9. Wesley #2
“Are you fucking dense?” she shouts. “Do you have any idea what the last few years have been like for him? I’m pretty sure the only reason he’s here is because of her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely perplexed. Luca’s put as much effort into staying in touch with me as he has prepping for the reunion.
“He’s never felt like enough for you—any of you.
” Evelyn steps back so she can get a good look at all of us.
“And I’ve spent the last ten years trying to get my brother to talk to me and have an honest conversation about how he’s doing.
You think he’s having a good time hiding away in Atlanta?
He barely leaves the bar, rarely answers my texts.
He’s struggling, and the only one of you who ever bothers to check in on him is Jared.
” Her green eyes are practically glowing with years of pent-up frustration.
“I didn’t know.” My voice cracks.
“Of course you didn’t. You’re focused on the Wesley Hart Show.” She throws her hands in the air. “He might ruin one song, but you ruin people, Wes. I think we both know which is worse.”
Before I can say anything else, the door opens. Evelyn fixes a smile to her face and rushes over. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just a little cut. I was just being dramatic,” Lacey says.
“It was nice to have a break.” Luca looks down at Lacey, relief softening his features. It’s a punch to the gut. Of course, Lacey didn’t need his help, she made a fuss to give him a moment to collect himself.
To get away from me.
My mouth stays shut for the rest of the rehearsal, but the damage is done, not just today, but years ago.
I tore the band apart. I made that choice, knowing it would hurt all of us, but I thought the hurt would be temporary.
That I’d be the only one having to deal with the fall out of what I did to protect them.
But seeing Luca rattles me. What if I made the wrong choice?
What if there was never a right choice to begin with?
The week of rehearsals drags on and I keep my mouth shut unless someone asks me a question. No reconciliation, just a push to make it through without making things worse.
The hotel I head back to every night only adds insult to injury.
It’s where we stayed for our first ever headlining concert.
Back then it was the nicest place any of us had ever stayed.
Soaring ceilings dripping with chandeliers.
Slabs of marble we ran across until we earned withering glances from staff. Now it’s mundane.
Instead of going to my room, I head to the bar and order a drink and watch as condensation weeps down my glass, seeping into the branded coaster.
“Gin and tonic, please,” a woman says to my right, taking a seat directly beside me.
A smile finds its way to my face before I even look up, but when I do my heart leaps. “I know you from somewhere.”
“I don’t think so, but I get that a lot. There’s this popstar with red hair that everyone accuses me of copying, but I did it first,” Avery says. She’s dressed casually, in a baggy T-shirt and jeans with her hair tied up in a bun. “Though, you do look familiar.”
“Did you—” I start, but she cuts me off, dashing my hopes before I can even finish the thought.
“I’m not in Atlanta for the rehearsal, Wes. I’m here to meet Lydia in a few days. I assume I don’t have to explain why since I know you’ve been reading the tabloids?”
She’s right. If I see her name on anything I stop to read it. And last week I saw an article about the most recent management company she fired. At the end there was a line that stood out to me: Is this a sign that we should brace ourselves for the return of the old Avery Sloane?
I sure hope so.
“So you two are back to talking?” I ask.
Avery parted ways with Lydia after what happened between us, so I don’t know the specifics. But I do know it had to be rough because of how close they used to be.
“I told her that I would buy her whatever meal she wanted if she gave me fifteen minutes to talk.”
“I hope things work out. You deserve to have good people in your corner.”
“Like my number one fan? Nice hoodie, by the way.”
Though she’s acknowledged it over text it hits differently in person, the earnest gleam in her eyes is a stark contrast to the light humor in her voice. “Yeah, no problem. I just had the sweater sitting around.”
“You didn’t.”
“Try me.”
She flashes a smile. “Enough about me, how are rehearsals?”
“I got my hopes up that time would make things better. But it didn’t.
” I swirl my diluted drink and consider tasting it.
It feels like a test. Can I be anything like my old self?
Sober and reliable. “I miss how things were. Sometimes I wonder if they were as good as I remember or if I need to remember them that way. Like, if life is so shit now, at least we had a few good times in the process.”
“They were the best.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot actually.
Talking about it too. There’s this director, Kendal.
You met her for a second at the premiere.
She wants to make a documentary about us, all of us.
” She hesitates. “And I’m producing it. I’m fucking tired of people coming up with their versions of what happened.
I want to put the past to rest. And it’s nice to have control over something again. ”
“Were you ever planning on asking me to be a part of it?”
“You are part of the story, aren’t you? It’s not like it would make sense if I cut you out of it. It would be just a few interviews. Well, that, and we’re thinking of including parts of the tour in it too, so you’d be in those clips.”
There’s this thing she does when she’s really thinking, her eyes catch on a spot in space, and she explodes with ideas. It tells me that she’s really passionate about this and I know if there’s anything I can do to make it happen I will.
Money. Time. Even the truth.
“Ask me, Avery.”
“Tell our story with me?” And there’s something in the way she says it. Our story could refer to so many things, the band, and everyone else too. But as her stare holds mine, her eyes tinged green with emotion, and I know she’s talking about the two of us.
“Yes.”