Johanna
CHAPTER SEVEN
“GIRL, SO CONFUSING” — CHARLI XCX, LORDE
Present Day
Fucking. Shit. Fuck.
This is exactly why I didn’t want to come tonight.
People always tell you that things are never nearly as bad as you make them out to be in your head. Well, all I have to say is—fuck that.
Because this is definitely worse.
I’m standing at the bar in the back of the restaurant, minding my own business, when suddenly—I can feel it.
That familiar pull. The way the air around me shifts when he’s nearby.
I’ve never had to look to know when he’s arrived somewhere.
I can feel it in my core as a fire ignites under my skin, like a memory that keeps insisting I pay attention.
I’m supposed to be holding it together tonight.
Supposed to be smiling for Mia and my brother, keeping my mouth shut and drinking just enough wine to get through the night without picking a fight or spending it crying in a bathroom stall.
Unfortunately, all my resolve shatters the second I catch the slightest glimpse of him.
Brandon fucking Jackson.
Even out of the corner of my eye, I notice his dark suit that fits him too well.
His face has his signature quiet intensity written all over it, and his curly, blond hair is messy in a way that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
I swear, even his stupid tie matches the deep plum color of my dress—like the universe is mocking me.
I still haven’t fully turned to face him, but I know he looks good.
More than good, honestly—and of course he does.
He always looks like he’s stepping out of a Calvin Klein ad, and most of the time it’s without even trying.
It doesn’t take long for my skin to sizzle, knowing that he’s found me in the room and his eyes are baring into my soul. It takes everything I have not to acknowledge it as my heart lurches and I feel my walls scrambling to rebuild themselves.
Just act natural, Johanna, I tell myself. Like it doesn’t even faze you—because it doesn’t.
I do the only thing I can—turn myself back towards the bar, laugh at something Rylee says and hope the timing’s right, and pretend like this is any other night.
I take a long sip of my Bordeaux blend and let the burn of the alcohol coat my throat as the tannins settle into my tongue.
It almost feels like the courage I know I don’t have.
Rylee gives a side hug to the other person who’s been standing at the bar with us—a former co-worker, I think—before she whips around to face me again.
“You look like you’re about to kill someone or cry,” she says, arching her perfectly shaped brow. “Maybe both. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, just a little too fast. “Just thinking about… my speech. You know how much I hate public speaking.”
Rylee narrows her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. By speech, you mean my brother, right?”
I almost choke.
Rylee and I may have sorted most of our business, but do I consider us to be close? No.
You don’t just walk in on someone drunkenly having sex with your boyfriend and forget about it.
I don’t even want her to forget. We’d agreed to pretend it never happened—because we all liked being able to stay on a tour bus together without punching each other—but that doesn’t mean ghosts don’t show up uninvited.
The night between Eric and I was something that never should have happened.
We’d both had way too much to drink. The guys had a random show in New York and I met up with them.
Little did anyone know, I was crashing out because my mom had just been handed her death sentence.
I had no idea how to tell Grayson—I didn’t even manage to tell him until much later.
I was too damn tired to care who I was hurting.
Eric had been there, showed up at my hotel room, and offered a shoulder to cry on—and I… took his generosity too far.
I’d needed pain relief, and I didn’t care who I was getting it from.
I could never keep up with the status of Rylee’s on-again-off-again relationship with Eric.
After the last major fight I’d witnessed, I thought surely they were done after that.
I would’ve never gone there with Eric—drunk or not—if I’d known there was even the slightest chance of reconciliation between them.
Even though Rylee and I weren’t best friends or even that close, I still believe in girl code.
Rylee continues to study me, looking for any indication that I’m going to let her in as her caramel eyes sparkle with what I’m sure is innocent curiosity. Cue my internal eye roll.
“It’s not about him, okay?” I snap. “Just drop it.”
“You can’t even say his name,” she smirks. “I saw the way you basically just stopped breathing when he walked in. I thought you were gonna pass out, and honestly—I might’ve let you.”
“So dramatic,” I say with an actual roll of my eyes, even though the burning in my core knows she’s right.
“Tell me what it is then,” she presses. “Tell me you’re not going to lose your mind if Brandon tries to talk to you tonight.”
“I’m fine,” I lie through gritted teeth.
“Right—and I’m a fairy princess.”
“Rylee,” I warn.
Her smile somehow gets bigger, and I know she’s taking at least a little joy in my discomfort. “Say whatever you want, Johanna Harris, but I know that look. You might claim to hate his guts, but when he walks into the room your entire world shifts. It’s all over your face.”
I want to walk away. Or slap her. Or both. “You’re insufferable.”
“Denial’s a bitch, isn’t it?” she says.
That’s the last straw. I set my glass down and the sound is sharp in my ears as it hits the granite countertop of the bar.
“I need some air,” I say shortly. I’m on my way to the door before she has a chance to say anything else that might cause me to lose it on her.
The cool, night air hits me as soon as I make it outside. My heels click against the stonework of the patio as I head straight for the railing. I cling to it as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and for a few blessed seconds, it’s quiet.
It doesn’t take long for the door to open behind me. Once again, I know who it is before I even turn around, because my skin prickles and it feels like all the air around me has ceased to exist.
Then, for the first time in weeks, he speaks.
“Thought you might try to bolt.”