Chapter 23
Easton
FUCK ABOUT IT—Waterparks, blackbear
I’m an asshole. That’s all there is to it. I screwed up so badly that I have no idea how to fix it. An apology would probably be a good start. An explanation too.
I just don’t know what to say to her. How do I explain my behavior?
Anyone else would have been thrilled. Thrilled that we wrote this song, and that she wants to record it with us and choreograph a dance to it.
All of that—going into a real studio and recording the song—would be a step in the right direction. Moving forward.
Still, it feels like a shortcut, like I’d be taking advantage of her. But that’s not the reason I’m acting this way. At least, not the only reason. If I’m honest, really honest, it’s something else.
In the last few weeks it’s been easy to forget who Rayne is and that we come from completely different worlds.
She was a dance student at the New England School of Ballet, just like everyone else.
She’d go to class, and when she wasn’t dancing or studying, we’d spend time together listening to music.
It was easy to forget she inherited millions from her parents.
Until today. Until she said she could pay for the studio time and I was immediately reminded of the differences in our financial status.
She probably wouldn’t even miss the money.
The band, on the other hand, would have to save for months to afford it.
It’s not fair to blame it on her, I know. It’s not her fault. She didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just my fucking pride getting in the way, and my frustration that I’m not able to write a good song on my own.
Like I said, I’m an asshole.
“What’s wrong?” I look up when I hear Beck’s voice.
“Huh?”
He points to the knife in my hand and the finely chopped vegetables on the wooden cutting board in front of me. “You’ve been done for five minutes and you’re still staring at the chopped peppers. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I put the knife aside and try to look like I don’t care.
“Shit, East, I’m not an idiot. I can see it.
” He comes over to me, takes the board, and scrapes the vegetables into a pan.
He’s the only one of us who can cook properly, since his mother’s a chef and he spent much of his childhood next to her at the stove.
When he wasn’t making music, that is. “What’s wrong, trouble in paradise? ”
I roll my eyes.
“Um, I guess that means yes. If you want to talk about it, I could try to help you,” he suggests.
I want to shake my head, but then I give in with a sigh. “I argued with Rayne.”
“That’s what it looks like.” He laughs dryly, and I give him a dirty look, which he answers with a cheeky shrug.
“It’s true. You were out yesterday for a long time.
I heard when you came home, East. I thought it was going well, but ever since you got back from the ballet school, you’ve been in a horrible mood. ”
“It’s possible there are other reasons,” I say, evading the subject. I don’t know why I do it, since talking to Beck usually helps me. But usually I also know what’s going on in my head. Today I don’t understand it.
“Sure, there could be. But there aren’t. Why did you argue?”
I slump into one of the chairs around the kitchen table and sigh, frustrated at myself. “It’s stupid.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all. Start talking already, East.”
“We wrote a song together.”
Beck stops in the middle of stirring and turns to me in surprise. “You wrote a song together?”
“An extremely good one, actually.”
“Then why are you arguing?”
“Because I’m an asshole.”
“Hmm. I don’t like to disagree with you, but no. You’re a lot of things, but not an asshole.”
“In this case I am.” I groan and then tell my best friend everything.
Well, almost everything. I keep the almost-kiss to myself.
Beck listens silently while he finishes frying the vegetables.
When I’m finally done with my story, he turns around and leans back against the kitchen cabinets with his arms crossed over his chest. He watches me without saying anything for so long and with such an intense stare that at some point I start sliding around on the chair uncomfortably.
“That was totally unnecessary,” he finally says.
“Oh, really? Tell me about it.” The irony in my voice is unmistakable.
“God, I hate your pride. We could have gone to the studio with Rayne!”
“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You would have reacted in exactly the same way,” I retort. Beck seems to be forgetting how much we have in common. Especially when it comes to our pride and our absolute inability to accept help.
“I know,” he says with a grin. “But I didn’t. That’s why I can give you wise advice that I wouldn’t follow myself.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”
“I always have the feeling I’m a failure.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “I was trying for months to write good songs again, and all that time I couldn’t do it. Why does it suddenly work now, with her?”
“I would say it’s because you have feelings for her, but I don’t think you want to hear that. So I’ll say something else. Maybe it’s because you two are so similar. Don’t argue with me, I know you. I don’t know Rayne very well, but I know which songs she likes enough to share with you.”
I’m about to ask how he knows that, but he beats me to it.
“Your Spotify account betrayed you. Dude, you made a playlist with all the songs she sent you.”
I blush furiously, and I can’t deny it because it’s the truth. I just didn’t think Beck had been aware of it. It’s not like I gave the playlist her name. It must be the song choices that gave it away.
“But that’s not what this is about,” he continues. “She’s doing something to you. It’s been happening ever since you started writing to each other. Are you really surprised that you could write a good song together?”
I want to say yes, just out of principle, but I would be lying. No, it doesn’t surprise me. Not a bit. That’s part of the problem.
“Have I ever told you that I hate you?”
“Yeah, just recently. Thanks for repeating it. You like her, don’t you?”
I look at him, taken aback. “What does that have to do with this?”
“I mean, you really like her,” he clarifies.
“That isn’t—”
“That means you do. Why is it so hard for you to accept her help?”
“Because . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to use her.”
“You aren’t. Not if she’s offering her help.”
“It’s her song.”
“You wrote it together. She said so herself. Your dumb excuses don’t work anymore, East. What’s your damn problem?”
If I only knew.
“Honestly, tell me. Because you must have a problem if you let your false pride get in the way of a chance that affects not only you but the rest of us. We’re all in this together, have you forgotten?
Sure, you write most of the songs, but we’re a band.
We’re brothers. If you wrote a song with Rayne and she wants us to record it, then it’s not only about you. ”
My guilty conscience hits me like a punch in the gut. “See? I really am an asshole. A totally selfish one, it turns out.”
“You’re not selfish. I think you’re scared. You just have to tell me what you’re scared of. Then I can—” Beck stops as the front door slams shut and we hear quiet voices from the hall.
“Easton, where are you? There’s someone here to see you,” Jax yells so loudly that our neighbors across the street can probably hear him. He must think I’m upstairs in my room.
“Kitchen!” Beck calls back. “And don’t yell like that. We can hear you loud and clear.”
“How should I know where you are?” Jax grumbles as he comes into the kitchen. I freeze when I spot Rayne behind him. I notice she’s wearing my hat again. She didn’t give it back to me last night after I drove her to school.
“Hey, Sunshine,” Beck says with a grin, then gives me a meaningful look. She gives him a half smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, then turns to me.
“We need to talk,” she says, way too seriously.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. My chest tightens and my palms get clammy. I nod. She’s right: We need to talk.