Chapter Four. Mackenzie
chapter four
MACKENZIE
The first thing you need to know about Samuel Blaze is that it’s damn near impossible not to fall in love with him.
One of my working theories is that it’s because he is so at odds with himself.
The sharp, unyielding planes of his face against the smooth tenor of his voice.
The mischief in his words against the depth of his hazel eyes.
He’s a puzzle too damn compelling not to try to solve, and once you think about something too much, you can’t help but feel something for it.
I’m embarrassed to admit I was no exception to that rule in the end. But I overcame it. Through practice, time, and a few borderline-unhinged song lyrics, I’ve beaten it out of my system.
All I’m doing by walking over to him is proving just how effective I was. But then Sam aims one of those shameless smiles at me, and I’m not so sure about that.
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing here,” he says, “if you tell me what on earth you were doing with my phone.”
He tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it in his mouth, the smile blooming into a boyish grin as he gets his first taste of Hannah’s inspired fusion menu. I keep my face as neutral as I can, sipping on my cocktail and imagining what his face would do if I told him the truth.
I’m the woman who’s been blowing up Tick Tune writing songs about each of her exes one by one , I could say. Or just cut straight to the point with three little syllables: I’m Seven.
The song that was supposed to go up tonight is the last one. A song to close out the embarrassment of my old love life once and for all. But now I’m sitting in front of all six feet of the man who inspired that last song and, damn, do I love staring into his fallen-angel eyes.
I settle on the stool across from him. “I asked first,” I say coolly.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I missed you.”
That’s a bold-faced lie. We were told to play up the “enemies to lovers” trope onstage with our constant barbs and shenanigans, but the enemies part wasn’t an act.
I couldn’t stand being around him and the loud parade of groupies he partied with every night, the women who’d come and go like ice-cream flavors of the month.
I steered so clear of him that I didn’t realize I was stupidly in love with him until it was too late to do anything to fix it.
“You missed me,” I deadpan.
Sam’s gaze is so sincere that I almost believe him. Then without warning he reaches for another piece of popcorn and tosses it across the table at me. I tilt my head to catch it in my mouth and he lets out a low whistle, impressed.
“You didn’t miss me?” he asks.
“Like a feedbacking amp.”
His eyes flicker with mischief. “So,” he says. “My phone?”
I skim my tongue over my teeth, swallowing. “I was subscribing you to Aging Punk Rockers Anonymous. Heard it helps with the flannel addiction.”
He stares down at the flannel he’s got on now, the grin curling wider.
Someone else might be tempted to touch the softness of that flannel against the warm planes of his body.
Someone else might appreciate the way his lanky frame has filled out enough to see the faint outline of muscle against the worn-out T-shirt he’s wearing under it.
Thankfully, I am cured of all of that. It’s just hot in here because of the happy hour crowd, is all.
“Is your new boyfriend going to be mad when he comes back and sees an old-timer stole his girl?”
My face flushes. Grayson is the head of Hannah’s legal team, and I only met him at one of her launches last week.
I ended the cookware demonstration with more sauce on my shirt than the plate, and he valiantly attempted to save it with a Tide-to-go pen.
Hannah set up the date a few days after: If you’re serious about dating good guys, Grayson’s one of the best.
But that’s none of Sam’s business.
“We rescheduled,” I tell him. “His mom locked herself out of her apartment and he’s got her spare key.”
I brace myself. This was one of Sam’s favorite bits during rehearsals, when we were forced to share space—finding little things to mock about the guys I was all starry-eyed over, smirking like a cat just before he did it.
Babe. Babe. Baaaabe! he would call in a hazy voice, making fun of the startup guy who was always blitzed out of his mind.
Or he’d put a finger up to his bandmates and say, Shhh.
You’re interrupting my process , roasting that trust funder I brought around a few times who called himself a “sculptor” and clearly had never so much as touched Play-Doh in his life.
I hated him for it then, but hated him even more for it later. He saw through all those jerks long before I did.
This time, though, Sam just nods. “Good on him.”
There’s a beat of quiet, so I decide it will be the last one. I passed the test. I faced off with the final boss. I am over Sam Blaze once and for all, and can move on with my life.
I slide off the stool.
“Wait.”
Sam’s hand wraps around my wrist, stopping my momentum.
My breath stalls, at first in surprise, and then something else entirely.
A feeling that doesn’t creep in, but floods.
It’s all over me before I can stop it—every nerve in my body is humming to the point of screaming, wanting to get closer, let the flood in until it drowns me.
It’s the warmth of his grip. It’s the unexpected need in his eyes. It’s the way I feel, irrationally, like every place in New York is the wrong place to be except right here.
Fuck the test. I’m still failing the pop quiz.
Sam eases his grip but doesn’t let go. “This is one of her best,” he says.
An unexpected hush has fallen over the bar, so I can hear the verse of the soft, acoustic song playing through the speakers, with a low, slightly raspy voice.
I only make it through one verse. I can’t bear it another moment. The rest of the bar is still at half volume, a few even singing along, but I clear my throat.
“Sounds like she could use one of these cocktails,” I say.
Sam blinks. “Tell me you’ve heard of Seven.” When I don’t answer, Sam is downright incredulous. “She blew up a few months ago on Tick Tune.”
He clearly has more to say, but I cut him off. “Maybe I’ll check her out.”
His hand is still around my wrist. He slowly lets it go, and his warmth is immediately replaced by an ache. I’m dizzy with it, and the impossibility of this whole moment—his eyes on me as he listens to words he has no idea I’m the one singing.
I pull in a breath, avoiding his gaze. “This is new,” I say, gesturing at the braided bracelet around his wrist.
Sam’s entire face softens in a way I’ve never seen. “Ben made it for me.”
I nod. “Your son.”
Sam was a magnet for wild antics back in the day, but the grand finale was the wildest of all—on the last night of our final joint tour, Sam discovered he had a four-year-old son.
In the brief conversation we had in the aftermath, he said he was doing everything he could to keep it quiet for Ben’s sake, but it was splashed all over social media within days.
There were so many times I almost called. But checking in felt too self-serving. By then I knew I’d always want something more than he could offer, and would always be looking for it. It was better to have a clean break, and besides—I had problems of my own to deal with. Big ones.
Still, I couldn’t help but worry. It’s a relief to see the ease in his posture, to see the quiet pride in his smile.
“He’s the best,” says Sam.
My throat goes thick. “Proud Dad” looks good on him, the same way everything does. Which means I better get the hell out of here before it starts looking too good.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, knocking back the rest of my drink. “Maybe I’ll see you in another two years.”
Sam stands, too, and for a moment I think he’s offering to leave with me.
He surprises me by wrapping me up in a hug, the full-body kind that’s impossible to resist. Just like that, my arms are sliding up the sinewy muscles of his shoulders, my head settling in the tempting crook of his neck.
He smells sweet; he always has. Sweetness with a depth to it.
Like browned butter. Like a lazy sunset.
God dammit if I’m not already drafting more lyrics about this man as I let him go.
“Take care of yourself, Sparkles.”
And I do. I go home and edit the video on my laptop so it’s just the window curtains fluttering, no telltale unreleased merch in sight.
Then I open the desktop version of Tick Tune and upload the new draft of the song—the last song the anonymous singer known as Seven will ever publish.
The song I’ll sing to finally let Samuel Blaze go.
I take a breath, and another, and another. But my thumb doesn’t press “Post” just yet. The story between us may not have had a good ending, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt, closing the book.
Just as I’m hovering over the button, an incoming text from Hannah pops up on my laptop screen:
Excuse you?? What happened to the perfectly nice lawyer I set you up with?????
I open the link she sent. At the top of the article is an image of me and Sam hugging in the bar. You can tell it’s me because of the trademark messy blond curls down to my waist, but Sam’s face is in full view of the lens. His eyes are crushed shut. It looks like he’s in pain.
It looks like a feeling I know too well.
Waters set ablaze once more? it reads, with the teaser, “Smack” spotted together for the first time since steamy awards show.
The comment section of the article is already on fire, but I don’t let myself read it.
I close the tab. I close my eyes. It doesn’t work—I’m still stuck on the expression on his face, stricken by the recognition of it.
By the way it wraps around my heart and tugs with a pull he’s had on me since before we even met.
I toss the laptop on my bed. “God dammit .”
Because despite everything, the story isn’t over. Or rather—for some reason, I still can’t let it end.