Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” I cut off the guy at my side. “Excuse me.”
I need air.
Everyone is too close. It’s too hot in here.
“Oh, sure thing,” the guy says, planting a hand on the bar and leaning into it.
Someone bumps into my side. Rather than trying to push my way out, I duck under the guy’s arm and make a beeline for the glowing exit sign.
I pray it doesn’t have an alarm that screams the second the door opens. Either way, I’m committed. The metal bar gives under my hands, and winter air stings my exposed skin, making my breath hitch. The door slams shut behind me. I bend, resting my hands on my knees, gasping.
Why does he have to be so… him?
That song came out before I’d decided to sing it. My eyes found his like they were magnetized, just like that first day when he stumbled into my path. Twice.
A couple of lingering looks, and I’m putty. I’m smiling at him like he’s my favorite person in the room. Because he is, isn’t he? How does he manage it? And why still? After he pushed me away? After he told me he didn’t have anything to give?
I shouldn’t still want him. When someone says they’re not interested, you’re supposed to listen. To move on.
But that’s not what he said. He’s scared. Of something I don’t understand yet.
The metal clicks behind me, and Miles bursts through. He takes a couple of steps past me, looks left, then right, before he spots me.
Two long strides and he’s in front of me. “Christ, Summer, you’re going to freeze to death.”
“I’m fine.” My teeth chatter despite my attempt to steady them.
He’s already tugging his quarter-zip over his head, leaving him in only a thin black T-shirt. Before I can protest, he slips it over my head. It falls to my mid-thigh, still warm from his body.
The sleeves fall past my hands when I slip my arms through. I fist the extra fabric to warm them. Not my smartest decision, coming outside in February in a tank top.
Dorothy, we’re not in Nashville anymore.
I tuck my nose into the collar, breathing in pine and peppermint.
Miles crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you okay?”
I pull the sweater tighter around myself, drowning in fabric that smells like him. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”
He nods.
“Sorry, you’re probably freezing.” I pull at the material. “Want this back?”
He huffs—not quite a laugh, but something close—and shakes his head. “No.”
Just as silence settles between us, a shrill horn sounds somewhere in the distance.
“You were incredible in there,” he says, then clears his throat.
I twist the fabric around my fingers. “Thanks.”
Wind whips through the alley, blowing hair into my face. I try to push it back, but another gust makes it hopeless.
Miles steps closer, blocking me from the wind.
He reaches up, slow enough that I could stop him, and brushes a strand of hair off my face. His fingers graze my cheek before he tucks it behind my ear. It’s the first time he’s touched me since that night.
He’s close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises.
I close my eyes and let myself pretend the last two weeks didn’t happen. That he didn’t cut off whatever this thing is between us. That this is something I’m allowed to want. That I can actually have it.
His thumb traces my cheekbone, so light I might be imagining it.
Then it’s gone.
When I open my eyes, his hands are tucked into his pockets, but he’s still looking at me.
“Hey,” he starts, his voice low. “I know I don’t deserve it, but do you think we could talk?”
Another gust blows snow into the air around us, giving me an excuse to look away.
“Yeah, maybe later, at home?”
He nods, tipping his head toward the bar. “We should get back in there.”
We’re locked out from this side, so Miles leads me to the front entrance, holding the door open and guiding me through with a hand on my lower back. His palm spreads wide against my spine, and I have to concentrate very hard on walking in a straight line.
Someone laughs too close to my ear, and a shoulder bumps mine as they pass. After being with Miles, just the two of us, I welcome too many people. It makes him feel like another person in the room. But even as I tell myself that, I know it’s a lie.
His hand drops from my back as we return to the group.
Mia raises an eyebrow, her eyes darting to his shirt that I’m still wearing. I yank it over my head and shove it into Miles’s chest. He slings it over one shoulder, like it’s nothing.
Thank God, Hannah saves me from staring at him any longer.
She pulls me into a hug, squeezing tight enough that I wheeze, gushing about the performance and already planning the next open mic.
Ada wants to know more about my original song.
Natalie’s singing Man! I Feel Like a Woman! completely off-key.
I nod. Answer. Smile. Try to harmonize with Natalie… but that’s a challenge.
Miles stands a few feet away, talking to Dominic and Easton. But I feel him watching me. Every time I glance over, his eyes are already on mine.
I’m hyperaware of every move I make, which makes it hard to focus on what Hannah’s saying.
Someone hands me a drink I didn’t order. I take it on autopilot, wrapping both hands around the cold glass.
Miles drifts closer until I can feel the heat of him beside me. When someone jostles him from behind, his arm comes around me on instinct, stopping just short of touching me again.
He pulls back. I don’t know if he notices, but I do. The space between us feels physical. I track every shift of his weight, every lift of his drink, every time he adjusts his glasses.
The conversation starts to get fuzzy. Not from alcohol, my beer is still mostly full. Just… everything else. The performance. Miles’s eyes on me all night. The alley. The silence between us that’s saying more than either of us will.
An hour later, I’m mid-yawn when Mia asks if I want to order a coffee.
I shake my head and bring a hand to my mouth, covering another yawn. “All right, y’all, I’m gonna head out.”
“Me, too.” Miles takes my glass and places it on the bar with his.
I’m not sure whether it’s nerves or excitement fluttering around my stomach. Definitely nerves.
Hannah protests, and Natalie asks if I’m sure, but I’m already slipping on my coat, guitar case in one hand, keys in the other.
Miles says his goodbyes quicker and is waiting by the door when I finish mine. He takes my guitar when I reach him.
Outside, I pad across the parking lot, gripping my keys tightly. Miles is behind me, close enough that I can hear him breathe, see puffs of white air in my peripheral vision.
“You didn’t have to leave,” I tell him over my shoulder.
He ignores it. “Do you want to ride with me? We can get your car tomorrow.”
“I’m okay to drive. I’ve had three sips of beer all night. Nerves and all.”
He nods once. “I’ll follow you home.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I settle on, “Okay,” and his shoulders drop, just slightly.
I walk to my truck and don’t look back, but I feel him watching me the whole way. My hands shake as I unlock the door. I climb in, start the engine, and crank up the heat. My breath fogs the cab as his headlights flare to life behind me.
The city streets are quiet for a Sunday night. I follow my GPS on autopilot—left, right, left again, then straight until the highway entrance.
His words spin through my head.
Do you think we could talk?
What does “talk” mean? An apology? An explanation? Another rejection dressed up nicely this time?
My stomach turns. I don’t know if I can handle another.
Because I want him. Jesus, I do. I don’t know if it’s a mistake or finally doing something right. Either way, it doesn’t change a thing.
Whatever happens next is going to change us, and I’m committed to seeing it through.
I need an answer, even if it isn’t the one I’m hoping for. If we’re talking, I’m not letting him get away with being vague again. He’s going to tell me what’s going on in that beautiful, neurotic, stubborn head of his.
I merge onto the highway, and the city lights fall away. The road opens up, emptier and darker out of the city. Just my truck, his headlights in my rearview, and the occasional car blowing past.
My hands tighten on the wheel.
We’ll be home in twenty minutes, maybe less at this time of night. The questions get louder the closer I get to home, amplified by the silence.
I reach down to flip on the radio—
A sharp crack of rubber explodes. My stomach drops, and my hand flies back to the wheel.
There’s an ugly screech of metal on pavement that makes pinpricks crawl across my skin.
Then my truck lurches violently to the right.
“Shit!”
I grip the wheel with both hands, trying to correct, but the truck’s already pulling hard. The road tilts, or maybe I do.
I pump the brakes. Not too hard, don’t overcorrect. But the momentum carries me toward the shoulder. The guardrail rushes up on my right.
Gravel pings against metal. The wheel jerks in my hands as I wrench it to the left. My tires scream.
“No, no, no.”
Everything is noise. Then, a rush of blood fills my ears, loud and hollow, like the world goes underwater.
Sound snaps back with the sickening crunch of my truck scraping against the metal guardrail.
And then it all stops.
I suck in air, hand pressed to my chest, heart going wild.
The engine’s still running. My hands go back to the wheel and grip it tight. The truck is angled wrong, nose tilted left, the back end caught against the rail.
I blink against the headlights flooding the cab.
A door slams. In the side mirror, he’s a small, frantic figure running toward me.
Miles.