Chapter 13 Chase
Chase
Therapy.
That’s what she feels like.
Early June melts away into late June, painting the world in hues of Siberian irises and butterfly-blue scabiosa, as peonies blossom like coral sunsets in garden beds. But while nature is fast asleep, I have never felt more awake.
These midnight meetings we indulge in three times a week have become the driving force behind my dreams. My goals.
Ultimately, my healing.
I’ll never tell her that.
Annie is the type of person who internalizes everything, always wanting to help, reach, dig deeper, until she’s stretched too thin and buried among a graveyard of everyone else’s skeletons. I refuse to be another bag of bones she feels responsible for bringing back to life.
Instead, I take each moment as it comes. Maintain a reasonable distance. Keep my guard up. We write, play, sing, and muse, directing that fire into music, while she remains oblivious to the light she’s reigniting inside me.
I pull up to the familiar cape-style house with a wraparound porch, the siding an off-putting color of peach. Annie paces in tight circles beneath the awning, wearing leggings and an oversize sweater, a cigarette trembling between her fingers.
She doesn’t smoke.
Smudged kohl rims her eyes, lining her cheeks in inky smears. Porch light sets her ablaze, illuminating all the burdens she carries but refuses to resent.
She’s a wick burning at both ends.
She’s also a Scorpio—pain is passion, and passion is purpose. I’m not sure who or what has caused the sudden bout of chain-smoking, the trembling limbs, or the slow-drying tears, but it doesn’t take much to break her open.
That I do know.
I park along the street and hop out, tossing my leather coat inside the car as a balmy midnight breeze clings to my skin and the lingering scent of afternoon rain drifts under my nose. Rolling up my sleeves, I step forward, careful not to spook her. “Annalise.”
She stops pacing. Snaps her head up.
I watch her exhale a plume of smoke she doesn’t even want, as if trying to purge something deeper from her lungs.
“Oh, hey. Chase.” A smile appears, just like that. A well-trained disguise. She flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the stoop, crushing it beneath the toe of her Mary Janes. “I didn’t even notice you drive up.”
“Everything okay?”
“Of course. Definitely.” She waves away the cloud of smoke and feigns a small laugh. “Sorry. Jeez. I’m not even a smoker, but Tag had an old pack lying around, and I just—”
“You were crying.” I saunter up the walkway, hands shoved into the pockets of my jeans. “Did your brother say something offensive?”
I know it wasn’t her brother. Despite our ongoing tension, the guy adores her.
Another laugh breaks free. She sniffs, frantically swiping at her cheeks.
“A fair deduction, but no. I was just getting in the zone. Preparing for that heartbreaking hit we’re inevitably going to write tonight.
” Her nose scrunches in a way that’s gravely adorable.
“I’m harnessing my inner method writer.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m good now.”
Swinging her arms back and forth, she keeps the smile firmly in place.
Impressive. Typical.
“Anyway,” she says, twisting around. “Let’s go out back. It’s such a pretty night.”
Annie shuffles into the house, composing herself, skimming her salmon-tipped fingers through a tangle of purple, brown, and blond.
I follow behind, glancing at the couch where Tag sits as he practices a song on his Martin.
He hardly pays me a glance. “Hey, asshole.”
“Hey,” I manage.
Annie harrumphs.
Collaborating with Tag has been an experience, to say the least. He seems inclined to despise me until his deathbed, or until I become the missing piece to his music-fueled dreams.
At this rate, I’m not sure which will happen first.
“We’re going to collab out on the deck.” Annie collects her notebook and a small clutch filled with an assortment of multicolored pens, then continues forward. “Want to join?”
“Nope.” The response is muffled through the pick between his teeth. “Have fun.”
She halts in place. “You know, in order to start a band, you need to eventually interact with your fellow band members. It’s not rocket science.”
“Noted. Thanks for the revelation.”
“I’m serious, Tag. You’re being stubborn.”
“I’m being more than reasonable.” He plucks the pick from his mouth and leans back, the picture of casual disdain. “I’ve already surrendered to your misguided vision. He’s standing in my living room. Pretty sure that counts as my contribution.”
She shakes her head, frustration radiating off her. “You’re only holding yourself back.”
“I’ll take my chances. Enjoy your little rendezvous.” With that, Tag scoops up his guitar and sweeps past us, disappearing into the basement.
I rub my forehead, a dull headache simmering behind my eyes.
Annie slumps, defeat creeping into her expression as she fiddles with the baggy sleeves of her tea-rose sweater. “Sorry. I promise, one of these days—”
“It’s fine. I get it.” I push my bangs aside. “He has every reason to hate me.”
“He’s being irrational. He’s seen you play, sing, write. You belong here.”
“I put his little sister in a compromising position. Could have gotten her killed,” I remind her, as if she needs reminding. She doesn’t. She just forgives too easily. “That’s not irrational. That’s love.”
Her eyes flare.
But it’s only a brief pause before she shakes off whatever trace of understanding seeped through, clenches her jaw, and continues to the deck. “I already grabbed an acoustic for you. I was thinking we could work on new material tonight. I made some notes.”
“Sounds good.”
I still don’t have my own acoustic.
Every last cent has been put toward keeping myself afloat, caring for Toaster, and investing in the tools needed to bring my guitar business to life.
I sold another one last week: a sleek, midnight-black custom build with an asymmetrical body, gold hardware, and a fretboard inlaid with mother-of-pearl constellations.
It sold for just under fifteen hundred dollars, which was double what the last one went for.
Similar comps tell me it undersold, but I don’t have the name to back up those prices yet. No credentials, no reputation. Just an obscene amount of drive and a craft I’m sharpening every day.
Annie collapses onto a wicker rocking chair while I take the seat beside her.
She looks at me.
A few steady beats pass, and I don’t know how to unravel that look. What it means, what it says. We’ve become closer over the last few weeks. While I never cross any lines, never let my thoughts drift too far, sometimes I wonder if she does.
Her lips part like she might say something, but she only exhales a slow, quiet breath that barely stirs the air between us.
I should look away, put space between us. But I don’t.
Finally, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, blinking hard like she’s dislodging something. “Here,” she murmurs, reaching for the guitar. “If you want to warm up.”
I take it, grateful for the out. Because no matter how close we may become, no matter how many nights we spend lost in music, there are lines that can’t be blurred.
It’s for the best; I prefer hard lines and sharp edges.
The fallout always hides inside the blur.
My fingers settle on the strings, my thumb ring glinting off a rope of bulb lights draped around the deck. The scent of summer wraps around me—rain-soaked mud, damp wood, and wild honeysuckle. I’m not sure if the latter belongs to nature or the shampoo in her hair.
“Sing an oldie for me.”
I lift my chin and find Annie staring at me again. “Yeah?”
“I need something cheery and familiar. It’s been a day.” She pulls her legs up crisscross-applesauce style and settles back in the seat. “If you don’t mind?”
Sixties tunes aren’t exactly my jam, but I know a few. One in particular.
Sometimes that song bleeds into my nightmares, drowning out the ghostly howls of my mother’s screams.
I locate a pick on the little garden table between us and strum a few chords along the strings.
G-C-D minor.
Annie’s eyes brighten with recognition.
I clear my throat. Tear my gaze away from hers before I lock up.
Then my voice pours out like a raspy, controlled lullaby as I sing the first verse to “I Only Want To Be With You” by Dusty Springfield.
I move into the chorus. Forget some of the lyrics to the second verse and shift into the bridge.
Chorus again.
Outro.
The last note hangs on, clinging to the midnight air like sticky adhesive. When my focus floats back to Annie, I blink through the haze, watching her watch me. She’s curled up in a ball on the wicker chair, legs tucked to her chest, fresh tears coating her eyes.
Not pain this time. Just passion.
She looks spellbound.
The sentiment has me fidgeting as my left knee bounces, skin itches, hairline sweats. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that.
Too fucking dangerous.
“God, you’re so good,” she breathes out, a choked-up whisper. “I can’t believe you just started singing in front of people.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Singing is…vulnerable.”
“It is, but it’s also so raw. Like tearing your chest wide open and hoping someone hears what’s inside.”
Her words have me swallowing again, smoke and grit lodging in my throat. Nearly six long years of clogged grief.
I glance down at the weathered planks of knotty pine. “It’s not something I ever planned to do. Not alone, anyway.”
“Were you planning to start a band?”
“Not a band, no. But my sister…she wanted to start something with me someday. It didn’t pan out. And I never felt right about doing it without her.”
“What happened?” she asks, still breathless, soaking up every word.
Annie’s hair looks electric beneath the accent lights. A pop of color in a monochrome world. The blue in her eyes does everything it can to melt away my steel.
But I don’t know how to answer that. Not without letting my guard all the way down and dragging her into my army of demons. They don’t play nice. They’d eat her alive.