two white pills.
I quirk my brow at him.
“Aspirin,” he clarifies. “For the headache.”
“Oh.”
He sets the tray on the nightstand. “I also brought some toast, crackers, and a Gatorade, if you’re up to it. But first,”—he drops the pills in my palm—“aspirin.”
Grateful, I pop them into my mouth and reach for the glass of water. I’m so parched, my tongue still feels like sandpaper, so I take a big gulp, hoping to erase the feeling.
“Don’t chug it,” Pax orders. “Pretty sure you puked up a lung last night. No need to do it again.”
I lower the glass and lick the moisture from my lips as I study the man in front of me. He looks good. Freshly showered in a T-shirt and jeans. His blond hair is still damp and pushed away from his face, giving me the perfect view of his toasty, espresso gaze. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.
Reaching up, he dabs at the corner of my mouth with his thumb before dropping his hand back to his side. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re mean enough to yourself for the both of us.”
The cold, dead organ in my chest heats a couple degrees thanks to the warmth in his gaze before it sparks a memory from last night. I’m on my knees in front of the toilet. Pax is holding my hair back. I was so pissed. I… My shoulders fall, the night flashing in incoherent and undecipherable pieces, leaving me even more lost.
Okay, this isn’t great. I’ve been black out drunk a time or two, and even then, I felt like I could sweep the evening under the rug. Now, though? With Paxton two feet in front of me while sporting a sweet, caring personality I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve? It’s confusing and off-putting and…not great.
“What happened, Pax?” I ask.
“You drank too much.”
“Really? I had no idea.” My mouth twitches. “Anything else?”
“You puked.”
“You mentioned that already.”
“You gave everyone a show,” he continues.
My eyes thin. “What kind of show?”
“One on a coffee table.”
I rub at my tired eyes, still feeling lost. “Sounds promising.”
“Trust me, you had quite the audience.” He leans closer, his cologne somehow managing to distract me from my throbbing headache. “And if they weren’t there, I would’ve let you continue.”
My attention drops to his mouth for a moment. Then, I look him in the eye again. “I’m sure you would’ve. I’ve heard I’m the queen of putting on a good show after a few drinks.”
With a smirk, he scratches his jaw. “You have no idea.”
“Anything else?” I prod.
“Roman kicked everyone out.”
“Including Rory?”
He sobers slightly and nods. “Yeah.”
Niggling hits the back of my mind, but I stick a pin in the feeling. “Go on.”
“You fell on top of me, and I carried you to the bathroom.”
“Which is when the puking happened,” I assume.
“Exactly.”
“That’s good, I guess,” I mutter. “At least I made it to the toilet. What happened after?”
“We talked and…” He hesitates. “I carried you here.” He motions to the bedroom, and I drag my hands along the silky black sheets.
All right, he most definitely breezed over something, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.
Unsure if I even want to know the answer, I ask, “And where did you sleep?”
“In the spare room.”
“You didn’t think to put me in the spare room?”
“I could’ve.”
“But?” I prod.
“But the idea of you sleeping anywhere other than my bed felt wrong.”
Felt wrong?
I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down on the plump flesh, fighting the urge to blush because…what the hell? And why is that kind of hot? We aren’t together. Or at least, we weren’t. Actually, we were kind of enemies, so…why am I in his bed, and why is he looking at me like this? There’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.
“So, we didn’t like, hook up, right?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not even a kiss goodnight.”
I nod slowly. Somehow, I’m grateful and disappointed at the same time, which makes zero sense. I stick a pin in that, too. “Let’s back up,” I decide, searching for light on all the blind spots from last night. “What did we talk about?”
He squeezes the back of his neck but stays quiet.
“Tell me,” I push.
“You sure you want to know?”
I grimace. “Is it bad?”
“Not to me,” he offers with a shrug.
Well, that sounds promising.
Forcing myself to not cower, I sit up a little straighter on the bed and keep my head held high. “Okay, tell me.”
“For starters, you mentioned your sister.”
Aaaand, just like that, I deflate like an overblown balloon. My sister. The engagement. They’re getting married. The conversation is splotchy at best, but I can still see Ophelia’s text and how much it hurt. Dread and regret tug in my chest. I fist the sheets, fighting the urge to rub at the aching spot. “And Mav,” I offer. “We talked about Mav.”
His head dips.
Fighting past the fresh knot in my throat, I whisper, “And Arch.”
Pax lowers his head again. “Yeah. And Arch.”
“That’s why Rory left,” I realize. The stone in my stomach triples in size. “Not because Roman kicked her out, but because I was a bitch.”
He grimaces. “I’m sure you weren’t?—”
“I was.” I press my forefinger to my tear duct, and stare down at the black residue from last night’s makeup. I can’t even look Paxton in the eye, let alone my best friend, but the fact is, I screwed up. Big time. “It’s hard sometimes,” I murmur. “Remembering that she might’ve lost one brother, but without that loss, she wouldn’t have her other one.”
Paxton’s sigh somehow breathes a bit of life into me, grounding me in the moment when I could so easily get lost in my shitty history and regret.
“When did it happen?” he asks.
Fiddling with my ring, I answer, “A lifetime ago.”
And it’s funny. Because Pax probably thinks I’m fudging the numbers on purpose or keeping shit vague to keep him in the dark, but in all reality? It’s the truest statement I’ve ever made. I’m not that girl anymore. But I don’t know who this one is, either. It’s like my life has been split in two. With Archer and without. And damn, if it doesn’t hurt.
“You loved him?” Pax rasps.
“I did.” I let out a sad laugh. “I did love him. I loved him so much.” Another pathetic laugh escapes me. “Which is so weird because I knew he didn’t love me. I knew he’d never love me. Not only was I younger than him, but he was too infatuated with my older sister to even consider opening that door, you know?” My forehead wrinkles. “And I hated it. That she had what I wanted, completely took it for granted,” I clarify, “and found a way to throw those feelings, the feelings I desperately wanted to be directed at me, right back in his face by falling for his twin brother instead.”
I don’t know why I say it. Why I word vomit some of my deepest, darkest secrets to a guy I’ve been determined to keep at arms’ length, but I do. Pax nods slowly, and part of me wonders if I’ve already told him all of this. If I already aired out all my dirty laundry to a guy I’m not even sure I like at this point. Okay, that’s a lie. I do like him. I like him a lot, actually. And that’s the scary part. Regardless, the idea of letting drunk Tatum steal this conversation from me feels wrong, and if I can steal back those memories by replicating them when I’m mostly sober and will actually remember what we talk about, then I need to do it. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it makes me want to break out in hives.
“Do you still love him?” Pax asks. It isn’t accusatory. It isn’t laced with pity. It’s genuine and open and maybe even a little hesitant or guarded. Like he knows that whatever my answer is, it’s real. It means something. It isn’t delusional or irrational or proof I’ve been stuck in la-la land for years with no escape.
And honestly, that validation? It’s the only thing making me want to give him an answer.
I press my lips together, hating how easily a simple question can threaten to knock me on my ass. Do I still love him? Did I ever love him? Do I even know what love is? I’m not even twenty-six, and all I’ve ever done is sleep around, ward off intimate emotional connections like they’re the Plague, and screw up like I did last night.
Sensing my discomfort, Pax sits on the edge of the bed, leaving an inch of space between us. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I love the idea of him,” I whisper. “And maybe that’s all it ever was because, like I said, he never returned any of those feelings, but…I guess I’m a sucker for an underdog story, and knowing Archer will never get his…moment in the spotlight or whatever, it sucks. And it isn’t fair. And I guess, for a girl who grew up reading and absorbing as many happily-ever-afters as she could, it’s a hard pill to swallow.”
“What is?”
“The realization of how few happily-ever-afters actually unfold in real life.” I shove my hair away from my face and press my finger into the corner of my eye again. “God, maybe I’m still drunk. I have no idea why I’m telling you this.”
Pax shifts closer to me on his bed, and for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t pull away. If anything, I fight the urge to move closer.
“Have you ever heard of the composer John Cage?” he asks.
“What?”
“John Cage,” he clarifies. “He’s from the 1930s or something like that.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, no. I’ve never heard of him.”
“His most famous piece is probably 4’33”.”
“Haven’t heard of that one, either,” I note.
He smiles. “It’s a song where the performer is supposed to sit in silence for four minutes and 33 seconds while the audience listens to whatever sounds are going on in the room. Things like the air conditioner humming, or other people shifting around in their seats, or the traffic passing by outside. Shit like that.”
I quirk my brow. “Sounds like a nutjob.”
“Maybe a little.” He pauses, his smile softening. “He had this other song, though. ‘As Slow As Possible.’ People who would perform it were instructed to play the song as slow as possible. And I mean aaaas sloooow aaaas poooossssiiiiblllle.” He drags out the words, emphasizing them.
My brows lift. “Like literally?”
“Yeah. Literally. Then he died,” Pax says with a shrug. “And all of these people tried to figure out a way to…memorialize the guy. This board gets together, calculates the length of the song and how long each note should play so the piece stays accurate to Cage’s composition. They decide to pick a location in some small town in Germany and use a church to play the song the way it was meant to be played. As. Slow. As. Possible. Wanna take a guess how long the performance is?”
“I don’t know? A few hours, maybe?”
The mattress dips as he leans closer, stealing all my attention. “Six hundred and thirty-nine years.”
My eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Crazy, right?”
“How is that even possible?”
“They use an organ, since the pipes are able to hold a note or chord for an extended period of time. A piano string will stop vibrating at some point,” he clarifies, “but an organ? It goes and goes as long as there’s air passing through it.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not joking. Six hundred and thirty-nine years, Birthday Girl.”
With wide eyes, I rest my back against the headboard. “That’s insane.”
“Yeah, it’s playing as we speak.”
“The same note,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Yeah. The same note. Then, based on the mathematical calculation, when it’s time for a new note to play, someone from the church is tasked with changing the chord. It’s a huge event. People travel from across the world when it happens.”
“Just to hear the chord change.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane,” I repeat.
“It is, but it’s kind of cool, too. Don’t you think?”
My mouth lifts as I absorb Paxton’s fascination. He’s so…animated. It makes him look younger. Cuter. Not hot. Cute. There’s a difference, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted to kiss him more.
Ignoring the urge, I point out, “Sounds nerdy.”
“But cool,” he pushes.
“Sure, it is.” I give him the side-eye, keeping my thoughts on lockdown because okay, yeah. It is kind of cool. That one person can affect people so much, a group of people sign up multiple generations to honor him.
Crazy.
“So what’s your point, Pax?” I ask.
“Points,” he clarifies. “I have multiple.”
I chuckle softly. “And they are?”
“One, it’s okay for someone to make a lasting impression.”
My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek. “And two?”
“Two, there’s nothing wrong with taking your time to appreciate something, even if it’s a single note played over years. Honestly, there’s beauty in it. With celebrating something to the fullest. With accepting the beauty that something is, even if it’s as small as a single note or chord. And you can take your time, Birthday Girl. You can take your time and appreciate it for what it is and how it makes you feel. You . Not anyone else.”
The words hit hard. Harder than I expect. Maybe they shouldn’t. Maybe they should. Honestly, I’m not sure. And I’m not sure if it matters, either. Not in the long run.
“And when the composer decides it’s time for a new note?” I whisper.
“Then, I think that’s worth celebrating, too. But the cool thing is, you’re the composer for this song, Tate. You and only you. You get to decide when you’re ready to move on, to let go, to choose when a new chord is played and what that chord is. Your sister, and her fiance, and Rory? They’re composing their own songs, but even if they’re at a different pace or in different keys, it doesn’t take away from yours.”
Well, shit. I shift on the bed, unsure what to say or how to react. Because it’s strange. How…fitting his analogy is. Nerdy, but fitting. Whether it’s my life or my grief or…anything at all, I’ve been so busy focusing on—and criticizing—other people’s journeys, I haven’t been able to accept my own.
“Thank you,” I finally whisper.
“Anytime.” He grabs my knee and squeezes. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to appreciate the new note, too. Whenever you’re ready to play it.”
I look down at his hand, the familiar lump lodging like a cork in my throat before I swallow it back.
“And on that note—pun intended,” he murmurs as he stands, “I’m gonna give you some space.”
“Wait.”
He stops his retreat. “Yeah?”
“How do you…how do you know so much about this? I’m pretty sure I got more from this conversation than I did years of therapy, so…”
A grimace etches into his handsome features, and he sighs. “It’s, uh, it’s a long story.”
It is. I can tell by the look on his face. The sadness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. And even though I have no good reason to pry—and would slap him if the roles were reversed—I remind him weakly, “I told you mine.”
“You did, didn’t you.” Giving in, he says, “My dad left when I was twelve. My mom lost her shit, turning into a shell of a human being. And instead of being there for her. Instead of helping her and being patient with her, I hated her for it. I’d already lost one parent, and she decided to take another one from me? It wasn’t fair.” He shakes his head. “So, I left as much as I could. I roamed the streets. I got into trouble. I stole. I fought. I did whatever I could to get back at her and bring the spotlight back to me. My pain. My loss. Me. ” He exhales. “Want to know how she responded?”
“How?”
“By spiraling into a deeper and deeper depression before killing herself a few years later.” He sighs again. “Morbid, right? IndieCent Vows was finally going somewhere and she called, asking for money. I told her she didn’t deserve a cent, then hung up the phone. Got a call from the coroner a week later.”
Like a punch to the gut, I try and steady my breathing, but also, “Shit,” I breathe out.
He chuckles softly. “Yeah. If you wanna shower, you can borrow my clothes. I don’t mind.”
“You want me to wear your clothes?”
Mirth dances in his brown eyes as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and this time, it’s more genuine. Hell, it even reaches his eyes. “As long as you don’t dye them green.”
Grabbing hold of the lightness in his words, I reply, “I make no promises.”
“Then I’ll let you walk home naked.”
I laugh. “Don’t tempt me.”
With a slow shake of his head, he studies me. “You’d do it, too.”
“One hundred percent.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down, though there’s no need. He’s already caved.
“All right, fine.” He tosses his hands in the air, then disappears into the closet, returning with a worn, white T-shirt and gray sweats. “You can dye my clothes whatever color you want as long as you let me give you a ride home when the time comes.”
I take the offered clothes and bring them to my chest, feeling lighter than I have in a long time. “When the time comes? What does that mean?”
“Nothing, unless you want it to.” He rocks back on his heels, looking sexier than any man has the right to. “I was just thinking, what if we give Rory some breathing room for a few hours—give her a chance to calm down and maybe cut you some slack—before I drop you off?”
“And what would we do in the meantime?”
He shrugs. “I dunno? You hungry?”
My stomach grumbles, but I ignore it, tossing my legs over the side of the bed until the plush white rug tickles my bare toes. “Depends.”
“On?”
“On if eating food together categorizes this”—I wiggle my finger between us—“as a date or not.”
He steps forward, stealing the space between us. “And if it does?”
Staying quiet, I will my heart to slow the eff down.
“Tatum, I like you,” he murmurs. “I like your spunk. I like your face”—he nudges my head up, forcing me to look at him—“and your hair.” His hand trails down my length. “I like your smile and your tenacity.” He lets the ends of my hair go. “I like you drunk. I like you sober.” Squatting down, he kneels in front of me, wedging himself between my thighs as I sit on the edge of the bed. “I like you, and I think you might like me, too.” A shy smile plays at the edge of his mouth, and I swear it’s directly connected to the stupid organ in my chest. “Hang out with me today. Or this evening or tomorrow or…whenever. I’ll take whatever time you’re willing to give.”
He would, too. I can see it. Taste it. Feel it. His desire. And not only on a physical level, but an emotional one.
“Sounds needy,” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Only for you.” He brushes his lips against mine in the softest of kisses, surprising the hell out of me. But I don’t pull away. I don’t smack him or call him a horn dog. I simply sit there. Feeling his lips move against mine before lifting my head a bit more and returning it. The kiss. Still soft. Still gentle. Hell, it’s fragile, almost. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt anything like it, and I can’t help but crave it more until he pulls away, stands to his full height, and steps back.
“You can think about it while you shower, yeah?” he offers.
We’ve never talked like this. We’ve never said what we feel or broached subjects that make me squirm. Okay, that’s a lie. Paxton has. A few times. And I’ve always shied away from it. Hell, shied away from it is putting my response lightly. More like shoved it away and ran in the opposite direction until my lungs gave out. But I don’t want to anymore. Or at least, not right now. Not after I told him about Arch and he opened up about his mom. And the kiss? I can still feel it.
Lost in the ghost of his touch still lingering on my mouth, I force myself to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”