“Too soon,” I said, holding my hands to my gut like I was wounded, and the joke did the job of turning us back toward light.
“I’m sorry,” I said, because the quiet had settled into a shape that could hold it.
“For what?” she asked, meeting my eyes, her chin lifted.
“For making the past a song and leaving you to live in the echo.”
Skye sucked in her breath and stilled.
“Thank you,” Skye finally said, and a weight I’d carried for years lessened slightly. “I needed to hear that. You hurt me, Noah. It was my choice to leave, and I take responsibilityfor that, but the song … och. That was tough to stomach.”
“I’m sorry for it,” I said, meaning it.
“You shouldn’t be.” Skye surprised me with her words, and from the look on her face, had surprised herself as well. “It’s a damn good song. Music should be honest. Yours was. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, but it was still a great song.”
“I hate that I hurt you,” I whispered.
Skye swallowed and looked away. “Cocoa?” she asked, surprising me. “Rosie sent me home with extra cinnamon sticks.”
“I have never said no to cocoa,” I said, taking the olive branch.
Without thinking about it, I followed her to the kitchen. We moved around each other like muscle memory—she rummaged for mugs, I found the good cocoa tin behind the box of tea. While the milk warmed, she hummed again, and I crept into the harmony like a thief who only steals back what he gave away.
Skye caught herself, and stopped, glancing shyly at me.
“You should sing more,” I encouraged, not wanting to break the mood that strung between us.
“I do,” she said, defensive. “In my kitchen. To my kettle.”
“Your kettle is very lucky.”
When I handed her the mug, our fingers touched, and I jolted, her nearness having me on edge.
“Careful,” she said softly. “It’s hot.”
“It always has been,” I said and Skye slanted me a look.
We took our drinks back to the lounge, sat on the rug with our backs against the sofa so we could admire the tree.Silence stretched out between us, but it wasn’t uncompanionable.
It was nice, in fact. To just sit together.
My phone buzzed.
Just once. Just a small, mosquito hum against my thigh.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again, insistent, then again, and then it started the full-on vibration that saysyou’ll want to pretend you didn’t see this, but you will, and it will make everything harder.
Skye didn’t look at me, but the line of her spine changed. I pulled the phone out.
The screen was a wall of messages.
Texts from bandmates—two words, my name, a curse.
Mate, turn on the news.
They raided his office.
