Chapter 8 Chase
Chase
A week rolls by.
It’s Thursday.
Toaster sits beside me, a chew bone clasped between his paws, as I tighten the final tuning peg.
The scent of sawdust and lacquer sticks to the air, mingling with the faint burn of solder from earlier.
The body—a pale, arctic blue with a mahogany neck and a rosewood fingerboard—gleams under the makeshift clip-on lamp attached to a floating wall shelf.
I run a hand over the polished wood, checking for imperfections.
Satisfied, I reach for the pick resting on the table and strum a slow, resonant chord. The sound is clean, rich, carrying through the quiet room like a hymn.
Toaster abandons his bone to sniff the guitar, tail wagging.
Progress.
I’m getting closer to finishing my second guitar.
My eyes lock onto the time glowing on my wristwatch: 6:32 p.m.
I’m getting closer to a lot of things.
***
The busy café bustles around me as I order a vanilla latte with no foam and a hot Americano, then carry the drinks to an empty table in the back.
Annie’s brother traipses around the small wooden platform, a pick clasped between his teeth, a dark beanie on his head.
There’s a look in his eyes—determined, haunted—and I recognize the weight in them.
The weight of dreams, of struggle, churning and foaming with no place to go.
Taking a seat, I collapse into a tall chair and lean back, fingering the rim of my coffee cup. Only a few minutes whiz by before the front door opens and familiar laughter fills the space.
Annie strolls inside with a smile, her friend by her side, and her hair piled up in a crown of braids, a plum-hued flower woven into the ringlets.
My stupid heart starts to race; she’s fucking beautiful.
And I don’t know if my coming here is because of the music, our shared connection, or because of the girl who emanates passion like a flame in the dark.
Vivid, untamed, and impossible to ignore.
It’s probably all of the above. But when she finds me across the room, her smile widening, her eyes locking onto mine with a glimmer of surprise, I know which one weighs heaviest.
Fuck.
I’m out of my league.
My heart is racing, and she’s still smiling.
“Chase.” She’s nearly out of breath as she floats away from Kenna and approaches my table. “Once again, you manage to surprise me.”
“Odd, given our initial introduction.”
Her eyes flash, but it’s not with residual trauma or scorn. It’s playful, teasing.
“Touché,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show.”
“I grabbed you a coffee.” I slide the latte over to her.
Last week, I heard her order as I tried to remain invisible near the register, partially hoping she wouldn’t recognize me.
It was difficult enough dragging my ass over here, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for another face-to-face meeting with the woman I terrorized.
But she spotted me instantly. And there was no anger, no resentment—only smiles and chitchat, as if we hadn’t crossed paths under the most fucked-up, harrowing circumstances.
As if she’d been waiting for me to show.
Annie hesitates, eyeballing the steaming paper cup. She blinks at it like she’s never seen a cup of coffee before. “Oh…thank you. That was sweet.”
“No problem.”
Kenna hangs back to place an order, eyeing me with interest from the counter.
Reaching for the latte and taking a sip, Annie waves her hand at the stage. “I want to introduce you to my brother.”
Record scratch.
My stomach sinks.
Part of me was hoping I’d dip in and slip out before ever having to come in contact with her brother, who undoubtedly despises me.
“Don’t worry,” she says before I can protest, linking her small hand around my forearm and tugging me off the seat. “I talked to him. I said you might show up again and to play nice.”
I’m not convinced her version of “play nice” is the same as his, but I reluctantly follow, the scent of watermelon and something flowery guiding me forward.
Tag looks up, pulling the guitar strap off his torso, his tawny, shoulder-length hair catching on the overhead light fixture as it spills from his beanie.
He falters, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sending his sister a scowl before turning his attention to me: the felonious stranger she’s just thrust into his orbit.
He says nothing. Just glares at me.
The imaginary sound of a needle against vinyl morphs into a symphony of crickets.
I scrub my mop of hair, trying to summon words that will get this introduction over with. “Tag, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That short for something?” I’ve never been much of a conversationalist, which works for me, considering I live alone, have few friends, and voluntarily cut off contact with all remaining family members.
Therefore, this is fucking painful.
A sigh leaves him as he hops off the platform and crosses his arms.
“It’s short for Montague,” Annie explains, acting like this moment isn’t akin to being strapped to a chair and forced to watch paint dry. Except the paint is judging me, and the chair might spontaneously combust. “Mom has this weird infatuation with Shakespeare.”
“Romeo and Juliet?” I wonder, remembering how my sister used to watch the nineties adaptation all the time.
“Yes. He still hasn’t forgiven her.”
“Understandable.” I look away, my eyes settling on absolutely nothing.
Tag clicks his tongue, addressing his sister. “You were almost Beatrice. Instead, you were named after some dead relative, while Mom had her heart set on tragic and theatrical.”
Annie hums. “Sounds like I should be haunting an old middle-England mansion or something. Still pretty tragic.”
“Better than being named after a guy who gets stabbed over a miscommunication.”
My attention ping-pongs between them.
Tag glowers at me, his stare so sharp it might as well be the knife that took out his namesake.
Clearing my throat, I conjure up more words. “Heard you play a bit last week. You were good.”
“I’m decent.”
“This your full-time gig?”
“This and car detailing. Still trying to get your blood out of my upholstery.”
Ouch.
I’m starting to learn how he plays nice.
Annie mimics a cough, not-so-covertly kicking his leg. “Chase is a musician too.”
“We have so much in common.”
I glance at his guitar, now perched on the platform. “Is that a Fylde Orsino? Don’t see many of those outside of the UK.”
Tag blinks, frowns, then peers down at the instrument before swinging his attention back to me. He pushes his tongue against his cheek. “It is. Good eye.”
“Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“Parents gifted it to me for my eighteenth.”
“Chase also builds guitars,” Annie adds, a levity in her voice.
I clear my throat. “I build a bunch of things. Furniture, mostly. If you ever need—”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind.” Tag drops his arms at his sides and bends to retrieve the guitar. “Gotta get started. Are you sticking around this time?” His eyes are fixed on his sister now, ablaze with things unsaid.
She smooths back her hair and inches away. Her energy changes, shifting into a noticeable tension that strips her of her smile. “That’s the plan.”
A short nod.
Tag steps back and situates himself behind the mic, gearing up to perform.
Moments later, we’re seated while Kenna fills me in on her newest succulent, as if I’ve been waiting all week for an update.
I look over at Annie, and she looks at me.
Her lip stain is the same color as the streaks in her hair and the flower petals buried in her braids.
I watch as her eyes trail down my bare arm that is sans hoodie today.
They linger on the tattoo, a violet outline of a guitar roped with wisteria vines and musical notes.
My forearm flexes. I fiddle with my thumb ring.
She swallows, looks away.
Tag plays. I zone out Kenna’s chatter, lost in the music, wishing it were me up there, spinning melodies into magic. But I can’t. I can’t because it’s impossible to find the courage to bare my soul in that way.
Not without her.
Annie laughs at something Kenna says, nudging me with her shoulder, as if I’m one of them, a new friend in the making. The weather has warmed, winter finally melting into spring. Her outfit matches the season—a daisy dress with a flared skirt. She smells like a flower garden.
Straightening, she spins her coffee cup between her hands, and I swear her chair moves closer to mine.
“So, how weird is this?” she asks, half grinning, half cringing. “These coffee dates. Hanging out. Be honest.”
A smile itches to break free, but I squash it before it has the chance to bloom. “On a scale of one to committing-felony-level-petty-theft-followed-by-an-impromptu-kidnapping? Solid six.”
Kenna gets distracted when a cherry-haired girl approaches the table, pulling her into an animated conversation.
“Not too bad.” Annie bites back a grin. “All memorable stories have messy beginnings.”
“Pretty sure that’s just a lie we tell ourselves to make things feel better than they are.”
“What’s your story?”
The question takes me off guard, has me itching to pull away and put distance between us. “The messy kind, from beginning to end,” I say and take a sip of coffee, hiding my darkness behind my cup of Americano.
“Presumptuous of you to assume the ending.” She studies me, full of questions, curiosity clouding her eyes. “Bad breakup?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking.”
Those big blue eyes continue to poke and prod. “Maybe you can tell me one day.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“Maybe means maybe.”
“It sounded like a yes.”
“Maybe it did.” Our eyes catch, and I wonder if she sees the twinkle I know is there.
She snorts into her coffee, looking away. “You’re confusing me.”
Feeling is mutual, but I don’t say it.
She’s affecting me, plaguing me with questions I don’t have the nerve to ask, unraveling something knotted deep in my chest, and threading herself through thoughts I have no business entertaining.
It’s in the tilt of her head, the curve of her mouth, the kindness that seeps from her touch.
I don’t even think she realizes it; it’s just who she is.
It’s in my best interest to pivot. “The stuff you write…does it translate into songs?”
Ambient lighting shimmers in her eyes like a silent secret. “Not really.” Her voice dips with a touch of regret. “They’re just pieces. Random thoughts about random things. There’s no harmony in them.”
“Write me something.”
She blinks. “Right now?”
I nod.
“I don’t know…”
“She’s amazing,” Kenna interrupts, the mysterious redhead disappearing from the table. “All she has to do is look at something and haikus pour out of her like an oil spill. But prettier.”
Annie’s gaze flicks to mine, and warmth unfurls in my chest.
I watch the spill take shape.
She grabs a napkin, pulls a pen from her purse, and starts writing. But she hesitates; whether from doubt, the fear of judgment, or something else, I can’t tell.
The napkin crinkles in her palm. A fleeting, uncertain glance is sent my way.
Then she hands it over.
Quiet like the moon
His gaze holds a thousand storms
Words trapped in the dark
Throat thickening and pulse revving, I read it once, twice, ten more times. “You can sing. Write. Why are you pulling double shifts at a diner?”
She slinks back in the chair, like she’s questioning her life choices. “It’s just the way the cards fell.”
“Cards are meant to be played. It’s different when you don’t have any cards at all. Then you’re just sitting at the table, watching everyone else reshuffle.”
She blinks back up with a frown. “Are you implying you don’t have cards?”
Kenna jumps in. “She’s incredible, right?
I’ve been saying for years she should learn guitar and start performing.
Or team up with Tag. They’d be electric together.
” A beat of silence stretches before she leans forward, eyes gleaming.
“Or, hey, maybe the three of you should start something. I can totally see it.”
I almost spit out my coffee.
This is the second time Kenna has mentioned me joining forces with Annie’s brother, even though the guy would rather shit in his hands and clap than make music with me.
Annie brushes off the suggestion, her knee grazing mine when she shifts in her seat. She draws out the contact for several seconds before pulling away.
The show wraps up two hours later.
Annie texts furiously on her phone between songs, her cheeks pink, expression strained, and I can’t help but flash back to her sudden departure last week. I wonder who she was talking to, who had the power to pull her away from something she obviously loves and looks forward to.
But I don’t ask; it’s not my place.
As Tag packs up his guitar, and patrons filter over to the tip jar, padding it with tens and twenties, Annie tucks her phone into her purse, takes a steadying breath, and turns to me.
“We should hang out again sometime, outside of here. You know, maybe work on music and write some songs. I love my brother, but he doesn’t have a poetic bone in his body.
” She breathes out a small laugh. “Unless that’s weird. ”
I freeze, unprepared for the invitation.
Her eyes flare. “Shit. It’s totally weird.”
“No, no—not weird. Unexpected.”
“Do you write at all?”
“A few songs back in the day, but it’s been a while.”
“But you play. Guitar, I mean.”
“I do.”
“Okay. Well, think about it. I’ve been meaning to make more time for myself, for the things that matter. I work so much, and everything is just…” She trails off, the light in her eyes sinking beneath the surface like the sun dipping below the waterline, leaving twilight in its wake.
I try to get a read on her, unsure of her motives and whether it’s just a friendly invitation sparked by shared interests, or if something deeper lingers, veiled by the quiet innocence in her gaze.
“Will you be back next week?” she asks me.
Shaking away the seesawing thoughts, I drag my tongue over my teeth, letting a smile tease at the corners of my mouth. “Maybe.”
Something flickers in her eyes. A renewed torch. A flush creeps into her cheeks, turning them rosier. “Sounds like a yes.”
Rising from her chair, she steps closer, the faintest lean drawing me into her scent.
My breath catches.
I hold still, waiting.
“Everyone has cards, Chase,” she murmurs, her fingers curling around my shoulder. “Even the worst hands can still be played.”