Chapter 3
3
Valerie
I hate myself for it, but I’ve spent the last three weeks thinking about how good Caleb looked on his doorstep: shirtless, dripping wet, and doting on a dog.
Because Jesus Christ.
Caleb was always physically fit, but it was regular-gym-regimen fit, not spends-actual-time-outdoors fit—leaner and more toned than cut and ripped. His tattoos have expanded to full sleeves that ripple and stretch over his biceps and forearms, the kind of arms that can pick you up and throw you on a bed without any effort.
Pretty sure I had a dream like that once. They say you never forget your first, and how could I when he looks like that ?
I’m embarrassed by the way the memory keeps me going through the sleepless nights leading up to our first gathering as a band in six years. We’re staying at the hotel near the rehearsal studio for the duration of the summer, but because security couldn’t put everything in place until Monday, Jane offered to put us up at her beach house in Venice for the weekend so we could at least start planning. Because there’s so much to do, we decided to meet up as soon as Caleb was off for summer break, despite the extra logistics. We’re starting the first night with dinner so we can hammer out details and come up with a set list.
And hopefully clear the air. Caleb isn’t the only one I haven’t seen in years.
Wade and I split a rideshare after our meeting with my publicity team ran late…turns out the big Glitter Bats announcement didn’t fix my reputation overnight. He still represents most of the band, although Jane left him (tearfully, I’m told) to sign with a New York agency that specializes in film and TV now that she composes for soundtracks.
Label Records tried to send a few of the higher-ups to meet with us right away, but Wade waved them off for now, knowing their involvement would just make things harder for all of us. I even convinced my mom to stay away—she acted as our manager until the tour for our second album, Bittersweet , when we hired Wade, and I’m sure we’ll hear from her at some point. But I don’t think I could survive this first gathering with her in my ear.
I watch the driver’s progress, comparing it to the clock on my phone, and my hands tremble as we get closer to the house. Our arrival time is an hour later than planned thanks to Friday night traffic.
Seeing Caleb in person for the first time should have been the hardest part, but I’m also worried about the reception I’ll get from the rest of the band. Wade said everyone agreed without hesitation, but that doesn’t mean they’re happy about it. Other than Caleb, they all still work in the industry: this is business, a paycheck, good press. They might not have an emotional attachment to Glitter Bats anymore.
And unlike me, none of their careers are hanging on our success.
My stomach churns. When the driver pulls up to the house, I don’t get out of the car. I just stare at the leather headrest and try to gather my courage.
“You good, kiddo?” Wade asks.
I let out a breath after a moment and put on my paparazzi smile. “Ready.”
“Atta girl.” He pats my shoulder and leads the way.
Wade is kind enough to grab my suitcase while I gather my backpack and guitars to head up the walk. It’s a cute place—a white beach house with peachy-pink trim—and there’s a neat assortment of plants in lieu of a front yard. Jane, of course, made sure the place was environmentally friendly. The sun is still out, the ocean crashes in the distance, and there’s a salty breeze on the early-evening air.
Still, I wonder if I should have just stayed at my place as I press the doorbell. But Wade had suggested we all crash together for “team bonding,” and by Keeley’s chilly expression when she answers the door, I think I’m going to need all the bonding I can get.
I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. She’s chopped her once-long blond hair short so it barely reaches her chin, and now she has the septum piercing she always wanted to go with her ears, which were nearly covered with jewelry the last time I saw her. Instead of drowning herself in an oversized hoodie or flannel like she would have before, she’s rocking chic linen pants and a tight black tube top that shows off her muscular arms. Even her eyes are an unfamiliar icicle cold.
“You’re late,” she says.
I swallow back my defense. “I know. Meeting went late, and then traffic.”
Keeley rolls her eyes. “I cannot believe Caleb got a personal invitation to this shindig, and you haven’t even called me, asshole,” she says, her almost-six-foot frame towering over me even though I’m the one in heels. I flinch, but she pulls me in for a massive hug.
Thank god.
When Keeley releases me, Jane steps out from behind her to usher us inside.
Jane pulls me into a hug of her own. “It really is good to see you,” she whispers, and that’s that—no guilt trips, no criticisms. As she gives me one last squeeze, I’m comforted by her familiar vanilla scent, from the perfume that Keeley used to complain about on long bus trips. Fortunately, there’s no ire in Jane’s eyes when she pulls back to look at me. She looks the same, her copper-red curls falling in a ponytail over one shoulder, her makeup so minimal her smudge of freckles is visible, and she’s wearing one of her signature flowing minidresses in a sunshine yellow.
She moves to hug Wade, and I take a peek around. The house is so Jane I want to cry. The walls are painted a soft sage green above creamy-white wainscotting; maple hardwood floors shine in the spots they’re not covered in woven, colorful rugs; and there are plants everywhere, from the monstera in the corner to the pothos on the mantel to the philodendron hanging by a reading nook nestled by two paperback-laden shelves . It’s part boho, part cottagecore, and 100 percent comforting. Jane always took care of all of us, and it seems right that this place would feel more like home after less than a minute than my own stark apartment.
Of course Jane notices my curiosity, because she offers Wade and me a tour, but I wave her off as I hear familiar voices in the kitchen. Best not to put this off any longer.
The kitchen is just as inviting as the rest of the house, with potted herbs in the window behind the sink, and Le Creuset in deep blue and sunshine yellow on display above white painted cabinets.
“Hey, Val,” Riker says. His back is turned to me, since he’s using his considerable height to dig around through clinking bottles in the highest cabinets. Even though it’s June, he’s wearing a crewneck, and a beanie covers the unruly brown hair that now falls past his shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
Caleb nods in my direction, but that’s all the greeting I get as I stand next to him at the counter. His outfit is so familiar it hurts—soft joggers and a faded Blondie tee from his old collection. I lean my elbows against the surface and fold my hands, adopting the most casual pose I can as I smile his way. Maybe if I can just act normal, we can be normal.
“Where’s Sebastian Bark?” I ask, desperate for him to say something, anything that will indicate normal is possible.
This at least earns me a grin. “I could have brought him down—dude actually loves airplanes—but I didn’t think it’d be fair to make him stay at a hotel for the summer. Cameron and Leah have a border collie he’s in love with, so I dropped him off at their house this morning. My sister-in-law will spoil him rotten and keep up the Instagram while I’m gone.”
I smile. “That’s great.”
“Least you could have done is brought a dog , Caleb. This band always needed a mascot. What are you even contributing?” Keeley says from where she’s slipped in behind me. She leans back, one foot against the light blue tiled wall, folding her arms as if she’s bored of us already.
I stiffen, worried how he’ll react to her jabs after all this time, but Caleb just laughs. “I’m sorry!”
“Fine, I’m ordering pizza,” Keeley says, moving on quickly. None of us were ever picky about food, so she orders from her phone without asking anyone what they want, the way she always has. It’s like she fell into old habits without thinking. Some things never change.
Maybe that’s a good sign, but it gives me a flash of irritation. I would have liked to look at the menu before she put in the order.
“Yes, I found booze!” Riker says, beaming with a huge bottle of wine in one hand.
“You found screw-top rosé, dude. That’s not booze, that’s a juice box,” Keeley says. “Jane, please, I’m begging. Tell me this wine is not yours.”
Jane groans from where she’s showing Wade the back porch, calling through the screen. “I think it’s left over from my cousins. We can find something better or make a grocery run.”
Riker holds it high like a trophy. “No way, I love this brand.”
Keeley sighs. “You have the palate of a Christian influencer in their ‘edgy wine phase.’?”
“Laugh all you want, but when I drink, I want it to taste good. But go on pretending to like whiskey or IPAs or whatever fancy shit you’re all drinking,” Riker says smugly, twisting open the cap and taking a swig right from the bottle. “This is delicious.”
“I kind of love IPAs,” Caleb says.
“Me too,” I admit. Caleb looks over at me, and I expect to share a smile, a laugh, something, but he just looks confused.
And oh, it’s too much, being here with everyone, feeling the few feet between me and Caleb like a chasm. Sighing, I head back into the living room to unpack my acoustic.
It’s been a while since I used this particular guitar, so I kneel on the hardwood floor next to the cracked imitation-leather case, open the buckles carefully, and begin to run a soft cloth over the lacquered wood body to eliminate any dust and fingerprints. Once I’m satisfied, I try to tune by ear, but the strings are too old to use. So I pull a new pack out of my bag and begin the obnoxious process of replacing them one by one. The familiar routine is therapeutic.
After a couple of minutes, Riker joins me on the nearby couch with two glasses of rosé. He hands one to me, but I just set it on the coffee table.
“Aren’t you going to try it?” he asks.
I grimace dramatically and take a small sip. “It tastes like I’m drinking a Malibu Barbie.” But then I take another drink. It’s not terrible, but it definitely doesn’t taste like actual wine. Theo had taken me wine tasting in Paso Robles over the spring, and that was the real stuff…and damn it, the bastard turned me into a wine snob.
Riker laughs. “Oh my god, you still have that thing?” he asks, gesturing to the guitar. “I’ve replaced most of my gear.” It’s no surprise—Riker was always enamored by a new guitar every few months, especially once he could afford to shop on Sunset Boulevard.
I’d joined him to shop for different models more than once, but I never got rid of my first acoustic—it’s the cheap Mitchell I bought at a Guitar Center with my crochet money freshman year of high school. It’s not totally useless, but it’s scratched, and the neck is just a tiny bit warped from before I knew how to take care of it. I’d never perform with it now, but bringing it along felt right. Like including an old friend in the reunion.
Maybe I need to stop being so sentimental. This summer is just about business.
“Sure do,” I say. “How many guitars did you bring?”
“None.” He laughs again, so warm it fills the room. “Plus five.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, almost comically. “You know it depends on what we’re playing. Sometimes you need an extra electric, sometimes acoustic, sometimes I’ll play a bass while Caleb jumps on a guitar—and I have different setups based on which songs we’re playing.”
I do know. I remember arguing about how many guitars we could fit in the Vanagon that Keeley found on Craigslist for our first local “tour.” The thing broke down so often it was hardly worth the $1,200 we’d scraped together.
It feels nice, chatting with Riker like everything is normal. At first glance, Riker could be intimidating at a hulking six foot four, but he’s always been like this—so natural to talk to, easygoing no matter what’s going on. But I can tell he’s nervous too. He’s chugging the rosé instead of sipping it, and he takes off his beanie, runs a hand through his hair, and shoves it back on his head with too-busy hands.
I wish I knew how to steady them. Riker has always been so unflappable, and I caused this painful rift between us.
I missed him. I missed all of them. Why did I wait so long to make this happen?
“Pizza is an hour out,” Keeley says as everyone joins us in the living room.
“My ride is waiting, so I’m going to head back,” Wade says.
“You’re not going to hang here, Wadie-poo?” Keeley asks.
Wade chuckles but stares at each of us in turn with a mock-sternness that we probably deserve. “I’ll leave you with one reminder: your contract with Label Records just happens to expire right after the concert. I guarantee that’s why they were so eager to make this happen. Be extremely careful what you say this summer, because they could use any perceived intent to make more music to bind you to a third album.”
My jaw clenches. Label Records is footing the bill this summer, and it’s obviously because they hope we’ll make more music with them. They were so disappointed when the band broke up four years into our ten-year contract.
“That won’t be a problem,” Caleb says quickly, crossing his arms. My stomach drops. We’re not here for a new album, and even if that was remotely a possibility, I didn’t need Caleb’s protest to know he’d never agree. I’m lucky he’s here at all.
“Just try to get to Monday without killing each other. I’m a text away if you need anything,” Wade says.
“Right, but we’re not going to bother you unless it’s an emergency, because you’re taking your family to Disney and you should get to enjoy it!” Riker says, glancing around the room pointedly at the rest of us. Keeley raises a brow, but no one argues.
We exchange a quick round of goodbyes with Wade, and then it’s just the Glitter Bats. Without a buffer. The sudden awkwardness of our reunion hits me like a bad review, and I’m desperate to fill the silence.
“Well, since we’re waiting on the pizza, I think we should start talking set list.” I sit on the couch and reach into my bag, pulling out my trusty black Moleskine. “Opening with ‘Midnight Road Trip’ is the obvious pick for the nostalgia factor. I made a preliminary list.”
“Welcome to the Valerie Quinn show, everybody,” Keeley says, crossing her arms. “You might be the one who called this little Council of Elrond together, but this is not your decision.”
I stiffen. “I never said it was. I was just trying to get us started.”
“I think we should all go around and share ideas,” Jane says, settling on the love seat adjacent to the couch. At her reasonable tone, everyone else takes places around the living room. Riker joins me again on the couch. Keeley sinks onto the floor next to Jane, leaning against a pile of cushions with one leg propped up, the other stretched out across the rug. Caleb hesitates, staring at the spot in the love seat that would place him right next to me…before sinking into the pink beanbag chair across the room.
“Caleb, what do you think we should do?” Riker asks.
He frowns. For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to have a suggestion, but he surprises me. “?‘Ghosts’ could be a really solid opener since it was our biggest single. It’s a crowd-pleaser. I think ‘Midnight Road Trip’ is a better closer or encore.”
“Oh, I like that idea for ‘Road Trip,’?” Jane says. “We could play around with the arrangement, make it bigger—put Riker on a crunchy pedal, I’ll add some synth.”
Caleb smiles, eyes brightening with the spark of collaboration. “Exactly. Maybe extend the song and split the vocals up too, give everyone a last feature. The fans will love it.”
“That could be cool,” I add. “Making new arrangements is going to mean extra work, though, so I want to make sure we’re all prepared.” This concert will all be for nothing if it’s anything less than flawless. “We have to be clean and tight and better than ever.”
Caleb narrows his eyes. “We’ve got almost two months, Valerie. I think we can pull it off. It’s not like the fans want to hear us play it exactly like the album.”
“Valerie is just worried she’ll have to share the spotlight with the rest of us this time,” Keeley sneers. “You good with that, princess?”
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap as tension fills my body. Keeley has always been blunt, but she’s never been this confrontational. Maybe her career as an in-demand studio drummer is getting to her head. And they say I’m the diva. “I’m just trying to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“ My problem is that you always thought this was your band, but you don’t get to be a dictator anymore. I don’t even care that you’re using us to clean up your image, but I’m out if you’re going to control everything,” Keeley says, tossing her hands up in frustration.
Jane puts a hand on Keeley’s arm. “I don’t think that’s what she intended.”
“How are we supposed to know? We haven’t heard from her in years,” Riker says under his breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear. I flinch. So much for easygoing. Keeley’s anger I expected, but not his. I thought no one wanted to hear from me after what I did.
My throat feels tight, like I’m one step away from losing it. “Well, it’s not like any of you reached out to me either,” I snap.
I know I messed up all those years ago, but when everything went down, all of us had participated in the radio silence that followed the split. I’m not the only one responsible for this estranged awkwardness now, and I don’t think I can handle this if they’re going to blame me for it all.
Maybe this was a terrible idea.
“Let’s take a break until we’ve all had some food,” Jane says, ever trying to keep the peace.
“Fine,” I say, abandoning my guitar on the floor. “I’ll step outside and wait for the pizza.”
I’m not feeling wanted in here.