Resonance

Chapter 4

CHAPTER

FOUR

BODHI

The coffee shop Iggy chose was a twenty-minute walk from the hotel. There were plenty closer by, but he insisted the fresh air would do us good, clear our heads after this morning’s near miss.

It reminded me of the Willow. When the noise got too loud or the cravings too sharp, Iggy would drag me out of whatever chair I was planted in, and I’d follow him like a loyal little duckling until we’d both calmed down.

“Café Bonbonnière.” I read the sign aloud, glancing at him. “So, what’s so special about this place?”

He twirled a pink strand of hair around his finger and tilted his head towards me. “What makes you think there’s something special?”

I raised an eyebrow. “We walked past fifty cafes and patisseries in that twenty-minute walk alone, and you didn’t give any of them a second look.”

He sighed with a dramatic eye roll, but the smile on his face made it clear he was joking. “I saw it on Instagram.”

Iggy took my hand, just like he had so many times before, and led me inside. Since it was a weekday, the place wasn’t crowded, though a few tables were filled. He guided me to an empty corner table he’d spotted, and I took a moment to look around.

The space was bright and airy, with a huge window that framed the street outside.

The walls were pastel pink, with floral wallpaper behind the counter, and the counter itself was painted a soft blue with a white-and-pink marble top.

Fairy lights traced the edges of the room, while blue and pink lampshades hung overhead.

Every table was a different pastel shade, each chair its own colour, arranged with no apparent rhyme or reason.

It looked like a Lisa Frank fever dream had exploded inside, and the owners had decided that was the aesthetic.

And yet, despite the chaos, there was a softness to it, a kind of quirky charm. Much like the guy sitting opposite me, lips pursed in a very duck-like pout as he studied the menu.

Iggy had swapped his tiny cotton shorts for a pair of high-waisted denim ones—only slightly longer, still showing plenty of leg but cutting down the risk of flashing a passerby.

I couldn’t imagine myself in them, but somehow, they suited him.

The tie-dye shirt had been replaced with the same cropped powder-blue hoodie he’d worn the night he arrived, and on his feet were a pair of black Converse.

His hair stayed in the same messy bun, but he’d added a touch of makeup—something to hide the dark circles from this morning—a subtle shimmer on his lids, and gloss that made his lips gleam.

“Come on, then,” I said, looking down at the menu. “What should I be ordering?”

Iggy lowered his menu and tapped the photo of a dark, almost brooding drink that looked wildly out of place in this pastel palace. “Café noir.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You made me walk twenty minutes to order a black coffee?”

“I know what it sounds like—”

“Yeah,” I said, folding my arms. “Like you made me walk twenty minutes to order a black coffee.”

“Listen, sassy,” Iggy said, leaning forward and tapping the photo again, more insistently this time. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Take a leap of faith, yeah?”

I sighed, putting my menu down and leaning back, arms crossed. “Fine. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Good choice,” he said with that grin that never failed to annoy and delight me at the same time. “Also, people rave about their pistachio cruffins.”

“What the fuck is a cruffin?” I asked, and Iggy burst out laughing, the sound making something flutter in my chest.

“It’s a hybrid between a croissant and a muffin,” he explained, wiping at his eye. “I tried one in London and it was delicious, but I bet it’s nothing compared to this.”

“Just a poor imitation, I’m sure.”

“Exactly,” he said. Iggy pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll go order.”

I shifted in my seat and reached for my wallet, tucked in the pocket of my jeans.

But before I could get my fingers around it, Iggy leaned over and placed his hand on my wrist. The move brought him close, and when I looked up, the strands that had escaped his bun brushed my cheek.

This close, I could see flecks of gold scattered through the green of his irises, like sunlight caught in moss.

And when he tipped his head, I caught the sweet scent of peaches and cream—the same as he’d smelled at the Willow.

“I’ve got it,” he said, patting my hand. “I invited you, so it’s my treat.”

Before I could respond, he straightened and sauntered over to the counter, where he greeted the server with a bright smile. Watching their animated exchange, I wondered if he spoke any French. Given his ballet past, it didn’t seem impossible.

When he returned and slid into his seat, I asked, “Do you speak French?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Fuck no.”

“I thought you did ballet?”

Iggy raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you remembered. I was convinced you’d forgotten all about me, and that’s why you were avoiding me.”

Guilt twisted in my chest like a knife, and I lowered my eyes to my clasped hands. “I . . . um, I mean . . .” I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t—”

“Cut the crap, Just Bodhi.”

My eyes snapped up. Iggy was smirking, drumming his purple painted nails against the table like he had all the time in the world. “It’s obvious you were avoiding me. I’d have been stupid to miss it.” His fingers stilled, and he lifted a brow. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” I said quickly. “No, I—”

“Okay, glad we cleared that up.” He lifted his hand and inspected an invisible chip in his polish. “So, why were you avoiding me? And don’t lie. I’ll know.”

“You will?” I narrowed my eyes. “How?”

His smirk widened into something warm and teasing. “You fiddle with your nose ring.”

“No I don’t,” I scoffed. Too fast, too defensive.

Except . . . shit. Maybe I did.

“I noticed it in rehab,” he continued, casually twirling a strand of hair. “Whenever you lied, your hands went straight to your nose. You’d twist your ring until the skin went red.”

I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “Okay, fine. I was avoiding you.”

Iggy made a loud squawking buzzer noise that echoed through the café. I flinched; a couple of people glanced over. Iggy, of course, didn’t care. He never had. That fearless, unapologetic way he existed in the world was something I’d always admired. Maybe even envied.

“Old news,” he said. “Tell me why.”

“I just . . .” The words jammed in my throat.

Talking about this crap always felt like trying to yank barbed wire out of my chest. Even back at the Willow, it had taken me days before I could string together a sentence for Dr Williams without panicking.

And I knew Iggy wouldn’t judge me—he never had—but that didn’t magically make it easy.

“Bodhi,” Iggy murmured, his voice soft and steady as he reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. The teasing spark in his face had vanished, replaced with something earnest and open. Something he only ever showed in moments like these.

“I was ashamed,” I muttered, staring at our hands. At the way his thumb brushed the back of mine, like he’d already forgiven me for something I hadn’t admitted yet.

“What?” He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“You’d seen me at my most vulnerable, I guess.

You’ve heard things I haven’t even told the band, and they’re like my brothers, y’know?

” I shook my head and flipped my hand over so his palm pressed fully against mine.

“I appreciated your support and friendship in the Willow. I still do. I just thought—”

“You thought we’d never see each other again,” Iggy finished for me. He smiled, but it wasn’t one of his bright, playful ones. It was small and sad, and it hit me harder than anything he could’ve said. I hated it. Hated being the reason it existed.

“Yeah. I guess. You were from London, and I’d be going back to LA once the tour was over.” I shrugged, guilt twisting deeper. “In the Willow, you became my best friend. But I always thought that’s where it would stay. Where it would end.”

“I understand,” he whispered. He started to pull his hand back, but I closed my fingers around his, stopping him.

“I didn’t expect our worlds to collide, and seeing you here, as our new makeup artist . . . it just threw me. I was overwhelmed, and when Riff asked if we knew each other, I said no before I even thought about it.”

“Bodhi, it’s okay—”

“It’s not.” I gripped his hand a little tighter. “It was a dick move. I shouldn’t have done that, not after everything we went through. But there was another reason I said no. Does anyone else on the tour—other than me—know about you?”

Iggy rubbed his thumb along the side of my hand, a slow back-and-forth that somehow grounded me. When I looked up, he was worrying his bottom lip, teeth sinking into it gently.

“You mean that I’m an addict?”

“A recovering addict,” I corrected automatically, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite commit.

“No. No one knows but you.”

“That’s what I figured,” I said quietly. “I was avoiding you, yeah. But I think some fucked-up part of me thought I was also protecting you. Because if I’d said we knew each other, they’d all assume the same thing.”

“Okay, I see your point,” Iggy replied, brow creasing.

“Do you . . . want people to know?”

He leaned back, letting go of my hand, and the absence was immediate, cold against my skin.

“I’m not ashamed that we went to rehab, or that I’m in recovery.

Trust me, they drilled that into us enough.

” He shrugged, staring somewhere past my shoulder.

“But Sasha is my friend. She trusted me with this job. I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t handle it just because I’m an addict. ”

“A recov—”

“Recovering addict,” he interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

I snorted, and he shot me a tiny smirk in return.

“So,” Iggy continued. “Where do we go from here?”

I opened my mouth, but a server arrived, placing two glass mugs of inky black liquid in front of us, still steaming. They added a plate piled with the biggest pastry I’d ever seen. Golden, flaky, and laced with green icing and crushed pistachios.

“Merci,” Iggy said before they drifted away.

He reached for his teaspoon, but I caught his wrist lightly.

“Iggy,” I said softly. “I don’t want to avoid you.”

His eyes lifted to mine, wide, green, and shining like he was trying not to hope too hard. “But you don’t want our worlds to collide,” he murmured, uncertainty tightening his voice.

“To be honest?” I sighed. “I don’t care about that anymore. I’m more concerned about you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re my friend, Iggy. I don’t want to out you to anyone. Not unless you want that.” I pulled my hand back, only so he’d really hear this part. “So, why don’t we just get to know each other again? In the real world this time. And when you’re ready, we can tell everyone whatever the hell we want.”

“Friends?” he asked, a hopeful, lopsided smile returning.

“Exactly.”

He nodded and finally picked up his teaspoon. “Sounds like a plan, Just Bodhi.”

I tipped my head back and groaned. “I’m never gonna escape that, am I?”

“Nope.”

When I looked back at him, his smile had bloomed into a full, radiant grin. The kind that could light up an arena. The kind I’d missed way more than I should’ve.

“Now,” he said, tapping the rim of his glass with the teaspoon. “Are you ready to see some magic?”

“This better be the best damn black coffee I’ve ever tasted,” I replied with a smirk.

Iggy dipped the spoon into the black liquid and began to stir, and as he did, I gasped as a plume of golden glitter spiralled to life around the edge of the glass. It looked like a potion . . . or the night sky above the Willow, where London’s pollution didn’t drown out the stars.

He set the spoon down and lifted the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before releasing a contented sigh. “Delicious.”

I followed his lead, bringing the glass to my mouth. The first taste surprised me, a warm, velvety hit of vanilla smoothing out the bitter edge, and an involuntary hum slipped from my throat.

Iggy giggled, delighted.

“See,” he said, tearing off a hefty piece of his cruffin and slipping it into his mouth. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”