The accusation hangs between us. I want to argue, but she’s right. I am scared. Scared of wanting something I might not be able to keep. Scared of letting someone get close enough to hurt me the way Van did. Scared of fucking up something that matters.
“Maybe I have good reason to be scared.”
“Maybe you do. But hiding isn’t going to fix whatever you’re afraid of.” Zara shifts to face me fully. “What happened earlier?”
The question cuts close. “What makes you think something happened?”
“Because you look like someone who got exactly what he wanted and immediately started planning his escape route.”
Christ. She really does see everything.
I groan and run my hand through my hair. “I did something she didn’t like. We argued. I made a move, and she reciprocated. We slept together.” The admission comes easier than expected. “She made it clear afterward that it was just physical. I got up to use the bathroom, mostly to hide my disappointment, and she left.”
“What did you do that she didn’t like?”
I stare at my sister for a minute and then shake my head. “Long story short, I took some of her lyrics and a melody I heard her play, added to it. If I hadn’t left my notebook at The Songbird the night before, she wouldn’t have known.”
“But she found it?”
I nod, feeling a tad uncomfortable talking about all of this.
“And then?”
I glare at my sister. “And then she confronted me. Rewind to what I already said, and here I am.”
“She sounds like a smart woman.”
“Yeah. Smart.” I stare out at the pasture where horses graze in moonlight. “And exactly what I expected. One-night stands aren’t exactly foreign territory.”
“But this one bothers you.”
“This one was different.” The words come out before I can stop them. “She’s different.” I shake my head and sigh. “I don’t even know her, Z. We’ve had maybe three real conversations.”
“Sometimes three conversations are enough.” She reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. “What’s she like?”
The question opens something in my chest I didn’t realize was locked tight. “She’s . . . careful. Protective. She manages this venue like it’s sacred space, making sure every musician who plays there feels heard. And she used to write songs, but something happened that made her stop.”
“Something or someone?”
“Someone, I think.” I shrug. “She won’t talk about it, but there’s this wariness when she mentions other musicians. Like she’s expecting to be disappointed.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I’m not like Van,” I mutter. “Levi isn’t either.”
“No, he’s not,” she says with a long sigh. “But many of our friends are exactly like Van. People like him make it hard for others to trust. You and I both learned the same lesson about trusting the wrong people. The difference is she’s protecting herself by staying put and creating something meaningful. You’re protecting yourself by running every time things get real.”
The observation lands like a physical blow. “I don’t run.”
“You don’t?” Zara’s voice carries a gentle challenge. “What do you call leaving LA without telling anyone where you were going? What do you call avoiding family dinners for three weeks? What do you call sleeping with someone and then immediately looking for reasons why it won’t work?”
“I call it learning from experience.”
“I call it hiding.”
We sit in silence while her words settle. In the distance, a horse whickers softly, and crickets chirp in the evening quiet. This place feels peaceful in a way LA never did.
“Maybe I am hiding,” I admit.
