Chapter 9
ETHAN
By Sunday morning my head feels like someone stuffed it with sand.
Too much sun.
Too much beer.
Too much Sage.
Everyone’s moving slow around the house—coffee, Advil, leftover burgers reheated like that’s a normal breakfast.
My BlackBerry buzzes on the counter.
Work.
Of course.
I stare at the blinking red light like it personally betrayed me.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
Slide deck for Monday. Jim wants revisions. Charts, projections, the whole corporate dog-and-pony show.
I rub my face and say it out loud before I can talk myself out of it.
“I gotta head back early. Prep for tomorrow.”
Tony groans. “It’s Sunday, man.”
“Yeah. And capitalism doesn’t sleep.”
Mark volunteers to drive. Sage doesn’t love it, but she nods like she’s trying to be cool about it.
She gets this little edge when work steals me away. Like she takes it personally.
Like anything that isn’t her is competition.
The drive back is quiet.
Hangover quiet.
Radio low.
Mark drops us at the marina and heads out with a salute.
I walk Sage to the brownstone, offer to carry her bags upstairs.
She kisses me quick instead—lip gloss, mint, sunshine.
“You go work on your slide deck, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sweet.
Too sweet.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like we didn’t almost rip each other’s throats out behind a bar.
I watch her disappear inside.
And for a split second—
I feel relieved.
Which makes me feel like a jerk.
Because I love her.
God help me, I love her.
But she’s exhausting.
And this weekend… it did something to me.
It showed me something I didn’t want to see.
The hold she has.
How easy it is for her to flip a switch and I’m not me anymore.
I don’t like that.
I don’t like that I can’t outplay her.
Because I’m not built like that.
I don’t flirt to make someone jealous.
I don’t bait.
I don’t manipulate.
I show up.
That’s it.
And somehow that makes me the one always chasing.
So yeah.
I don’t feel guilty when I lie.
Because I’m not going home to build a slide deck.
Not yet.
The marina bar opens at four.
Small stage in the corner. Two beat-up speakers. Smells like old beer and salt air.
Perfect.
My guitar case feels heavier and lighter at the same time.
Like I’m sneaking into church.
Mike nods when I walk in. “You’re late, rockstar.”
“Traffic,” I lie.
He hands me a water. “You’re up.”
The first chord rings out and everything else just… falls away.
The noise.
The pressure.
Sage.
Work.
All of it.
It’s just wood and strings and my voice.
And something in my chest finally loosens.
I don’t even pick a setlist.
Just whatever comes out.
Three Doors Down.
Some old Matchbox Twenty.
A stripped-down acoustic cover of something sad and stupid.
And I sing.
Not polite singing.
Not bar-band singing.
I sing like it hurts.
Like I’ve got something stuck behind my ribs and the only way out is through my throat.
Every song turns into her.
How she drives me crazy.
How I want her.
How she wrecks me.
How I’d still pick her anyway.
It’s ugly and honest and raw and I don’t even care who hears it.
And people feel it.
They always do.
Tips start stacking up in the jar.
Women smiling too long.
Guys nodding like I just told their life story.
Music does what nothing else does.
It drains me.
Cleans me out.
I don’t need a drink.
Don’t need a fight.
Don’t need the gym.
Just this.
Just the guitar.
Just the stage.
It’s the only place I’m not trying to be anything for anyone.
I’m just… me.
Between sets, I grab a water.
And there she is.
Emily.
From last time.
Trouble in lip gloss and denim shorts.
She grins when she sees me.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says. “Is this, like, your thing? You play here?”
I point at her. “Baby, you’re trouble. I already got one in my life.”
She laughs. “I have a friend who manages—”
“Stop,” I say, smiling. “This is just for fun.”
“Tomorrow too,” Mike calls from behind the bar.
I turn. “What?”
“Six to eight. Crowd liked you. You busy or something?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s two hours. You want the slot or not?”
“…You paying double?”
“We’ll talk. Just show up. Tell your girl you’re at the gym or something.”
I laugh. “Don’t say a word to Tony.”
“Your secret’s safe,” he says, then smirks. “But Tony already told me your broad’s got you on a leash.”
I glare. “Tony needs to shut his mouth.”
Mike shrugs. “His family owns half this waterfront. Guy finds out everything. Like the mob down here.”
“…Shit.”
I call Tony.
“You back yet?” I ask.
“Just got in. Why?”
“Come down to the marina bar.”
“…Why?”
“Just get down here.”
Second set starts.
I’m halfway through another song when I see him.
Back by the bar.
Clapping like an idiot.
Big grin.
Bastard.
After the set he walks up and punches my arm.
“You bastard,” he laughs. “Sage’s gonna kill you if she finds out.”
I wipe sweat off my neck. “This is mine, Tony. One thing she doesn’t get to touch. Not yet. Not until we’re… stable.”
He snorts. “Stable? With her?”
“Shut up.”
“You know she’d flip seeing all these girls staring at you.”
“Exactly why she can’t come.”
He grins. “Maybe you should invite her. Give her a taste of her own medicine.”
“No,” I say immediately. “No games. Not me.”
He studies me.
Then nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why you’re you.”
I sling the guitar back over my shoulder.
Stage lights warm my face again.
And for the first time all weekend—
I breathe easy.