Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
I’ve been watching the light coming through the shades change throughout the afternoon, from bright white to tangerine. Burnt terracotta by the time the front door opened and clinked shut.
Summer’s voice followed, greeting Grace like she always does, high-pitched and happy.
She padded up the stairs maybe ninety minutes ago. The sun has since set, and now shadows play on the ceiling.
I’m not hiding. Not exactly.
I got home from the road trip late morning and spent most of the day trying and failing to nap. Words I might say to Summer looped through my mind as I tossed and turned. I’ve yet to land on anything I feel good about.
Tonight is Summer’s open mic night. Fox talked about it the entire flight—Mia said she’s playing covers, Hannah invited everyone, half the team is going.
Summer invited me, and I’m grateful she wants me there.
I throw the blanket off and push to my feet. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late.
The shower helps. Hot water, steam, the mindless routine of it all. By the time I’m toweling off, I feel almost human.
I pull on dark jeans and a charcoal quarter-zip, run a hand through my hair, and slide on my glasses.
I’m slipping on socks when Summer’s heels click on the stairs. I hop toward my door, stumbling over my own feet as I try to walk and shove my other sock on at the same time.
She’s in the foyer, reaching into the coat closet.
She turns, and—Christ.
Black jeans that look painted on. A cropped white tank that shows a sliver of skin at her waist when she moves. Her hair is down, loose waves that appear darker in the dim light.
She looks incredible.
Our eyes meet.
“Are you going to be cold?” is what comes out of my mouth.
Her gaze darts down. Mine follows from the curve of her shoulder to her delicate wrist. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a woman’s wrists before.
“I have my coat.” She holds up a black puffer jacket. “It’s hot on the stage with adrenaline and the lights.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
She bends to grab her guitar case, and I force myself to look away from the line of her spine.
When she straightens, her lips twitch into something that’s trying to be a smile, but it’s more of a grimace.
“You look—” I stop. Clear my throat. “Good. You’re… Yeah. Great.” What the fuck am I even saying?
She shifts her weight, one red boot crossing in front of the other. “Thanks.” She won’t meet my gaze.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “We could drive together—if you want.”
“Actually, I have to run an errand. On the way.” She tries for another smile, but doesn’t quite manage it.
A pit forms in my stomach. All I want is to hold her, even one of those short, awkward hugs. To fill my lungs with that citrus scent and let it go to my head.
“Oh.” The single syllable gives away my disappointment.
She shifts the guitar case to her other hand. “I’ll see you there?”
“Yeah. See you there.” I smile and hope it’s more convincing than all her attempts.
I lean against the newel post as she moves toward the door, and when her hand closes around the doorknob, I blurt, “Drive safe,” too loud.
Her shoulders rise and fall. “I will.”
Then she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her, foyer suddenly too quiet.
I stand there, wondering if there’s still a way back from all of this.
“Damn,” Helm says, craning his neck to see over the crowd. “Hannah really did invite everyone.”
Fox is near the stage with Mia. Volk’s at the bar with a few other guys from the team, with Ada and Natalie posted at the opposite end.
Volk waves and makes the universal, want a drink? gesture, tipping an invisible bottle toward his mouth.
“Beer?” Helm echoes the offer at my side.
“Yeah.”
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the nervous energy thrumming under my skin.
I haven’t seen her perform. Not unless social media videos and that impromptu song on the pond count.
A guy steps onto the small stage and says something about welcoming tonight’s performers.
Helm reappears, pressing a cold beer into my hand. He shoots a “C’mon, Cap,” over his shoulder before he heads toward the stage, where the rest of our friends have migrated.
I don’t follow, finding a spot along the wall, midway between the stage and the bar. Close enough to see, far enough to not be in her way.
The host calls Summer’s name. She hops up the steps to the stage, and the room erupts. I bring two fingers to my mouth and whistle.
Her smile is wide as she adjusts the strap on her guitar, then tips her head to the crowd. The stage lights catch in her hair, giving it streaks of copper and gold. She adjusts the mic stand, then sits on the stool and settles her guitar on her lap.
The noise of the crowd slowly dies down.
She’s so natural, up there, bathed in spotlight, bright and beautiful and completely out of reach. I take a long pull from my beer.
The opening chord of something I don’t recognize but immediately love sounds.
Her gaze sweeps the room, slowly, like she’s trying to thank each person who decided to spend their Sunday night watching her.
Everything she does is hypnotizing—her fingers moving over the strings, the way she closes her eyes on the bridge, how completely she loses herself. I can’t look away.
This is who she is. What she’s meant to be. I know it with such certainty.
She’s going to leave Chicago and become something incredible, and for the first time since I started falling for her, I don’t begrudge it. It’d be cruel for the world not to have this. Not to have her.
Summer finishes the first song and launches into another, then another. I lose track of how many. But I don’t miss how she connects with every person in the audience—except for me. Maybe I should’ve followed Helm to the front. I want her eyes on me, if only for a second.
The crowd applauds as the song ends. She smiles, says something about the next one. That she wrote it.
My pulse drums in my ears. I’ve heard pieces through the walls, through the floor. But never like this, when she wants me and everyone else in the room to hear it.
She takes a breath, adjusts her grip on the guitar. Then she finds me immediately, like she knew exactly where I was the whole time.
Our eyes lock, and fuck, I can’t breathe. My heart feels like it’s going to both explode and wither away. The noise, the crowd, it all disappears until it’s just her and me, and the space between us, filled with words and guitar chords.
Emotion moves across her face, and it mirrors everything eating me up inside. Fear, regret, so much fucking want that it chokes me.
I expect her to look away. To scan the crowd again.
She doesn’t.
The song is about wanting something you can’t have. About the space between almost and everything. Or, at least, that’s my interpretation.
Every word lands. And I think she means them, too.
My hand tightens around my beer. Halfway through the first chorus, she tears her gaze away, and I miss it as soon as it goes. Every time her eyes drift back in my direction, I silently beg them to stay, but each time she looks away again.
I’m not sure I blink for the entire three minutes. Finally, the last note fades. She pulls the mic a little closer before she speaks into it. “Thank you. Until next time!”
My ears ring as applause fills every inch of the space.
Her eyes find mine one more time before she steps offstage, and then she’s swallowed up by the crowd. I’m moving before it’s even a conscious thought. I push through people, needing to get to her, to tell her how incredible she was, to tell her I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.
I finally catch a glimpse of her. Hannah has her pulled into a tight hug. Ada and Natalie stand beside them. Mia and Fox wait for their chance to sing her praises.
“Excuse me.” I step around a couple. Summer’s name floats among the chatter, but I don’t catch much else. Too focused on getting to her.
I’m halfway to the bar when I spot her, and she stops me in my tracks. She’s still surrounded by our friends, but she’s leaning over the counter, talking to the bartender. Just like that first night at Sully’s. And just like then, her smile lights up this whole damn bar.
When she tips her head back and laughs, it’s still the only thing I want to hear.
I start toward her, but someone else gets there first. Tall. Blond. Clean-cut. He leans in close to say something over the noise.
Summer turns, and her expression shifts to something polite, friendly. The guy gestures to the stage. Asking about her performance, probably. She nods, says something back.
He’s interested. Who wouldn’t be? He angles his body toward her.
My jaw ticks.
“Cap.” Helm’s voice comes with a nudge to my arm, but I barely register it. I can’t look away from her.
After what feels like a lifetime, Summer finally looks past him, scanning the bar like she’s searching for someone.
Then she finds me.
I go still.
The guy’s still talking, I’m sure of it, but I don’t look away to check. She doesn’t either.
And then she smiles.
Not the polite one she gave the guy. Not the performer’s tilt of her lips she wore on stage.
Mine.
I’ve never seen her aim it at anyone or anything else. It’s not much different from her usual smile, but this one tilts to the left, just a little. Her brow arches, creasing the smile lines on that side more than the right.
I’ve missed that look. I didn’t realize how much until she gave it to me again.
Thirteen days too long.
My heart kicks, punches against my ribs.
Someone bumps into me, then something cold and wet soaks my sleeve. Reflex has me breaking eye contact, and regretting it immediately. When I look back, Summer’s turned away.
And I’m moving again.