Chapter 1
MADISON
“Are you sure you should be going out? It’s late.”
I lick my lips and try to school my expression, knowing my sister only has my best interest at heart.
“I’m just going to the gym,”
I reply, glancing over to where she sits sideways on the couch, her textbooks open in her lap and her legs stretched out in front of her.
She tilts her head to the side, considering me for a beat. “Why don’t you call an Uber?”
“It’s only five blocks, Avery. I’ll be fine.”
I want to tell her I’m done with this song and dance every time I go to the gym at night. Or the grocery store. Or out with friends.
But I don’t. I never do, and I can’t tonight of all nights.
Her face stays slightly pinched, making it clear that my response hasn’t alleviated any of her concerns. “Alright, well…call if you need me, okay?”
I give her a tight smile. “Will do.”
Then I tug the front door open and head out into the hallway, letting out a sigh of relief once I hear the soft thud of it closing behind me.
Freedom.
Much needed, if I’m being honest. The feeling rushes through me once I make it down the elevator and emerge onto the street, the sounds and smells of the city enveloping me as I turn left, heading toward Union Square. I try to remind myself in situations like this one that my sister is looking out for me. She has great intentions and is just worrying because of what happened, but she’s my baby sister. I’m supposed to be looking out for her, not the other way around.
I rotate my shoulders and then decide to set the interaction aside like I always do. The reality is that I’m lucky to have people in my life who care about me enough to worry, people who just want to make sure I’m doing okay.
It takes less than ten minutes to get to the gym, and once I’ve scanned in at the front, I jog up the stairs, heading for the treadmills that overlook the park. Thankfully, the late hour means there are a few available, and I smile to myself, stepping up onto one at the far right.
This is why I like to work out late. Fewer people means I get my favorite spot, and I don’t feel pressured to hurry up. This is a busy gym, and on more than a few occasions, I’ve cut my workout short because people loom around me, waiting for their own chance to hop on the machine.
Not tonight, though.
Once I’ve tugged my hair up into a loose ponytail at the top of my head and put in my headphones, I click a few buttons and begin a slow-paced jog.
Avery hates that I work out late. We’ve that same conversation on an almost weekly basis since we moved in together, and the frequency doesn’t seem to be decreasing in the slightest.
It doesn’t matter that it’s been three years to the day since the attack that left me unconscious in a hospital bed for weeks. It doesn’t matter that I’m on hyper-alert as I walk through the city or that I carry pepper spray now. To Avery, my going out at night alone is something for her to worry about.
Part of me gets it, but another part of me just wants to feel free again, to have that same ease about going out that I had before, and Avery’s constant questioning makes that difficult. I’ve tried to put the past behind me, even though it hasn’t been easy. Therapy and kickboxing classes have helped me work through a lot of my emotions and fears, and if I can move on, Avery should be able to as well.
I bump up the speed on the treadmill, my feet hitting at the same pace as the house music that’s made up the majority of my running playlist for years. The heavy bass thumps through my headphones, and I push past my original three-mile goal, feeling like I have the drive right now to go for four instead.
Running is something I’ve always really enjoyed, though part of why I loved it was because it got me outside. Now, I use the treadmill almost exclusively, though I try not to think about that too hard.
After my attack, I stormed back outside, chin high, completely unwilling to give in to even the slightest bit of fear about being out by myself at night. I’m not sure why running outside is the one thing I’ve modified in my routine. I wasn’t even running when it happened. Apparently, I was out with friends at a bar a few blocks away from the gym, though I don’t have any memories of that night.
Regardless, I like to exercise after dark, and now I run at the gym. It’s as simple as that. At the very least, I’m sure it gives my sister at least a little solace.
I hit four miles and start my cooldown, my eyes oscillating between the lights of the city outside and my own reflection in the window. Eventually, I power off the treadmill and begin my walk home.
When I get to the corner of Third Avenue, I pause, my eyes snagging on a familiar sign. I should keep walking, should head straight home, where Avery probably hasn’t gotten any homework done since I left. But tonight is the anniversary of the night I was attacked, and if there was ever a time to hold my head high and face the past in full, it’s now.
So, instead of continuing home, I turn toward Rhythm and Brews. The brick exterior and black wooden doors make the place look almost boring, like so many other New York buildings. Even as unassuming as it is, R&B is a special spot because of the music. Live music seven days a week from 7 p.m. to close. Open mic nights and jazz singers and rock bands. It’s an eclectic place, and I’ve loved it since the first time I stepped foot inside for my 21st birthday.
Though—sadly—I haven’t been back. Understandably.
The sound of whoever is playing tonight is loud enough to hear from where I stand 150 feet away, and when there’s a break between cars, I jog across the street and push through the wooden double doors before I have a chance to think better of it. The place is packed, and I hover near the entrance for a few minutes, my eyes scanning over everyone and everything. It all looks the same. The same bartenders in all black. Same crowded room and table setup. Same dim lights and a hint of weed and vape smoke in the slightly hazy air.
“Can I get you something?”
I glance at the bartender giving me a friendly smile as she wipes down the bartop in front of her. Before I can respond, the room erupts in cheers as the band finishes up a song.
“I forgot how loud this place is,”
I say, stepping forward, returning her smile.
She nods. “Tonight especially. KellyKills is up there.”
My brows rise in recognition. They’re not a global sensation or anything, but even I have heard of KellyKills before, and I hear the lead vocalist speak into the microphone.
“We love performing in this fucking city, our hometown because New Yorkers are the best fucking people in the world.”
Another round of cheers goes up, and I shake my head, laughing quietly to myself. Normally, when I used to come to R&B, I picked the quieter nights when the music was in the background. Tonight, there’s a full-on concert happening.
“Can I get a water?”
I ask the bartender. “I’m only gonna stay for one more song.”
She nods, tugging out a highball and filling it with ice.
My head jerks to the side when I hear the guitar begin to strum a melody that’s been dancing around in the back of my mind for years.
What…?
“And because you’re the best fucking people in the world, in the best fucking city in the world, we’re gonna play some new music tonight.”
More cheers, but I’m still focused on the sound of that guitar as the chords start over again, repeating from the beginning. My heart picks up pace, a kind of nervous, jittery energy beginning to pump through my veins.
“Did you want your water?”
the bartender calls out to me, but I’m already slipping through the crowd, making my way toward the front of the room. It’s not a huge bar, but it’s large enough to fit maybe 150 people in with standing room only. Everyone’s on their feet, their phones high as they take pictures of the almost-famous people on the stage.
“Scotty wrote this song,”
I hear over the speakers.
“Love you, Scotty!”
someone shouts, and the crowd laughs.
I curse my short stature as I continue forward, wishing I could see over the heads of the people around me.
“Scotty wrote this song,”
the lead repeats, “and tonight, you all are going to be the first to hear it. It’s called Wake Me Up.”
The melody starts over again just as I slip along the edge of the crowd, finally getting a good vantage point for seeing the four musicians who make up KellyKills where they stand on a small stage barely a foot off the floor. When their lead singer, Shawn, I think his name is, starts singing, somehow, I already know the words.
How do I know this song?
Or, better question…how do they know this song?
I watch, something familiar skittering down my spine and drawing me back to all those nights after I got out of the hospital when I would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering where the music had come from, the music I could hear as I lay unconscious in my hospital bed.
My family didn’t have any kind of explanation. They told me I must have been hearing music over the speakers or someone’s phone, but I knew they were wrong. I just didn’t have any way to describe it. All I had were the memories of music I couldn’t identify, and no matter how much I searched and searched, I couldn’t ever find that song.
Now, here it is—though the voice is wrong. I watch the lead singer, mouthing the words along with him, my fingers twitching at my sides.
Then I hear a raspy sound, and my eyes fly to the other guitarist. He’s singing in the background, providing the harmony, but I know that voice. I know that voice. I listen, hypnotized, unable to look away. A tender spot inside of me feels like it’s been opened wide, and it aches…but in the best way.
When the song comes to an end, the crowd goes wild, and the man I’ve been staring at gives a tiny smile, his eyes flicking out over the crowd as he adjusts his guitar strap around his neck. His head turns, his eyes scanning my side of the room briefly, connecting with mine for less than a second before continuing…
…and then slamming back to me.
I feel like I have to be imagining it when they widen slightly, and his entire body turns in my direction, but I’m not. He stares at me long and hard, and I swallow thickly, a shiver running through me as I wait under his piercing gaze.
Someone behind me moves, bumping me, and I break my connection with the guy on stage. For reasons I can’t explain, I take the opportunity to slip through the crowd again, making my way back to the entrance with an urgency I don’t fully understand. I’m suddenly desperate to get out of this bar, to get outside where I can breathe fresh air.
When I finally shove through the doors and back out onto the street, I take a long, deep breath and tilt my head back, closing my eyes. It was just too many people. That must have been it. The racing heart and staring at that guy, that had to have been?—
“Excuse me.”
My entire body freezes at the sound of his voice, and when I turn around, I find the guitarist standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his front pockets. Everything about him feels familiar, but…I don’t know him. Right?
He watches me with an intensity I don’t understand, and eventually, I manage one word.
“Hi.”
His lips tilt up at the sides. “You’re here.”
I blink a few times, then nod. “I’m here.”
“You don’t know who I am,”
he replies after a few seconds, and even though there’s no tone in his words to convey disappointment, I can sense it just from the way his shoulders droop slightly.
Licking my lips, I glance to the side before returning my eyes to his. Deep blue. Magnetic. Difficult to look away from for too long.
“I don’t,”
I finally reply. “Should I?”
At that, he takes a step closer and holds out his hand. “I’m Scott,”
he says. “Scott Kelly.”
I also take a step forward, as if my body is compelled to do so, and slip my hand into his. “I’m Madi.”
Scott’s head tilts to the side, his eyes brightening just a bit. “Madi. Nice to finally meet you.”