Chapter Eleven #2
“All that noise you’re always makin’, rollin’ up around town…”
Her lip curled.
“…tells me you’re compensatin’ for somethin’ small.”
“You say that like you ain’t curious,” Crusher blustered on.
“Curious? Not even on a dare.” She wrenched the mic free, flashing the crowd a grin. “Now who’s ready for some real tunes?”
Crusher stood there a moment, then threw his hands up and stalked off the stage.
“We’re gonna sing somethin’ for my girl Cassie over there,” Luanne continued, poking at the machine, the first few bars of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” spilling through the speakers.
“Who’s been gone a long damn time and deserves one hell of a welcome home!”
When Luanne started to sing, the noise in the bar began to shift—voices lowering, talk dying off.
By the time she climbed into the next line, half the place was already singing along.
By the time the chorus came, the whole place had joined in—some raising their drinks, others singing with their eyes closed.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Shawna had drifted back to the bar. She leaned into Nash’s side, singing along, her hand tracing the hem of his cut. He barely noticed; his eyes were on Cassie.
She’d risen from her seat, standing among Becca and a few others, eyes bright, singing along with everyone else. Only…as the last verse rolled in, she whispered something to Becca and started through the crowd. Head down, she cut past the bathroom and quickly shoved out the side door.
Nash watched it swing shut, telling himself to leave it.
She didn’t want him near her, didn’t want a damn thing from him.
But even as he thought it, he was already on his feet, setting Shawna aside.
The final chorus rose as he slipped through the door, the ballad of West Virginia chasing him out into the dark.
Cassie burst out the side door of Shooter’s and into the night, the music spilling out after her before cutting off with a slam. She staggered a few steps into the gravel lot, breath ragged, skin burning, before catching herself on the side of somebody’s pickup.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. Breathe. It’s just a stupid song. Just breathe.
But there wasn’t enough air.
And it wasn’t just a stupid song.
And over it all—Nash. At the bar. With that fucking blonde.
Her pulse kicking hard, she fumbled her phone from her bag, thumb shaking as she found Jordan’s name. One a.m. here—seven a.m. there. She hesitated only a second before hitting call. It rang once, then—
“Cassandra Berry—I was one missed call away from sending a fucking search party to West Virginia,” Jordan snapped, her voice sharp in that fast, flat New York way that made everything sound like a crisis—even when it wasn’t.
Her oldest friend from her new life; they’d met as interns at the Hudson Philharmonic and built the Gemini Ensemble from the ground up.
Still, Cassie didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know what to say—or if there were even words for any of it. Just feelings. Too many. Too goddamn much.
“Cassie?” Jordan said again. “Cas, you still there?”
Cassie’s jaw clenched, throat tight, her other hand gripping the truck bed like she might fall if she let go. “I’m here,” she finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.
Jordan paused. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Okay. Are you…safe?”
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”
When she didn’t say more, Jordan let out a breath. “Babydoll…talk to me. Tell me what’s going on—I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I don’t…” Cassie broke off and opened her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about any of it right now. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Well,” Jordan replied gently, “you could’ve answered any one of the twenty-five thousand texts I sent.”
“I know.”
“I called too. I was even considering messaging you on Boomer-book.”
Cassie huffed—barely a breath.
“I didn’t want to come,” she admitted hoarsely. “Isn’t that fucked? I didn’t want to come back…even for my own brother.”
She tipped her head back, blinking at the stars swimming overhead.
“And I know that probably makes me sound like a horrible person—and maybe I am. But…there’s just so much shit here. Stuff I haven’t even told you. And I don’t know how to do any of this. Funerals. Goodbyes. I’ve never known how…
“It doesn’t even feel like it’s really happening to me, you know?” The words were pouring out fast now—the tears too. “I don’t even feel like me; I feel like…fuck, I don’t even know who I am here,” she whispered. “Everything’s familiar but not, and…everything just…everything just…hurts.”
There was a pause. Then Jordan’s voice came through softer than Cassie had ever heard it.
“Cassie, there isn’t a chance in hell you’re ever going to be able to convince me that you’re a bad person.
And nobody knows how to say goodbye. Not one single soul.
Everything you just described—that’s grief, baby doll.
It busts in and turns everything upside down and inside out.
“And don’t give me that crap about not knowing who you are. It doesn’t matter where you are—you’re still you. You’re still the same intern who threw her bow at Maestro Delvecchio because he told you Mahler shouldn’t be played ‘so dramatically.’
“And you’re still the same lunatic who stopped an entire dress rehearsal to accuse the percussion section of espionage—and—”
“Okay, I get it!” Cassie cut her off, smiling through her tears. “I’m crazy. Thank you for the unnecessary reminder.”
“Yes, you’re crazy—and crazy talented, and crazy wonderful and crazy fun. That’s why we all love you.”
“Fuck,” Cassie whispered, her eyes burning. “I really miss you guys. I’d give anything to be…not here.”
“And we miss you.” Jordan paused, then added, “Oh, and Marta wants me to tell you she misses you more than me, but we all know she’s a liar.”
Marta Schvittinger was one of the Ensemble’s many international prodigies—a flutist from Leipzig, Germany, with perfect pitch and a perfectionist streak that drove everyone up the wall.
Marta’s voice rang out in the background, sharp and indignant in her thick German accent: “Ich bin keine Lügnerin, du dumme Kuh!”
There was a scuffle, followed by a string of loud curses, and then Marta’s voice exploded in Cassie’s ear. “Your sub is butchering your solo. Slap pizzicato. In Dvo?ák! He’s like an octopus!”
“And Cassie?” she continued, voice rising. “He wears fingerless gloves. Fingerless! If you don’t think I miss you now, then—du bist verrückt!”
“Just put her on speaker, Marta!” Jordan was shouting in the background. “Marta—give me back my phone, you absolutely unhinged—”
More rustling and unintelligible shouting. Then—
“Okay,” Jordan huffed. “You’re on speaker, Cas. Everyone’s yelling. Marta might be throwing things. Welcome back to the daily fucking chaos that is the Geminis.”
“Tell her I will kill this man with his own bow,” Marta declared. “Slowly.”
“She can hear you,” Jordan replied dryly.
“The whole arrondissement can hear you, dear Marta,” a crisp accent chimed in. “You’re lucky we French are used to such passionate repertoire, or someone might think you’re insane.”
Cassie blinked. “Oh my god—étienne? You little shit! I didn’t know you were in Paris!”
“As I’ve texted, I’m here for the Ravel series,” he replied, “and to supervise the musical crimes being committed in your absence. Will I see you in Prague, mon chérie?”
Cassie laughed through fresh tears. étienne wasn’t part of the Geminis; commitment wasn’t really his thing. He came and went as he pleased—most often as a guest soloist with the Orchestre de Paris, because apparently being brilliant meant you could make your own rules.
God. She really should’ve called someone days ago. At the very least, she could’ve answered one of their messages. Instead, she’d let them pile up until even the thought of replying felt impossible.
Jordan’s voice cut back in. “Cas, we’re about to walk into warm-ups—do you need me to skip?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “I’m good—I’ve got people waiting on me anyway. Go to rehearsal—I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I love you, bestie, but no offense if I don’t believe you. Your communication skills are even more dismal than usual at the moment.”
“I know—I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, just answer your phone—or at least text a bitch back so I know you’re alive.”
“I will,” Cassie promised, before adding. “Text a bitch, that is.”
“Asshole,” Jordan said with a small snort. “Whom I love.”
“Lieb dich!” Marta shouted. “More than Jo!”
“Je tolère ton existence,” étienne added breezily.
Cassie let out a breathy, half-laugh. “Love you all,” she murmured, ending the call.
The silence swelled—painfully so. Almost instantly she wished the chaos back—Marta’s shouting even—anything but this loud, aching stillness.
Straightening, she turned away from the truck—and went still.
Nash was leaning against the clapboard just outside the side exit door, arms crossed, watching her. She had no idea how long he’d been there, what he’d heard, or what the hell he could possibly want. As usual, his expression gave little away.
They stared at each other until, after several tense moments, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from inside his cut and lit one. The flare flickered over his face—a quick frame of sharp lines and edges—before swallowing him back into the shadows.
He drew on it once, exhaled, and then—without a word—held the pack out to her.
She stepped forward without thinking, plucked one from his pack, and let him light it. Their hands brushed, the contact blurring into the warm haze of booze already curling through her.
“Heard you on the phone,” he muttered around the filter, gaze fixed somewhere past her. “Sounds like you got yourself a hell of a life out there…no wonder you never came back.”
The cigarette stopped halfway to her mouth; she let out a soft, disbelieving snort.
“It is a good life,” she snapped. “But one thing has nothing to do with the other.”
His eyes cut to her, every line of him going taut; when she didn’t say anything else, he gave a short scoff. “You gonna fill in the blanks? Or do I gotta guess why you never came back?”
Cassie’s nostrils flared. “You really wanna have this conversation…right now?”
“Been waitin’ twelve years for it.”
“Eleven,” she shot back automatically.
His jaw flexed. “No. Twelve.” Something in his voice went hard. “I might be mountain, Cassie, but I can fuckin’ add.”
Cassie stared at him, unblinking.
Was he messing with her?
But no—he actually believed that.
“Forget it,” she muttered, flicking the cigarette into the dirt and turning toward the door. “You don’t even know what you don’t know.”
“What does that mean?” he called after her. “Cas—what the fuck does that mean?”
Her hand stilled on the door and for a breath, she thought about it—about turning around, about finally saying it out loud.
“Nothing,” she eventually muttered, pushing the door open. “It doesn’t matter.”
She was here for Connor—to bury her brother beside their parents…not to dig up the past.
The door shut behind her, cutting off the night…
and Nash.