Chapter 26 Annalise
Annalise
Crowley gets Honey Moons on the schedule for a show in mid-October.
It’s late-August now, the muggy heat creeping into the practice space and baking us all alive.
Three oscillating fans are the only source of airflow, now that Tag has turned his two-car garage into our new studio.
Rock’s drum kit was too massive to be crammed in the partial basement along with five musicians, amps, furniture, and a dozen bookcases stuffed with old vinyls.
Drenched in sweat, I plop down in front of one of the fans, sighing with contentment every time the draft swivels toward me. “We need AC,” I declare, pressing back on my hands as I sit cross-legged on the hand-me-down rug.
Tag tunes his guitar beside me on a stool. “Currently accepting donations.”
“How much can it be?”
“More than what I make detailing cars and playing coffee shops.” A note dings sharply out of key, making Tag wince. “Besides, it’ll be blizzarding before we know it.”
I close my eyes and imagine myself naked in an ice bath in the dead of winter.
Meanwhile, Chase sits sprawled out on the shabby couch we hauled up from the basement last week.
The bruise on my shin is a nasty shade of green, having bloomed sometime between step five and me cursing the existence of whoever designed Tag’s staircase.
Sadly, girl power does not equate to muscle mass in the face of a three-hundred-pound three-seater sofa.
Chase nods at our newest band member, Zach, who also happens to be Tag’s old friend from high school. “Sounding good,” he says.
I tip my head back, reveling in the breeze coasting across my neck as I glance at Zach, who is hunched over his five-string bass, locked into a groove so deep it practically carves a canyon.
After a slew of so-so bassist auditions, Zach walked in and nailed it.
He’s got the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and reminds me of the lead singer of Sevendust, with warm, deep-toned skin and a head full of lush locs.
He’s more low-key than the rest of us, but every bit as sharp.
We’ve upped our practice time to 8:00 p.m. since Zach sleeps like a normal human and the ultra-late nights were starting to wear us all down.
Breaking the news to Alex was harrowing.
It’s cut into our personal time, giving us only a small window to have dinner together after work, and making date nights less frequent.
Even talks of Thailand have been put on hold.
I’ve had to endure the frequent mood swings, passive-aggressive comments, and cold shoulder, but in the end, I was doing this whether he approved or not.
I’m not sure if that makes me selfish or driven.
My gaze swings back to Chase in his black jeans with unintentional rips, smudged sneakers, and lack of a T-shirt.
All the guys are half naked. The air smells like a combination of body odor, Rock’s weed collection, and an assortment of lavender-scented candles courtesy of Kenna.
“You make my napkin lyrics sound good,” I call out to him.
He flicks me a smile.
I can tell he’s only half present, lost in a solo. He’s buckling down hard, showing up an hour before practice every night and being the last to leave.
I don’t blame him.
We’re opening for a well-known band called Unbidden, a progressive rock group with flashy guitar riffs and heavy metal undertones. We’re not quite as hard, less growl and more heart. But where they shred, we swell. Where they erupt, we simmer.
We’re the slow burn, our sound akin to open windows during a summer storm.
Rivers of sweat trickle down my neck as I puff my cheeks with an exhausted breath.
Zoned out from heatstroke, I stare at Chase’s tattoo rippling across his skin like ocean waves as he focuses on the rhythm.
It’s cathartic, watching him play, listening to my lyrics become tangible.
We have three new songs under our belt, the fourth one currently in production.
It’s something I whipped up between diner shifts last week, huffing and puffing, needing a quick escape from kitchen chaos and demanding customers.
Resilience folds like paper
Conviction frays like floss
We draw lines in the sand
Just before we cross
Chase looks up, catching me staring. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. These are the only moments I allow. Tender glances tucked beneath the chords of whatever song we’re playing. Though small and fleeting, I hold his gaze like it means something.
It feels better to know that we tried
We tried
But everyone knows
That’s just another way to lie
“There’s no topping Walter White. You can’t change my mind.” Rock’s voice cuts in as he spins his drumsticks with a showy flick of his wrist.
Tag scoffs. “Saul was better. The character development was a masterclass.”
“Snooze.”
“You’re a fucking snooze.”
I look away as Rock busts out a quick drum solo. “Team Tag,” I chime in. “That show was basically a tragic love story dressed up in legal briefs and cartel blood. Total brilliance.”
“Team Tag,” Rock parrots, a frown pulling. “Team Tag…Tag Team.” His eyes glaze. “Whoa. Missed band name opportunity?”
Chuckling, I pull to a stand and take a seat beside Chase on the couch as Zach remains lost in his bass. “Thoughts on this debate?”
Chase’s eyes dip to my soaked-through tank stuck to my skin before jerking away. “I’ve only seen Breaking Bad.”
“Gasp?” My hands crisscross over my heart. “And here I thought I knew you.”
He peers down at his instrument, effortlessly plucking a series of strings. “Guess I’ll need to change that. Somewhere between daily practices, getting my guitar business off the ground, and sanding down rustic benches.”
“I believe in you.”
A smile ticks. “Sing for me. I’m trying to get this melody worked out.”
The request makes my stomach flip-flop. While performance nerves have scattered for the most part, it still feels strangely vulnerable singing for Chase. Like my heart is a shoddily built dam, a storm away from splitting into pieces.
“Okay,” I breathe, my eyes panning to the half-open garage door.
Chase leans back and spreads his legs wider, the rough denim of his jeans grazing my bare thigh. Ignoring the contact, I clear my throat, better my posture, and start to sing. With every note, Chase follows along, his gaze bouncing between my moving lips and his strings.
His fingers slowly glide across the fretboard, like he’s more focused on the sound coming from me than the guitar.
His knee nudges mine. I feel him watching me, his breathing deepening as mine falters. But I keep singing, because if I stop, I’m afraid I’ll forget how to breathe altogether.
This heat isn’t helping.
I’m trapped in a furnace, body and mind, with no way out.
My voice tapers on the last word. I wring my hands together, short on air, dripping sweat, wanting nothing more than to peel my clothes off and launch myself into the neighbor’s pool.
I brave a glance at Chase as his eyes track a bead of moisture running down the arc of my throat. I feel it there, itchy and distracting, but I leave it, a treacherous side of me addicted to the way he stares at it.
With a drowsy blink, he blows out a breath and looks at me like I’m a long-lost treasure. “Damn,” he says softly.
That one word sends a swarm of buzzing bees racing south. Every piece of me is warm and gooey like a hive of honey.
The enchantment in his tone soothes me.
The look in his eyes scares me.
And then Tag’s voice enters the chat.
“I’m fuckin’ roasting like a burnt-ass turkey under a heat lamp at a deli.” He swipes his discarded T-shirt down his face. “I need a break. Maybe John will let us borrow his pool.”
My brother sets his guitar aside and disappears out of the garage, the door squeaking on its hinges as he lifts it all the way up. Rock and Zach follow. Chase hesitates now that we’re alone, as if he’s contemplating if it’s a blessing or a tragedy in motion.
I lift off the couch. “A late-night dip doesn’t sound so bad. You in?”
He clears his throat, pulls his guitar closer to his chest. “Nah. Gonna keep practicing.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me anymore, halfway buried in the strings like they’re some kind of shield.
Outside, the air is churning with humidity.
Tag is already across the yard, shouting something to the neighbor, John, who waves us over with a beer in hand like it’s just another Tuesday.
By the time I kick off my sandals and sit at the edge of the pool, removing my phone from my waistband and placing it beside me, the guys are diving in.
The water is cool against my legs. Abandoned pairs of jeans are tossed onto lawn chairs, the three men stripped down to boxers, cannonballing and roughhousing like they’re fifteen again.
I slip in slow, letting the water take me piece by piece, until my cotton shorts and tank are soaked through. Laughter spills across the yard, and for a while, I let myself disappear into it.
Until the air shifts.
A shadow flickers in the corner of my eye.
Chase stands off to the side in the grass, barefoot, jeans clinging to his hips. He looks lost, a far cry from the lead singer with a mic in hand and the world as his stage.
“Hey.” I offer a small smile, turning to drape my arms over the pool’s ledge, my hair fanning across the surface like ink in water. “FOMO?” I tease.
His throat rolls, gaze flicking to the blue-green pool, tension tightening his features.
I frown. “Everything okay?”
A clipped headshake.
Propping my chin on my hands, I watch him carefully. His eyes stay locked on the pool like it might come alive. Like it remembers something.
“I haven’t been in one of these since…” He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair.
My body stills in the water, the words hitting soft but heavy. I don’t need the rest of the sentence. “Chase…”
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. Just digs his thumbs into his palms, as if trying to ground himself in a pain he can control.
“You don’t have to get in. Not for me. Not for them.” I glance toward the far end of the pool where the guys are cracking jokes, oblivious. “It’s okay. I promise.”
I can tell he’s not really here. He’s somewhere else, some sunlit day gone wrong. The sound of a splash, a scream, and too much silence after.
My mind races with ways to help. To lessen his burdens, to scare away his ghosts.
“You know…I used to think that if I revisited the worst moment of my life, it would swallow me whole,” I say, my voice quieting.
“But it’s not a monster, Chase. It’s just a memory.
It can’t drag you under unless you let it. ”
The air feels denser, more polluted.
God—I should take my own advice.
I squeeze my eyes shut, memories careening to the surface like a fire-licked buoy. The squeal of tires, the crunch of metal. The airbag spattered in a mist of blood.
Alex’s blood. Red on white.
I still can’t bring myself to drive a car.
So I get it; I do.
And maybe that’s all he needs.
Expelling the flashbacks, I push off the ledge and inch backward, until I’m facing him, chest-deep in the water. “Chase,” I murmur. “Look at me.”
He hesitates, his face ashen, as if he took a wrong turn and ended up in a memory he’s spent years trying to outrun.
A hard swallow. Then a slow dip of his eyes.
Our gazes lock.
“I’m not going to pretend this water doesn’t feel like grief.” I send him a sad smile, studying him beneath the moon as I watch that grief paint bitter lines across his face. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. There’s nothing to prove here.”
“Sorry.” He blinks through the daze with a flustered sigh. “Fuck…I didn’t think it would hit me this hard.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not nothing.” Water swishes against my hair as I shake my head. “You don’t have to act like it is.”
He cups a hand over his jaw, the pain in his eyes baring its teeth.
A long silence stretches. The others are farther down, yelling and laughing, all light and movement. This part of the pool feels like a different world.
Stark. Quiet. Waiting.
Chase takes a small step forward. “I used to think that if I talked about it, she’d feel farther away. Like saying it out loud made it more real. Made her more…gone.”
I shift closer, letting the water carry me a few feet. “I think people stay quiet about their pain because they’re afraid no one will know what to do with it.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps. “It’s fucking lonely.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But loneliness isn’t always about being alone. Sometimes it’s about forgetting how to reach out.”
He stares at me in silence, running a hand up and down his face.
Then he glances at the glimmering water like it’s daring him.
I don’t move. Don’t push. Don’t reach for him.
I let him choose.
In one smooth motion, he steps forward, all the way to the edge.
Crouching, he dips his feet in.
His jaw clenches at the first cold shock. Both legs follow, his jeans clinging to him, heavy and soaked. For a second, I think that’s all he’ll give. Just his legs in the water.
But then he holds his breath, sinks lower, and slides all the way in, body rigid and eyes closed. When he’s waist-deep, he finally looks at me.
Emotion surges, full of grief, pain, and harrowing relief. It feels like I’m witnessing something private, something fragile.
Chase’s breathing turns labored, and his eyes glaze over. Not with tears, but with something older. More jaded and worn.
I move toward him, wanting to help, wanting to—
“Gonna grab some beers and towels.” Tag’s voice bursts through our bubble.
I flinch.
All three guys climb out of the pool, dripping wet, half running toward the house. John is gone. Television static seeps through the cracked patio door. Cicadas hum from tall grass.
Slowly, my attention returns to Chase. He’s closer now, a few inches away. The water feels warmer, lapping at my waist.
Another step. Another closed gap.
His hand lifts, reaching for mine.
I don’t think.
I reach back.