Chapter Eleven. Sam #2
Rocket pulls off his headphones. “Those blondies are the tops.”
Ben wrinkles his nose. “You say that about everything ,” he says.
Rocket puts his hand up like a Boy Scout. “Never met a Ben creation I didn’t like,” he says, getting up to grab one of the blondies.
Ben hands me back my phone. “Someone’s texting you.”
I tap it, opening a text from an unknown number:
Hey, Sam. Your mom gave me your number. If you’re open to meeting, I’m happy to come to New York. My door is wide open anytime you’re in Boston.
There’s no name attached to it, but of course there isn’t. Famous as Caspar is, he probably hasn’t had to say it in years.
“All good?” Mackenzie asks.
I tuck the phone into my front pocket, too stunned to process it. So far, he’s only ever been in touch through my mom. I thought we were keeping it that way, but I guess I’ve put off dealing with him long enough that she must have changed her mind.
I nod and ask, “How’s that blondie treating you?”
Mackenzie narrows her eyes at me, but doesn’t press. “The cream cheese frosting is a nice touch.”
I take a seat at the table with them, pressing a hand to the top of Ben’s head to ground myself. Ben tilts his head into it, flashing me an impish grin as he chatters away, soaking up Mackenzie’s shock and delight as he lists the other concoctions he wants to make.
Soon enough Lizzie shows up to collect a reluctant Ben for soccer. It’s raining now, so the bakery is unusually quiet after they go. When I finish looking the place over, Mackenzie is leaning against the register, watching me with a close-lipped smile.
“Hate to break it to you, but your kid’s way cooler than you,” she says.
I settle in the space next to her. “Must be, if he won you over that fast. Took me years.”
Mackenzie’s smile is wry, but her voice is sincere. “He’s pretty great.”
My throat goes tight. It’s funny. I never thought of myself as all that emotional of a guy before Ben. Now all it takes is someone saying one nice thing about him for the pride to swell up all at once, like I’ve got no filter when it comes to him.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re pretty lucky.”
Mackenzie doesn’t hesitate. “So is he.”
Mackenzie politely ignores the way I have to clear my throat.
She only has an hour to spare, so we head to the back office, where I keep the guitar I use at open mic nights.
I’ve gotten ahold of myself by the time I pull out my phone to get the recordings, only to open it to Caspar’s text.
I close out of it fast, but Mackenzie’s gaze lingers the same way it did when I first read it.
For once I avoid her eyes, for the same reason I’m always tempted by them—she’s been able to see right through me from the start.
“All right,” I say. “Neither of us are leaving his room until I hear you sing.”
Mackenzie goes still on the plush green couch she settled herself on. “Play a melody that works and I will,” she says lightly.
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Challenge accepted.”
I play back some of the melodies I already sent her, riffing off the ones we like.
Mackenzie manages to firm up the lyrics, but we’re still stuck on how we want the bridge to build.
This time it’s got nothing to do with her not singing.
I keep stopping just short of a resolution, not sure where I want it to go.
After too many tries that sound off, I set the guitar down on the couch. “Damn. Must be off my game today.”
Mackenzie doesn’t waste time denying it. “You’ve been distracted ever since you got that text.”
“Not enough to realize you haven’t sung yet,” I say right back.
But she doesn’t bite, staring at the phone and then back at me. “You want to tell me what it said?” she asks.
Our eyes meet. There’s no denying we’ve got each other in a bind here. There’s some reason Mackenzie hasn’t sung yet, something more than just her voice sounding different. But whatever it is she’s not saying, this stalemate is making me understand why—she still doesn’t trust me.
I don’t blame her. We spent years trying to one-up each other. The last thing we were going to do was show even a shred of weakness. Trust is something you earn from someone, and we never gave each other a chance.
“I do,” I say.
The words surprise me as much as they surprise Mackenzie. But I mean them. I want Mackenzie to know about Caspar. She’s the lyric girl, after all—she has an uncanny way of putting complicated feelings into words.
She has an uncanny way of making me see the truth of what I feel, even when I’m trying my best to avoid it.
“I will,” I correct myself, picking up my phone. “But you’ve got to get going.”
Mackenzie catches the time on my phone screen. “Right,” she says, shaking her head.
“Off to meet Khakis?” I ask.
Can’t help myself, the same way I couldn’t help myself from sending all those voice notes last night. I’d never do anything to get in the way of her happiness, but I’ve got no problem making myself miserable about it.
But Mackenzie is too focused on collecting her tote bag to notice. “Trying to catch Serena before she heads for LA,” she says. “But I’ll see you tonight.”
I had Ben all morning, so I haven’t given the pool much thought. “You’re sure you’re okay for that?” I ask now.
“So long as we don’t end up all over the internet again,” Mackenzie says.
I can’t help but smirk at the memory. After that particular antic, it’s no mystery why Twyla and Isla pushed for the pool as a “haunt” to revisit.
Early in our joint touring days I snuck both our bands into it after we played Madison Square Garden, the same way I did with my old buddies plenty of times when I was a kid.
Turns out we triggered some new silent alarm. No arrests were made, but people sure did have a field day with the paparazzi pics of us trying not to laugh our asses off from the embarrassment of being dripping wet, half-naked, and barefoot on the curb.
But Twyla and Isla got clearance from the school this time. Even if they didn’t, I’m not half as worried about becoming the meme of the week again as I am about Mackenzie, now that I know she can’t swim.
“I meant with being in the water,” I say.
Mackenzie shakes her head. “Oh, I’m not going past the shallow end.”
“Sure you are,” I say easily. “I taught Ben how to swim. I’ll get you freestyling in no time.”
Mackenzie lets out a laugh. “Pass.”
“Aw, come on. You don’t want my six-year-old lapping you at Hannah’s lake party.”
She pauses with her hand on the door. “Oh, you think you’re scoring an invite to that?”
“I think you’re scoring me one.” I lean back on the couch, looking her up and down. “You’re going to need your swim instructor to keep an eye on you, after all.”
Mackenzie raises her eyebrows as she slides out the door. “But who’s going to keep an eye on you ?”
Not a damn soul, apparently. I’m already in so deep with Mackenzie Waters that I couldn’t swim out if I tried.