Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Cole · Now
Hands Down – Dashboard Confessional
Hendrix hasn’t called.
The first couple days weren’t too bad. Fresh off our tour, the silence and solitude of my flat has been a haven. No press chasing a story. No fans chasing a night with a rock star. Nobody asking me what I’m doing next.
I’ve done nothing productive. Haven’t pulled my notebooks out, my guitar is still cased. Instead, I’ve watched TV, eaten all the junk food and slept—still to be written music soundtracking my dreams as I chased Hendrix through our memories.
Now though, the silence is suffocating.
I toss my phone on my bed and drag myself into the shower.
Steam ripples through the bathroom, hanging heavy in the air as the searing water batters my skin.
I consider calling our manager—and Carter’s dad—Tommy and asking him to see if his wife can ask around Chesterton and source Hendrix's number. But I know that’s not the right way to go.
I threw the ball into her court, and that’s where it has to stay until she’s ready to hand it back. If she ever does, that is. If there’s one thing I know about Hendrix, she’s not an easy nut to crack. The woman has steel walls built around her and they don’t drop for just anybody.
Hell, it took Saint almost two years to get her to admit they were best friends. He hated that it was six months after she finally admitted she was my girl. I felt rather smug about it myself. Still do, actually.
I snuck through her walls once. Pretty sure I can do it again. The only thing is, I don’t know how. I don’t want to push boundaries. If she hasn’t called, she has her reasons. And that’s something I have to respect.
I rinse off, shaking the dark damp strands of my hair, before wrapping a fluffy white towel around my waist. Swiping a hand over the mirror, I brush away the condensation and grab a comb, just as my phone pings.
I fly into the bedroom, only to be disappointed when it's Saint’s name on my screen.
SAINT
@Cole Yo, Anything yet?
I roll my eyes. Maybe the wait wouldn’t be so pissing bad if my best friend hadn’t taken to checking in every hour for updates. Especially now he’s thrown it into the group chat and Axel has also taken up the mantle.
Thankfully, Carter has his hands full with the girls—plus, he hates the whole group texting thing and only responds with a thumbs up or down when needed.
COLE
Nope. Quit asking.
AXEL
Hey! This is for all our livelihoods.
I still say you should have sent me to ask her, though. I always was her favourite.
SAINT
Fucking bullshit. I got the bestie bracelet.
He sends a picture. A pink and purple friendship bracelet sits on his photographed wrist, the letters B F F adorning three heart-shaped beads in the centre. I’m not sure he’s taken it off since the day she handed it to him at our leavers assembly.
COLE
Pretty sure neither of you were her favourite.
AXEL
Well it sure as fuck wasn’t you.
Shaking my head, I drop the towel and pull on a pair of black cotton shorts before grabbing an old Blink-182 T-shirt. I tug the shirt over my head as my phone buzzes again.
I sigh, shoving one arm into the sleeve while I peer over my phone to see what else they want to torment me with today. Fuck, if I don’t love them—but sometimes a guy just wants to wallow in the lack of communication from his ex-girlfriend without his friends rubbing it in.
I’m about to swipe Saint’s notification away when my thumb stops dead.
The speaker rattles as the shrill ringtone cuts through it, an unknown number flashing on the screen. There are less than ten people who have this number. I don't give it out to just anyone.
I drag my T-shirt on, clear my throat, and inhale a deep, steadying breath pushing the button. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
My pulse skitters at the sound of Hendrix’s voice.
A soft, supple melody plays in the background as her breath caresses the line. “Sorry it took a minute to call.”
I drop onto the mattress and press myself into the headboard. “No worries. Kinda figured you weren’t gonna bother.”
“Yeah, same. But turns out, curiosity does in fact kill the cat.” She laughs, a tinkling sweet sound and my heart clenches. “And you, Cole Hayes, have got me all curious by sweeping back into town and seeking me out. How did you find me, anyway?”
By begging my manager’s wife to ask around town…
I click my tongue. “Snitches get stitches. And I’m no snitch. Though I am intrigued.”
“About…”
“You.”
A crash sounds on her end, followed by a hissed curse.
“Opening a studio,” I rush out when I hear her fumble around. “Never knew you wanted to.”
She makes a noise in her throat, and coughs. “I didn’t know I did either. It just kind of happened. I started mixing a few years back, met Talia, and it all spiralled from there.”
I frown, my gut sinking. “You’re a mixing engineer?”
“Yep.”
“You still write, though? And produce?”
A beat of silence.
Then she answers, her voice almost a whisper, “No, I don’t. Haven’t for a while.”
“Why?” I curl tense fingers into the black bedsheet. “It’s all you ever dreamed of.”
I hear her slow intake of breath. “Dreams change.”
Those fucking words.
Heard them before.
“Right. Makes sense.”
Quiet stretches between us.
I bite my tongue as a barrage of questions rattle my brain.
She sighs, a thick, heavy sound.
“I’m not the same person I was back then,” she says. “Are you?”
I rake a hand through my hair. It’s a loaded question that I don’t really know how to answer. On one hand, yes, I’m the same. But on the other…
“Maybe not so much.” I drum my fingers on the bed. “Why’d you stop writing?”
“Would it sound really cliché if I say the music in my head just died one day?”
“Maybe a little,” I tease, though there's nothing amusing about her answer.
If I was good at writing music, Hendrix was exquisite. She was my superior, in every way. Where I created melodies, she crafted masterpieces.
Every note told a story. Her compositions lived and breathed inside you. She would tear you apart with a single stroke of her guitar, only to bring you back to life with the next.
If someone with her talent has nothing more to give, what hope do I have?
She chuckles. “What about you? Can we expect new things from Reckless Abandon soon? The world is waiting with bated breath to see where you go next.”
“Are you keeping track of us?”
“Hard not to. You’re everywhere.”
“Yeah, guess we are.”
“You don’t sound so happy about that.”
A heavy weight settles on my chest. “I think the music died for me too.”
“Oh.”
“Kinda why I came back, actually.” I snag my water bottle from the side and clear it in one, wishing I could see her.
It’s easier to talk on the phone. Easier to pretend there isn’t an ocean between who we were and who we are now. But not being able to read her expression and know what she’s thinking kills me.
“You were gonna ask me to write with you,” she says, soft and simple, as if she knows this is where we’d always end up.
“Figured it wouldn’t hurt.” I twist the duvet in my hand. “After all, you’re the reason I have two platinum records hanging above my bed.”
She snorts. “Half of the reason.”
“Three-quarters.”
“Two-thirds.”
I laugh. “You win. You, Rixie Moore, are two thirds of the reason I have two platinum records hanging above my bed.”
I slink down on the mattress and stare at the ceiling as the line falls quiet.
If not for the constant whisper of her breath in my ear, I’d wonder if she ended the call.
“Are they really above your bed?” she finally asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I trace the lines of the guitar inked into my wrist. There was a time this woman knew every detail of my life—walls and all—and now she has to ask.
“Sounds a bit egotistical, if you ask me.”
“You realise you’re talking to a rock star right? Ego is kind of our thing.”
“Okay, then, Rock Star.”
My breath catches at the old nickname, hers hisses.
The words are playful, but laden with history.
“It’s easy to forget, really,” she says. “I’ve never known you living in the spotlight.”
I hear the click of a door from her end, followed by a muffled voice before her voice comes back through. “Shit. Talia’s here. We have a meeting, so I’ve gotta go…”
She trails off, the lack of goodbye lingering in the air, like she doesn’t want to end this call either.
“Right. Things to do. Go be a super business lady or whatever.”
A tinkling laugh echoes through my speaker and I swallow hard.
Still, she doesn’t cut the line.
I won’t be the one to do it.
I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.
“You erm.” She clears her throat. “You have my number now. Don’t be a stranger. Or whatever.”
My chest tightens. “I won’t.”
“Okay. See you, Cole.”
“Bye, Rixie.”
The line clicks as she ends the call and exhaustion sweeps over me with the ache of everything unspoken. There’s so much history to clear through if we plan to not be strangers again, so many things that need to be said.
But some wounds run deep, and there are stitches I’m not ready to rip apart just yet.