“You—” She huffs in frustration. “You do not get to be funny right now. I’m mad at you. Really mad, Hollis.”
“I know, Pres.” I swallow, instantly sobering. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve seriously had my number this whole time?”
I don’t bother lying. “Yes.”
“And you never thought to contact me until now?”
Fuck. The hurt in her voice is so palpable, it makes my chest ache. Sabine said to be prepared for anything, but I hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to hear the pain I’d caused by walking away. I’d been solely focused on myself and couldn’t see past my own bleeding heart.
“Look,” I run a hand through my hair as I pace in my living room. “I was a fucked-up kid back then. I pushed everyone away, and it’s taken me years to get to the point where I can admit that. I’m sorry I hurt you, Pres, and if you don’t want to ever talk to me, I’ll understand.”
“Why now?”
“What?”
“Why did you decide to text me now?”
“Oh, um—I’m not sure,” I lie. “Guess I was just thinking of you.”
“You were just thinking of me…” She says it slowly, like she’s testing out each word herself to check for authenticity. “So after all this time, you happen to think of me on a random Thursday,and what? Decided to pull up my contact info that you’ve been ignoring for over a decade and say hi?”
“I—”
“Come on, Hollis,” she says, her voice laced with annoyance. “I have four siblings. You know I’m trained in sussing out bullshit. Tell me the truth. Why did you text me this morning?”
“I saw Hendrix last night,” I finally confess.
“You…what?” I can get the genuine confusion in her voice as she tries to make sense of what I just said.
“I run a club in Nashville, and he and the band stopped by,” I explain.
“You manage a nightclub?”
I don’t know why I don’t bother correcting her about the fact that I own the nightclub. Maybe it feels like I’m bragging. Maybe I’m not ready to share that part of my life. Either way, I answer, “I’ve always been a good multitasker.”
“I just can’t imagine you choosing a profession where you willingly spend all your time with a bunch of spoiled rich people.”
“It pays the bills,” I reply. But in all honesty, it more than pays the bills. Velvet is the hottest club in Nashville. It’s doing so well, we’re considering opening clubs in other cities.
“So did Hendrix tell you to call to give me business advice or because he thinks I need an intervention?”
“What?” My brow furrows as I take a seat on the sofa and stretch out my long legs. “What kind of intervention? And I never actually talked to Hendrix. I thought about it, but he was in the VIP lounge with his bandmates, and I just?—”
“He would have loved to see you,” she says softly.
“Yeah, well…I wasn’t so sure.”
“So is that why you called me? Because you felt guilty or wanted a way to get in touch with him?”
“What? No,” I press. “I still have his number, Pres, assuming he hasn’t changed it. But I called you. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh.”
A silence settles between us, and it’s not the comfortable kind we used to enjoy when we would walk on the beach together or sit side by side on her bed and listen to music.
No, this silence is awkward. It’s the kind of silence that makes you feel naked and vulnerable.
