Chapter 8 #2
To be fair, other than the quick check during my cleanup, I haven’t looked at myself today. It’s possible I’m kind of a mess. I run my fingers through it, trying to determine by feel if my appearance is scowl-worthy.
But when her gaze catches mine, it darts away like it did last night in Luke’s room when she… oh shit. She’s checking me out again.
Well, damn.
I shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth to stay cool.
“You sleep okay?” I ask.
After another short silence, she seems to warm up to the idea of post-party breakfast. I have to remember this isn’t her normal.
She lifts the lid on the first dish to inspect its offerings. “I think so. You?”
I wash down the bite with coffee. “I guess. What’d you think of the movie?”
Her sardonic look and eye-roll is worth the price of admission.
But the amusement fades too quickly .
“Have you checked on Luke yet?” She shoots an anxious glance toward the hall.
Ah. Right. The real reason she’s here.
“Yeah. He’s fine. He’s awake, actually. Working up the energy for a shower.”
“Good. Thanks. I should have done that before my own. Sorry.”
Her words grate on me, and I focus on my plate to temper the rising irritation. Not at her, just… I can’t stand the thought of her going down the same road I have to travel. She deserves so much better than that.
“You’re not his mother or his nurse,” I say. “Your life doesn’t have to revolve around taking care of him.”
“Says the guy who literally had to wash his puke off last night.”
I cringe inwardly and manage a wry smirk. “You know what I mean. I think it’s great that you’re looking out for him, but you can’t be consumed by it. You can’t let it define you or you’ll start to internalize his issues and judge yourself for things you can’t control.”
Please don’t become the villain of your own story too.
She’s way too special for that.
“You’ve been there,” she says quietly.
I snap a look at her, annoyed I revealed so much. “There’s only so much you can do, Callie. You can’t force someone to heal no matter how much you care about them. Not if they don’t want to.”
She averts her eyes, and I’m afraid I screwed up again.
For all my years with Luke and celebrity life, I still don’t know how to navigate this. I feel just as lost as the first time I returned to our room to find my best friend unconscious from going too far in his attempt to silence his demons.
Years later, we’ve only gone backward, it seems.
Something about this time feels different, though. From the moment I saw Luke last week, I felt it in the air. There’s a finality that wasn’t there before. A resignation that makes my stomach churn and keeps a constant chill running through my veins.
Something is very wrong, but that’s not the only difference.
There’s also a chance I won’t have to be alone in my quest to drag him back to the shore this time.
I don’t want to scare her, but the thought of Callie leaving scared me this morning. I can’t do this on my own, and neither can she. We don’t have the luxury of taking things slow.
“Hey, so hear me out,” I say, watching her closely. “We wrapped up our tour last week and I was thinking of crashing here for a while and seeing what we can do about Luke. Maybe between the two of us we can make some progress?”
Her expression fans through varying states of shock, and I pray I didn’t just blow things up before they even began. It’s not just my life on the line for this one.
After a long pause, she shifts on her stool. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict.
Her eyes brush mine before returning to the counter. “Yeah, I mean, if he’s up for it. I guess it would be fine to have you around more.”
Relieved—and amused by the glowing vote of confidence—I can’t help a short laugh.
“Thanks?” I say in a wry tone.
Her blush tells me all I need to know about her true feelings regarding the arrangement. Thank god.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean… I meant…” Her brows furrow as she picks at an imaginary scratch on the island. She makes this too easy.
“You meant, ‘Why Casey Barrett, I am simply tickled at the thought of seeing your sunshine-lemonade face every day!’” I tease in my best southern belle voice.
“Hey!” she counters in faux offense. “I do not talk like that! ”
“True. Except when we’re on our motorbikes.”
I’m rewarded with a light smack on the arm. She even had to reach hard for that.
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”
“And anyway, so what if every other thing out of my mouth isn’t about ‘effing the establishment,’” she quips.
I almost choke on another sip of coffee. “ Effing the establishment? Oh my god, you can’t even curse in your mock quotes!”
Her eyes narrow in the most adorable glare. “What? So that’s a thing? Making fun of someone for their lack of cursing?”
I can’t believe we’re even arguing about this. I haven’t had this much fun in forever. “Please, please do me one favor, though. Call it ‘foul language,’ not cursing. I just need to hear it once.”
She smacks me again, and I pretend cower while stifling another snort.
“And also,” she continues in a miffed voice that would make Ms. Pierson, my violin teacher, proud. “I like that you were more concerned that I didn’t use the word ‘fuck’ than the fact that I basically called you a stereotypical anarchist rocker.”
The snort escapes. “You just said it.”
“Said what?”
“Fuck.”
Her look of vexation is pure art. “Seriously? What are you, eight years old all of a sudden?”
If this is stressing her out, she would absolutely hate it on the road with us. “I’m just pointing out that the universe didn’t explode. I doubt any old ladies even died from it.” With the exception of Ms. Pierson, maybe.
I get another eye-roll and the cutest smug expression I’ve ever seen. “So that’s twice now,” she says, crossing her arms.
“Twice what?”
“Twice that you’ve skipped over the part about raging against ‘The Man.’ Is that your thing or what? ”
God, I love this girl—and hate how much I’m reading her to see if she wants that to be my thing. It’s hard to judge her thoughts when none of the rules I’m used to apply.
“I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe not.” Deflection always works. “How much will it bug you if I don’t respond?”
“Alright, that’s it,” she snaps, sliding off the chair.
Shit. Maybe I took this too far.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she reaches for her phone.
A cold sweat runs over me at the thought that my oasis is coming to an end. Is this the part where she wants a photo op to post on her socials? The inevitable point where I become a namedrop instead of a person?
“I want to hear your music,” she says.
My panic doesn’t know what to do with that one.
“What? Like, right now?” My voice sounds strained.
“Yes, right now.” She grabs her phone and starts typing. My heart is thumping, and I don’t even know why. “What should I start with?” she muses as she scrolls. “Oh wait, I know. I remember one of them from Luke.”
Why the hell am I so nervous? Well, besides the fact that it’s every musician’s worst nightmare for their art to be heard through a crappy cellphone speaker.
I make a living from sharing my music. I’ve played freaking sold-out stadiums, and I’m chewing the inside of my cheek like I’ve just submitted my first demo.
Who cares what she thinks?
I do.
A lot, apparently.
I lean across the bar to try to see her phone. “What are you looking for?”
She tilts the screen away, and her playful smile eases some of my tension.
Then she plays the song she was looking for .
All humor drains out of me when the violent intro to “Argyle” scratches through her phone.
How the hell is this the one song Luke mentioned? The panic returns full throttle. What did he tell her about me?
“ That’s the one song Luke talked about?” I ask, probing as casually as possible.
Please don’t know everything. Please.
Her nose scrunches as she studies me. She must be able to tell I’m rattled. “In passing. It wasn’t in reference to the song itself, but something about guitars and tuning? It just happened to be the only title I remembered.”
Oh thank god.
A huge weight lifts. “Yeah, the guys like to tune down half a step so they can play it open.”
Did I write the song in D-flat to be a dick? Absolutely. That was the whole point of the song.
“Who wrote this one?” she asks, triggering another spike of anxiety.
“All of us, like everything,” I answer, but I must look as shady as I sound.
She seems to have no intention of dropping the issue. “Okay, then who had the original idea for it?”
I wince, caught in an impossible trap. This is an easy question with an easy answer.
She’s the one who’s making it hard because she doesn’t ask questions the way most people do.
She looks for more. For the secrets behind the question, and that’s a place I’m not ready to take her.
I like her too much to lose her to my shadows.
“What do you think of it?” I ask instead.
She scans me for a second, like she knows I’m deflecting.
Please let this go.
“Honestly, it kind of sucks,” she says in a serious tone. “I’m more of a country girl. ”
My stomach sinks, but she can only hold the straight face for a split second.
I breathe a sigh of relief when she grins.
“Liar,” I say with a smirk.
Her chuckle removes the rest of the tension. “Yeah. I’m kidding. Actually, I like it a lot. Not what I was expecting.”
“Really? What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, the way you guys talk, I thought it would just be lots of incoherent screaming and banging.”
Screaming and banging? I shake my head with another laugh. “There’s some of that.”
“Yeah, but it’s beautiful too, in a way. I love the strings in the chorus. Right there! That part you can hear under Luke’s voice.”