Chapter 22 Annalise
Annalise
“Hey. Check this out.”
I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room floor when Alex appears from the bedroom with a few pages of printed paper. Shirtless and shower-damp, he strolls over to me smelling like sandalwood and tea tree. There’s a lightness about him, a weight lifted.
It makes me smile.
Gone is the man from hours ago, overworked and stressed out, hollering for refires while the ticket rail overflowed.
The kitchen was a war zone. Grills hissing, fryers spitting, the scent of charred meat and melty cheese clogging the air.
By midafternoon, his shirt was stuck to his back, his fingers raw from heat, his patience running on fumes.
But he’s my Alex again.
As if the day’s grind was all a hazy dream.
He stops just short of my chaotic mess: notebooks, pens, sheets of music, and a taupe mug filled with round three of milk-diluted coffee.
“Are you working on some sort of thesis?” Both arms cross over his bare chest, the papers dangling from his hand.
My smile falters. I need to tell him about the wedding gig. Tonight.
Right now.
Unlinking my legs, I lean back on one hand. “I have some news.”
He nods, biting his lip. “Me too.”
“Really?” I eye the loose sheets of paper again, curiosity eclipsing my nerves. “You go first.”
Alex takes a seat beside me, moving the half-filled mug out of the way, and plops the stack on top of my notebook. “I did it. It’s booked.”
Eyes rounding, I stare at him for a beat before dragging my gaze to the printout in front of me.
It’s an itinerary. For Thailand.
A flight out of Boston the night before Thanksgiving, touching down in Bangkok just as the city wakes up.
Two nights in Chiang Mai, tucked inside the walled Old City, wandering temples and lantern-lit alleyways.
Then south to the islands. Blue-green water and white sand, a bungalow right on the beach where the ocean would be the first thing we saw every morning.
There’s even a monkey excursion.
I can almost feel the humid air clinging to my skin, taste the mango sticky rice, hear the hum of motorboats drifting toward limestone cliffs.
Alex watches me, expression alight with anticipation. “We’ll get lost in the night markets, eat everything we can’t pronounce, take a longtail boat to the Phi Phi Islands…” He nudges me gently with his knee. “Just escape for a while, you know? No stress, no work. Just us.”
Just us.
Words lodge in my throat. Because he planned all this for me. Because he knows how much I’ve wanted this.
Hot pressure burns behind my eyes. “Alex…this is incredible.”
“I know.” He smiles.
“Are you sure we can leave the restaurant for that long? Over a holiday?”
“It’s already covered. Don’t worry about the job.”
I swipe at the warm rivers streaking down my cheeks. Then I leap into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
“We deserve it,” he murmurs into my hair.
My eyes slam shut, more tears leaking through. A debilitating wave of guilt crashes over me. Guilt for the time spent with Chase. For keeping that information from my boyfriend. For my shameful thoughts, the chain-smoking, the secretive texts.
Three nights ago, I was holding another man’s hand, all while Alex was creating this romantic getaway for us.
I’m horrible.
A cracked sob breaks free, and I squeeze him tighter. Try to bury the anguish before it kills the moment.
He pulls back, a small frown furling between his eyes. “What’s wrong? You look upset.”
I shake my head. “Just emotional. Happy.”
Swallowing, he nods, but there’s a wary glaze over his eyes. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, um…” I tuck a tear-drenched strand of hair behind my ear. My thoughts go crooked, my heart on a teeter-totter. I have no idea how Alex is going to react to this. “Well, there’s this opportunity. It feels big. Important.”
“Okay.” The frown deepens. Alex scoots back, his gaze shifting to the scattered mess on all sides of me. “You’re working on music?”
“Yeah. Yes.” I clear my throat. “Tag was asked to fill in for a live band at his friend’s wedding. Declan. And his fiancée, Lillian.”
He blinks at me.
“They go way back. From high school. You probably met him once when—”
“The point, Annalise.”
“Right.” My voice hitches. “Anyway, he said yes, of course. And he asked me to join him. To sing. You know, cover songs. It’s in less than two weeks…”
His eyes narrow. “What else?”
“I’ll, um…need that Saturday night off work. If that’s okay. Kenna already said she’d cover my shift.”
“What else?”
There’s a ringing in my ears.
My chest nearly caves in, taking my air with it. It’s like he already knows there’s more. Something worse hiding in the things unsaid.
Closing my eyes, I wring my hands together and blurt it out. “Chase is performing too.”
Silence.
I can’t open my eyes, too terrified of what I’ll see.
The timing is terrible. Alex just presented me with a week-long vacation to Thailand, and I’m ambushing him with news of singing live music with a man he actively hates.
He witnessed our dynamic firsthand. Felt the tension. Saw the way Chase was looking at me, the way we sang together like we were the only two people in the room.
I inhale a shaky breath, bracing for the fallout.
My eyes flutter back open.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies me, jaw tight, lips pressed into a rigid line. That eager, travel-high glow in his eyes dims, as if I’ve stolen something from him.
“Got it,” he says, nodding to himself.
My stomach twists. “Alex—”
“I mean, it makes sense. It’s music. Your big dream.” A laugh-like breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”
“It’s just one night,” I argue. “One set. Tag asked us to do it. It’s not like I went looking for this.”
He shakes his head, staring at the itinerary. “But you didn’t say no either.”
“Because I want to do it. So much. This is an outlet for me—”
“This is your outlet.” He jabs a finger at the stack of papers, then stabs at his chest. “Me. Not him.”
“It’s not about him,” I say, a whispery appeal.
But that’s not entirely true. Chase is a large part of that outlet. The way we connect over lyrics and chords, guitar strings and songs.
He gets it. He gets me.
And I can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse.
“Try to understand,” I plead. “I’ve been working double shifts at the restaurant for over four years. I sacrifice sleep just for a taste of something that matters to me. And now I have an opportunity to taste more. Spread my wings. See if music is where I belong.”
“And where does that leave me?”
“Nothing has to change between us. You should be proud of me. Supportive.”
“I support the things that benefit us. Our relationship. I don’t support you singing love songs onstage with a guy who clearly wants to fuck you.”
“He doesn’t—”
“No. Don’t fucking do that.” His voice drops, lethal. “Don’t insult me by acting like I’m seeing shit that isn’t there.”
Alex jumps to his feet, starts pacing in anxious circles, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. Then he stops. Pauses as something coasts across his face.
Dread.
When he turns to me again, he looks as close to petrified as I’ve ever seen him.
“How much time have you been spending with him?”
I choke. The question is too direct. Too damning. There’s no room for lies.
Color drains from my face. “He’s…at Tag’s sometimes. Working on music.”
A heavy beat.
Awareness. Pain.
“Your midnights,” he says.
All I do is nod.
I’ve seen Alex angry. I’ve seen him volatile, frustrated, confident, and passionate.
But never scared.
Not even when he woke up in a hospital bed after the accident, attached to needles and wires, head bandaged and bleeding, doctors warning him about possible long-term effects. I held his hand and sobbed against his chest. But he wasn’t afraid.
He had me.
I push to my feet, my legs unsteady. We stand there, staring at each other as a car alarm wails outside. The ceiling fan whirs overhead. Cicadas sing from the cracked balcony door.
Alex swallows. “Do the gig.”
I frown, confused. “What?”
“Do the fucking gig, Annalise. It’s clearly what you want.”
It is what I want.
But I want something else too.
I want his support. His respect. I want him to see that my dreams are worth pursuing, not something he throws back at me like an accusation.
“Alex—”
He turns away, storms into the bedroom.
The door slams so hard, the walls rattle, and I flinch.
My eyes pan down to the papers strewn across the carpet.
Music. Thailand.
Two different worlds. Two different lives. Pulling, calling, reaching. Filling separate pieces of my heart.
Both could be the death of me.
I just don’t know which death will hurt more.
***
A text comes through the next day, somewhere between refilling water glasses and mopping up a syrup spill.
Chase: Working on the setlist. Thoughts?
I scan the list. There are enough songs to fill three hours.
“Can I get another coffee, darling?” a man asks as I linger near the jukebox.
I force a smile. Nod.
Then I send a short reply.
Me: Looks good.
Two minutes later, another text.
Chase: You okay?
A knot tightens in my chest, heat pooling behind my ribs.
Me: Yup. See you tonight.
I slip into the break room and shove my phone into my purse.
It pings again.
I don’t check.
***
The guys seem to be well on their way to bonding, which is a weight off my shoulders.
I purposely take a seat in the recliner, giving Chase and Tag the couch.
“The key is too high,” Tag grouses, his voice fracturing as he tries to sing the ultra-high notes. “No way I can sing this song.”
“Annalise and I can take the lead,” Chase says. “We’ll lower the key.”
My nose wrinkles as Tag makes a second attempt to sing “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” by The Darkness.
Growling his frustration, my brother slumps back against the cushions. “My range is shit.” He glances at me. “You try, sis.”
I peer down at my lap, where a gazillion printed-out lyrics sit in a messy pile. I flip through, searching for the song in question. Ink bleeds together. Titles, lyrics, notes.