48. ROXANNE
Chapter forty-eight
I pry my eyes open, mascara gunk caking my lashes as the heels of my palms rub at my eyelids until they make that squeaking sound. Blinking away the blur, my eyes fly up to the ceiling of the Bell’s living room, a headache still lingering in the back of my skull from hitting my head on my bed frame, and from crying all damn night.
It’s official.
The beans have been spilled. The cat has finally come out of the bag.
Stephanie knows the whole truth, and there’s no taking it back.
She dragged my ass onto that floral comforter of hers while she sat criss-crossed beside me, scarfing down Twizzlers as she dialed up Tyler too. To my surprise, she didn’t completely lose her shit over me sleeping with Noah Jackson. No, she saved her rage for his disappearing act.
When I first broke the news, there was a loud pause before they both chimed in, talking over each other like the guys from Yo! MTV Raps . Both were stating similar opinions in varying degrees of I knew it and damn, Roxanne, that’s heavy.
Tyler always has a way of cranking his voice to 11 whenever he gets worked up whether it’s positive or negative, even through the phone. But Stephanie, she took a more logical approach, listing her opinions one by one in order of importance.
“First of all,” she growled, holding up a Twizzler like a pointer, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner. I thought we were best friends. Second, Noah? How have you not been giving us those details? And third, where the hell is he now? I swear, if he’s ditching you after all this, I’m gonna track him down and shove these Twizzlers so far up his—”
Tyler’s crackly voice cut in, “Wow, that’s so messed up. That’s like, a violation of the bro code or something.”
I laughed a little at that, picturing Tyler’s scrunched up face as he defended my honor. It felt good to have them on my side, even if the situation was all kinds of fucked up.
“What do you think she’d do without us?” Tyler teased.
“Probably die of boredom,” Stephanie quipped, tossing a Twizzler at me. “Or, you know, make even worse decisions when it comes to boys.”
I flipped her off, sticking my tongue out like the mature adult I was.
All I kept thinking as they shouted at each other was how Noah knew how to work that pretty face to get all the girls to lose what little good sense they had left. And bam . I went and let myself fall victim because his attention made me feel so high.
Summoning Mrs. Taylor’s passionate lectures on the evils of ending sentences with prepositions, I clear my throat, trying to move everyone’s attention to something else.
All I got was a sassy uh-huh .
Everyone’s laughter eventually faded into yawns, and Stephanie almost fell off her bed twice. She insisted I sleep with her, but the thought of lying awake alone with my thoughts made me want to puke. Staring mindlessly at the TV sounded a lot more appealing than tossing and turning in a dark room while my best friend snores.
“Are you sure?” she asked me, her face tight with concern. “I don’t mind taking the couch if you want to be alone.”
I shook my head, already gathering up the blankets and pillows from her bed. “Nah, it’s cool. I’ll probably watch some MTV or something until I pass out. You know, let the voice of Kurt Loder lull me to sleep.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Fine, but if you change your mind, come wake me up, okay? I’m here for you, no matter what time it is.”
I smiled.
Then I made my way back down the hall, plopped down on the couch, and settled on a random episode of 120 Minutes while I spent the whole night wondering if Noah was thinking about me too instead of sleeping.
Now I’m paying for it. Everything hurts like I got run over, then backed up on.
Multiple times.
“Holy shit-nuggets,” I groan. Every muscle in my legs scream bloody murder, which is going to make drumming a real bitch today, and my head feels ready to explode like a balloon under pressure.
I have to be knocking on death’s door, and if the grim reaper came for me, I’d welcome the sweet, sweet bliss of release if it means this hell will end and I can avoid going to practice.
My skin crawls thinking about stepping one foot in that garage.
Reliving yesterday’s clusterfuck has drained my last drop of energy, and rotting on this couch sounds a lot more appealing than facing the world.
Unfortunately, I also really want to win the Battle of the Bands. More so than I want to melt on this couch. And now that I have no fucking money except whatever Brandon pays me next week, this is officially my only option that has to work. Which means I can’t stay away from Noah forever, and that is a person I don’t know what to do with right now.
I’m scared of what Noah might have to say to me, even if he does politely call off what we have going on. I can’t be mad at that, but I can’t trust myself to not cry in front of him about it.
It’s screwing with my head. Yesterday I was ready to go full Lloyd Dobler and confess my love to him, boombox to the window and all. Now I want to stay as far away from him as possible until I need a telescope to see his face.
Ugh. I can’t because... band. Fuck my life.
It’s time to get my four-step plan back in action again—even if I’m still hating the fact that I know exactly where Noah was last night.
When I’d come to the couch, I’d half-expected to see his dirtbike pull up to Stephanie’s house to find me, but when I looked through the blinds and saw nothing, I pinched myself for inventing high expectations in my head.
The bike continued to not be there as I had breakfast with Stephanie and her mom, and when I finally washed my face. I sat on the living room floor in yesterday’s clothes, my leg bouncing out my restless energy while I watched the clock tick down to 5 PM.
When the time came, and I snatched that brown paper bag from Henry at the donut shop, I stuffed my face in sprinkles before I threw the trash into the back of the car and hit the gas pedal to the storage garage.
That non-grudge-holding part of me is still leaving a little wiggle room for Noah to explain himself. God, I hope that his mom was lying, but I doubt it. Why would she know about the mayor’s daughter at all and accuse him of being with her?
I left early on purpose to make sure he wasn’t here once I park and pull up the garage door. My shyness is a parasite that’s eaten my spine so I will not be the one making an entrance.
At least I’m here.
I’m sitting behind my drums, trying not to fidget, when Daniel’s shadow rounds the corner. My heart hits my feet, but it’s not him. Daniel gives me this little up-nod, eyebrows doing that crinkly thing, and I know it has to be because I’m wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
“How was your date with Stephanie last night?” I ask quickly, grasping for anything to fill the silence.
“It was terrible. We fought the entire time, she thinks men should open doors for women, and I can’t believe I paid for our tickets.”
A weird wheezing laugh escapes me. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. His sarcasm caught me off guard, especially so early into practice.
“And did you open the door for her?”
“I didn’t get to. She opened it herself and told me how chivalry was dead.” Daniel laughs as he slings his bass over his chest. “It was interesting. We went to see that new movie, Edward Scissorhands.”
I gasp. “Ooh, the one with her favorite, the infamous Mr. Depp? How did she like it?”
Daniel rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say I barely got to watch the movie because she kept sighing dreamily. And then gushing about his scissorhands the whole car ride home.”
“You must have a lot of patience.” I snort, picturing Stephanie chopping things in the air with her fingers. “At least the movie choice was a success, even if she ignored you the whole time.”
He grins, pulling off his orange beanie and shaking out his hair before sliding it back on. “Hey, making her happy made me happy. Even if it meant hearing nonstop facts about Johnny’s life story that I never needed to know.”
“At least if you ever get in a fight, you can get her an ‘I’m Sorry’ bouquet of scissors.”
We exchange an amused look, both thankful that we’re not that level of celebrity-obsessed, even if I do have a John Taylor photo taped inside my locker and a Swayze poster. That’s different. Then Daniel’s face turns serious, and my insides cramp up.
“Any word from Noah yet about yesterday?”
He still doesn’t know anything either? Shit.
“No,” I mumble, shoving the memories of yesterday back down. “Nothing.”
“Okay. Well this is weird—”
That familiar engine roar approaching cuts Daniel off, and both of our heads turn to the open garage.
And when I finally see Noah glide in, looking stupidly gorgeous in these tight dark pants, a red sweatshirt, and his hair all messy and bouncy, my skin burns. I want to hug him and slap him.
“Nojo!” Daniel whoops, holding his fist out.
I can barely look at him without feeling torn, my body being pulled in two different directions while the donut I ate rises back up my throat. I keep my eyes down as he reaches Daniel, listening to their quick handshake that ends in finger guns.
Without saying anything, I pick up my sticks from inside my boots and start doing a quick drum fill, something that I’ve always done whenever we’re about to start practice.
After a few moments of hitting the floor tom, I hear his voice, deep and soft, cautious and hesitant. “Roxy?”
Don’t fucking cry.
The sound of my name rumbling up his throat and floating in the air makes my fingers grip tighter around the sticks.
“Noah.” My voice comes flat even though my insides are screaming for him to hug me.
He sighs heavily, his weight in the air stepping closer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here—”
I interrupt him, pushing out the words quickly. “Can we practice for now? We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to win this thing.”
Immediately, Noah falls silent, and I lift my eyes to get a quick glance at him from over my cymbals, meeting those ocean-blue eyes that haunted me all night. I don’t look at anything else about him because that alone makes my belly swoop so fast, and I can’t help but be a little bit petty, taunting him with the same words he did me at our first practice.
“What? Are you afraid to wing it?” I watch my drums, watch my fingers go whiter as my thumb rubs up the wood, my ears starting to ring at the extended silence as Daniel stares at us.
I don’t want to hear his words right now. Not when I’m barely holding it together. Not with Daniel in the same room as us.
“Fine,” he says, tone weary.
I feel anything but ready to practice. I dart another quick look at Noah as he hesitates to walk to his mic stand, and when we make eye contact, the troubled look on his face makes me want to scream.
I look away quickly. With a sigh, he finally moves to his spot, guitar feedback screaming as loud as I want to. He slings his guitar over him and I can feel Daniel’s large and confused eyes trying to make sense of what’s going on. I feel bad he’s caught in the middle of this, but I avoid both of their looks, my skin overheating as we take our positions.
Battle of the Bands is everything right now. It has to be.
Daniel counts us in with his bass line. As the opening chords of Best I Can fill up the garage, my body remembers what my brain always thinks it forgets. The adrenaline I love so much swims through me, up me, and all around me.
Sixty beats per minute. That’s all it takes for my brain to sync up, where the beautiful sounds I create overpower the static in my skull. It shouldn’t have this much power, but god, it does. Each note is a key that takes me away from this awkwardness with Noah. Away from my mom’s betrayal. Away from everything that’s looming after graduation.
Drenched in sweat, I carve order from noise.
I punish the drums with aggression. Noah keeps glancing back at me, concerned, as he kills the guitar solo per usual. I’m too on fire to care, immersed in the catharsis of percussion. Nothing else exists except skin on skin, stick on drum. All my anger and confusion combine over into the music.
The final cymbal crash sparkles through the garage. Chest heaving, I meet Noah’s eyes, but before either of us can speak, Daniel claps loudly.
“Holy shit, that was awesome! We’re totally gonna crush the Battle!” Oblivious to the tension still in the room, he keeps laughing about our sound while my heart burns.
Playing is the escape I need, but reality always comes right back to bite me in the ass.
“Again,” I snap, twirling my drumstick around my index.
Noah and Daniel exchange a look, but they launch back into the song anyways. My arms fly on the drums, sweat building up underneath my long sleeves.
Right now, with the weight of yesterday’s revelations still heavy on my heart, the music is the only thing that makes sense.
The only thing that doesn’t hurt.
In the skin of my drum heads, I see my good-for-nothing mother’s face every time the stick hits. I imagine the drum sticks as my voice everytime I bring it down on her, venting my years of fucking resentment and fury as pain shoots through the muscle in my arm.
The fantasy fuels my playing to high speeds, sticks nearly splintering from the impact.
The final cymbal fades in the garage again, and I blink up to see Noah staring warily at me. I shake the violent images of my mom from my mind, avoiding his eyes.
“Roxanne,” he starts, his voice like honey and sandpaper all at once.
“Again!” I growl through gritted teeth. I can’t handle talking right now. My blood still feels like lava, headspace too unstable.
If we talk with me like this, it won’t be good for anybody. I need to lose myself in the music first and let the drums absorb my rage and pain until I’m empty, until I can think straight again. Until I can look at Noah without wanting to scream and cry and kiss him all at the same time.
He hesitates, squinting at me like he might rip the sticks out of my hand, but my foot taps at the kick drum pedal over and over until he sighs, then counts us back in.
I play harder and faster and louder, proceeding to demolish the drum kit, bruising my hands with the force of my blows.
By the fifth non-stop run through, I can sense Daniel and Noah staring at each other, mouthing things while they think I’m too busy on the drums to notice. I don’t care if they’re talking shit. I’m on a mission, my arms are on fire, my muscles are screaming as I push them to their limits, long past the point of my hands raw and opening up that same blister scar from when I last did this. I barely feel it over my right calf aching from the constant pressure on the kick drum.
Until Noah throws his guitar pick down.
“That’s enough!” He tosses his guitar over his back and storms over to me, prying the sticks from my fists.
When his fingers touch mine, I flinch, the smell of him making my heart pound like a drum for non-angry reasons. He isn’t backing away though, he’s drifting closer to where I sit, eyes searching my face as he waits to see what gives with me.
“Roxanne. Please, talk to me,” he whispers, starting to sound anxious.
My lip shakes and I see Daniel’s eyes watch it happen, but he turns a blind eye and starts messing with the tuning pegs of his bass. I stare down at the concrete next to Noah’s shoes, vision blurring, on the brink of combusting or collapsing. Which would come first remains unknown.
I reach for my necklace, twisting around the initial, and I know Noah knows I’m about to put it in my mouth, so I stop.
“Again,” I croak, snatching the drumsticks back instead.
Noah’s eyes flash as he scoffs. I don’t know why he does it, but he turns back to the mic, picks up his guitar, and nods at Daniel.
They both start playing half-heartedly once more, and I keep my ears clear and open to hear both of their fingerings. The $1,000 cash prize for the Battle is the only thing I have left unless I want to spend all of my time inside Primal Vinyl for the next two years. We need flawless perfection.
When Noah fumbles a chord change, I shoot him a glare. He frowns back at me in surprise before quickly recovering. My nitpicking continues, critiquing Daniel’s timing, Noah’s vocals, tiny imperfections I would’ve ignored any other day. I’m being a fucking asshole. I don’t know why I can’t stop.
What’s wrong with me?
Their playing gets more exhausted and sloppy as I drive them into the ground. But my head keeps telling me: you have to be the best, there is no other option!
Half way through the song, even Daniel throws his bass down. “Dude, enough!” He rubs his bloodshot eyes. “We’ve been at this a dozen times. I need a break.”
I open my mouth to argue for one more run-through with zero mess ups, but my lips part to say nothing as I look at Noah’s red fingertips, Daniel’s hand rubbing at his tight shoulder. I'm hurting them because I can’t deal with my own shit.
Noah sets his guitar down on the couch, flexing his hands. “Roxanne, talk to us,” he implores, forcing me to look up at the curl in front of his eye. “This isn’t like you at all.”
I swallow hard, the drumsticks as heavy as the weight of everything in my hands. “I... I want to win really badly.”
I want to stop feeling this way .
That chin of his dips in a nod, blue eyes sad but understanding like he’s happy to have finally heard my voice. He crosses over to me, tilting my chin up gently, and I fucking crack .
I’m such a mess, whimpering like that only from his touch.
Damn Mrs. B’s hug for softening me up too much.
“Talk to me.” Noah brushes his thumb across my cheek, and I crumble again at the tenderness there. “We need to talk. This isn’t healthy, destroying yourself and your talent like this.”
His face drops, lips thinning into a line so familiar it haunts me. I know that look. It's there in my nightmares, burned into my retinas from a thousand repetitions. His eyes, usually sparkling with trouble or dark with desire, now swim with an emotion that makes my insides curl with revulsion.
Pity.
It's there in the slight downturn of his lips, the softening of his gaze, the gentle tilt of his head. Each facet of his expression screams that he sees me as something broken, something to be fixed. And he knows— he fucking knows —how much I despise it.
I bristle, spinning out of his hand. “I don’t want to talk,” I mutter, crossing my arms. I’d rather he be mad at me than sorry for me.
“Well tough shit, because we’re going to anyway.”
We stare each other down as he comes to stand where I moved, the atmosphere getting tense. Every muscle in my body feels coated in sweat, and the points of my nails dig deeper into my biceps.
“Whoa guys, let’s all take a chill pill—”
“Butt out!” Noah and I shout in unison, not breaking our glare. Daniel throws his hands up, muttering “yikes” under his breath and is already turning around, his back now facing us as he pulls his beanie over his eyes and tilts his head up.
Noah takes one long step forward, pinning me with That Look that always turns my knees into liquid fire. I rise onto the toes of my boots and narrow my eyes back.
Then I whirl around my kit, stomping outside to go anywhere he’s not without a single glance back over my shoulder. If he wants to talk, then he can come out here and we’ll talk .
The pounding in my chest matches his footsteps as he walks right behind me, and I pace the empty walkway between units, adrenaline and anger still beating in my throat. Noah leans one shoulder against a closed garage, arms folded across his chest as he watches me.
“Okay, talk,” I bite out, avoiding his eyes.
His mouth parts, then clicks shuts. I shift from foot to foot, my I’m so brave and have nothing to say to you fa?ade faltering at those blue flames licking at my skin. We stare at each other in silence, him tilting his head one way and me tilting mine the opposite, the tension thickening with every ragged breath I draw.
He tongues the inside of his cheek, and I lick my lips.
Finally, Noah pushes off the wall and rushes on a straight path for me.