She stares me down.I sigh, cracking under her stare in less than a heartbeat.“Fine.If you must know, I’m checking my messages.”
She doesn’t say anything at first.Just tilts her head, arms folding across her chest like she’s storing disappointment there for safekeeping.
“You sure you’re, okay?”Her voice is soft, but the edge behind it is all too familiar.Like she already knows I’m not.
“I’m totally fine,” I lie because if I’m honest with myself, I’m bored to tears.
This trip was ...I’m still not sure how to catalog it.Before I can think or tell her that we should head back home, she speaks.
“Then why are you lying about checking your messages?”
I scoff, letting out a laugh that’s way too forced.“You think I’m lying?”
“Yeah,” she says without hesitation.“You didn’t even pretend to look excited when I gave you the laptop after you came out of rehab.”
“There’s a difference between not being excited and being confused,” I reply, dragging a hand through my hair.“I didn’t know how to use it.I had to figure out what all the buttons did.And the mouse—who the fuck thought putting it on a little red dot was a good idea?”
She doesn’t laugh.Doesn’t even crack a smile.Her arms tighten across her chest.Okay, so we’re not even entertaining my nonsense.
“The point is that once I figured it out,” I add, quieter now, “I began to like it—even enjoy it.”
She uncrosses her arms, which I assume is her way of saying, “I believe you,” and then moves on to the next thing.“Did you even try to look for any clues?”she asks, her eyes flicking toward the clean, almost sterile desk.
I glance around the room.Nothing’s out of place.Everything in Julian’s office feels curated.Sterile.Empty in a way that feels ...wrong.Unless my brother became a relentless anal person who has to have his office white-glove clean.
“I’m sure he’s fine.”I wave a hand.“We could track his credit cards, like Eddie suggested.”
“So we’re not even going to try?”she snaps.
“Why are we panicking again?”I counter, leaning back in the chair, feigning calm I absolutely do not feel.“So, Julian hasn’t called in a week.That’s not exactly shocking.We all have done this once.You heard his housekeeper.He disappears into creative wormholes all the time.He’s not exactly a daily check-in kind of person.”
“Rhodes says he met some girl,” she says, her voice dropping, like even the idea feels loaded.“And he’s been acting weird ever since.”
“Oh, no,” I deadpan.“He met someone.Stop the presses.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“This isn’t funny,” she says.Her tone slices through the bullshit I’m trying to keep between us.She’s unraveling—has been for hours—but she’s holding it together just enough to make me feel like shit for pretending I’m not worried too.
“He’s fine,” I tell her, but even I don’t believe it now.
Her eyes narrow.“How do you know?”
“No news is good news,” I say, but it comes out brittle and flat.It’s the kind of thing you say when trying to soothe someone with the same lie you’ve been whispering to yourself.I just want her to buy it.I want me to buy it.
She just watches me.
Julian hasn’t answered his phone.He hasn’t called.There are no letters.No weird cassette tapes were dropped off at the studio.Nothing.
And Cleo?She’s spiraling.She’s holding on by the skin of her teeth and pretending not to be.
I didn’t realize how anxious she’s been until Eddie said it during the drive over.“You ever notice how your sister doesn’t breathe when she’s stressed?”he muttered.“It’s like she forgets how.”
Seattle to San Francisco was a very long drive.Mostly because the silence was as awkward as the brief conversations we tried to have.
Barret was silent the entire way.
Eddie cracked a couple of jokes—some dumb comment about radio static being Julian’s preferred method of communication—but I caught the way his gaze kept drifting.Always back to Cleo.Studying her like she was a page of lyrics he couldn’t quite get right.
