9. Ashlyn
CHAPTER 9
Ashlyn
The studio feels different today. Colder, maybe. Or maybe it’s me. Shelley’s words linger, pressing against my chest as I step inside. The hum of activity is muted, the crew moving like ghosts around the equipment, their voices low and indistinct.
I clutch my tablet like it’s a lifeline, the polished surface digging into my palms. It’s easier to focus on the numbers, the logistics, the things I can control. Easier than acknowledging the storm that’s brewing beneath my skin.
The guys are already here, scattered across the room in varying states of indifference. Todd strums an acoustic guitar, his expression unreadable. West leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. Jake adjusts the knobs on an amp, his movements precise, almost mechanical. And Xayden—he’s sprawled in a chair, one foot propped up, spinning a drumstick between his fingers with lazy precision.
I try to slip in unnoticed, but their eyes find me anyway. It’s like they have a radar for my presence, their attention flicking toward me in unison.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Morning,” Todd replies, his tone clipped. The others murmur their own versions of the greeting, but it’s perfunctory, detached.
I force a smile and busy myself with my notes, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. But it’s there, thick and suffocating, wrapping around me like a vise. Worse than yesterday.
The first song starts, and the room fills with sound. It’s raw and haunting, the kind of melody that makes your chest ache. Todd’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unrelenting, the lyrics laced with anger and regret.
I gave it all, but it was never enough.
You chose the spotlight over us.
The words hit like a physical blow, and I grip the tablet tighter, my knuckles whitening.
It’s just a song , I tell myself. Just lyrics.
But I know better.
The chorus rises, the harmonies blending into something achingly beautiful. I glance up despite myself, my gaze catching on West. His eyes are closed, his fingers moving over the strings like he’s trying to pull the pain from his chest and shape it into music.
Jake’s bass thrums, steady and grounding, but there’s an edge to it, a subtle aggression that wasn’t there before. Xayden’s drumming is precise, almost restrained, like he’s holding something back.
The song ends abruptly, the last note hanging in the air like a question that no one wants to answer.
“Take five,” Todd mutters, his voice rough.
The guys scatter, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room. I stare at my tablet, the words swimming on the screen, meaningless.
“You okay?”
I look up to find Jake watching me, his expression unreadable. His voice is soft, but there’s a tension in his posture, a cautiousness that wasn’t there before.
“Fine,” I say, the lie automatic.
He doesn’t push, but his gaze lingers for a moment longer before he nods and walks away.
The room feels impossibly big, the walls too far apart. I turn away, my breath hitching as it all crashes over me.
I slip into one of the smaller side rooms, the door clicking shut behind me. The quiet is a relief, but it does nothing to stop the tears that spill over.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs, but they come anyway, wracking my body until I’m trembling.
I don’t know how long I stay there, curled in on myself, my tears soaking into the fabric of my sleeve. But eventually, there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Go away,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
The door opens anyway, and I look up to see Jake standing there, his expression caught somewhere between concern and hesitation.
“I thought I heard…” he trails off, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
I turn away, wiping at my face. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he says quietly.
The words break something in me, and I choke out a laugh that’s more sob than humor. “What gave it away?”
Jake crosses the room, his movements careful, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he gets too close. He sits on the edge of the small table in front of me, his hands clasped in front of him. Sage and green tea hang softly in the air between us, his musk reminding me of safety and love. Echoes of a past I didn't hold onto.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.
We sit in silence for a moment, everything we’ve left unsaid filling the space between us.
“Sometimes,” he says, his voice low, “it helps to let it out. To stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”
The vulnerability in his tone catches me off guard, and I look up to find him watching me, his eyes softer than I’ve seen in years.
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “But it’s hard. Being here, with all of you… it’s harder than I thought it would be.”
Jake nods, his gaze dropping to his hands. Then he fishes out his pack of cigarettes and lights one. “It’s hard for us too,” he admits through an exhale.
The honesty in his words is a balm to the ache in my chest; I feel like maybe I’m not as alone in this as I thought.
He doesn’t move to leave, and the silence stretches between us. The tip of his cigarette burns bright with each inhale.
“When did it all go so wrong?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jake exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe the second we made you choose. Maybe even before that. When we got it in our heads that your acting was a threat to our relationship.”
I blink at him, startled by the admission. His shoulders sag, the regret visible in the way he holds himself. He snuffs out the butt, his eyes finding me again.
“We were stupid, Ash,” he continues. “Young and selfish. We thought… I don’t know what we thought. That we could force you to pick us and everything would work out. But it didn’t. And we lost you.”
I can’t stop the tear that slips down my cheek. “You didn’t just lose me. I lost all of you, too.”
He looks up, his gaze meeting mine, and for a moment, the walls between us dissolve.
“I miss it,” I say softly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “The way it used to be. Before all of this.”
Jake leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I miss it too. More than I can put into words.”
The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open inside me, and I feel myself leaning toward him, drawn to the faint thread of connection that still exists between us. Craving it in a way I can’t hide.
“What do we do now?” I ask, my voice trembling.
His lips twitch in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Hell if I know. But maybe… we start with this. Just talking. Just being honest. It’s a start, right?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. It’s a start.”
Jake shifts, standing up slowly. For a moment, I think he’s going to leave, but instead, he reaches out, his hand hesitating before brushing against mine.
“If it ever gets too hard,” he says, his tone softer than I’ve ever heard it, “you don’t have to do it alone. I'll be here for you. Whether you believe it or not.”
His words wrap around me like a fragile lifeline, and I grip them tightly, afraid to let go.
“I’ll try to believe it,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, his fingers brushing mine for a heartbeat longer before he pulls away.
“Good,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on me before he turns to leave.
As the door closes behind him, the quiet of the room feels different—less suffocating, more like a space where I can breathe again.