“He came to Dad’s office,” I say, my voice rough.“I didn’t sign him.We talked.That’s it.”
She doesn’t move.She’s waiting for the whole story.
“I told him we might be able to help him—but only if he slows the fuck down.”
I continue telling her how we’ll be gradually rebuilding his love for music from the ground up.Find a way to channel his music into something that won’t destroy him.Of course, I don’t mention the part where he had a panic attack in my office, because how do you say, ‘Your brother was shaking, gasping, and so close to the edge that I was afraid he would pass out?
I don’t.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the way he looked at me when I helped him breathe—that wasn’t just desperation.It was need.
He needs something.Maybe it’s the music.Or maybe it’s a new way to fucking feel again without breaking apart.I can make him realize that it’s over, and he might be able to move on to something ...well, what do you do when you were born with music in your veins and suddenly can’t find it?
Something else I can’t tell her is the tension in the room, the attraction.The desire for him to kiss me, to make me forget all the years we were apart.That’s also on the list of things we’ll never discuss.I won’t even add the part where he said he still loves me and belongs to me.
Or that I told him never to come back, which means I won’t even see him succeed.Will my father ever sign him?I don’t even know if Dad will ever recover enough to go back to work.
“The point is, I know he’s not ready,” I continue, hoping this calms her down.I totally get it.She almost lost him.I was there when she got the call from his former manager telling her he was on his way to the hospital, that he had OD’ed—again.
“Cleo, Roderick flinches when he walks past the piano.He stares at instruments as if they’re loaded guns.”That’s good, Kit.It’s not exactly the truth, but probably a believable lie.“You think I would toss him back on stage like that?”
She doesn’t answer, but her silence says more than she probably wants to tell me.
I move around the counter, closer.My voice drops, not soft—just tighter, closer, like it’s meant only for her.
“The only reason I’m willing to help is because he’s your brother,” I remind her.
Cleo’s shoulders draw in, her arms crossed too tightly to seem casual.Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow back everything she’s feeling.
“And when—if—he figures out that creating, performing, and being back on stage is what he wants,” I add, quieter still, “then we’ll help him get there.All the way.But not until he’s fucking sure.”
When I finish, I expect relief after my performance, but all I get is Cleo exhaling like she’s trying to understand everything I just told her.
“Just ...”Her gaze trails just like her voice until she finds a distant point.“Don’t get his hopes up, okay?”
Her fingers press against her eyes, jaw clenched tight like she’s daring herself not to fall apart right in front of me.
She probably won’t.She’s a Wilder.That’s what they do—hold it in until it hurts more.I wish she wouldn’t.
She sighs again.Just when I’m about to say something, the bell above the door chimes.Cleo straightens.Smiles.She fucking smiles, like she’s untouched by all of this.
“Barret,” she says, light and lifted, as if nothing just cracked open in this room.“What a surprise.”
When I turn around, there he is.Barret Hetfield—leaning against the doorframe like he walked off the set of a cologne ad and into her life.Faded denim shirt hugging his shoulders, a smirk that probably ruins women on a daily basis.I wish I knew why he’s here.
He’s an unpredictable man.Some days he visits the store looking for a rare vinyl, others he’s just checking what new books we got on our bookshelves.Honestly, I think they’re an excuse to visit Cleo.Other times I feel like he’s just a little lost and in need of something, but he hasn’t found it yet.
Some days, he calls because he thinks he has a song and needs help with the lyrics.We’ve done a couple of collaborations, but nothing has come of them.He’s probably just as lost as Roderick, his former bandmate.That’s exactly why I told Roderick to reach out to Barret.Did he?I want to ask, but I’ll have to keep it to myself.
He nods at me.“Kit.”
Then his gaze snaps back to Cleo as if I never existed.“You never called back about those albums you were looking for.”His shrug is casual, but his eyes—his eyes are very interested in Cleo.“Thought I’d come visit you, Little C.Plus, you said you had a copy ofA Night at the Opera.I’minterested.”
“I ...mentioned we might.”She giggles.
She fucking giggles, which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that just five seconds ago she almost lost her shit.I'm sure she's happy to see Barret, but I wish she wouldn't put up a front like she isn't hurting when she is.She adds, “Most importantly, where’s my brother’s collection?I need those albums.”
“Where’s your brother?”he counters.
