I was an idiot to think I could go back to how it was before her.
I don’t even want to.
TWENTY-THREE
I’ve been watchingthe light coming through the shades change throughout the afternoon, from bright white to tangerine. Burnt terracotta by the time the front door opened and clinked shut.
Summer’s voice followed, greeting Grace like she always does, high-pitched and happy.
She padded up the stairs maybe ninety minutes ago. The sun has since set, and now shadows play on the ceiling.
I’m not hiding. Not exactly.
I got home from the road trip late morning and spent most of the day trying and failing to nap. Words I might say to Summer looped through my mind as I tossed and turned. I’ve yet to land on anything I feel good about.
Tonight is Summer’s open mic night. Fox talked about it the entire flight—Mia said she’s playing covers, Hannah invited everyone, half the team is going.
Summer invited me, and I’m grateful she wants me there.
I throw the blanket off and push to my feet. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late.
The shower helps. Hot water, steam, the mindless routine of it all. By the time I’m toweling off, I feel almost human.
I pull on dark jeans and a charcoal quarter-zip, run a hand through my hair, and slide on my glasses.
I’m slipping on socks when Summer’s heels click on the stairs. I hop toward my door, stumbling over my own feet as I try to walk and shove my other sock on at the same time.
She’s in the foyer, reaching into the coat closet.
She turns, and—Christ.
Black jeans that look painted on. A cropped white tank that shows a sliver of skin at her waist when she moves. Her hair is down, loose waves that appear darker in the dim light.
She looks incredible.
Our eyes meet.
“Are you going to be cold?” is what comes out of my mouth.
Her gaze darts down. Mine follows from the curve of her shoulder to her delicate wrist. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a woman’s wrists before.
“I have my coat.” She holds up a black puffer jacket. “It’s hot on the stage with adrenaline and the lights.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
She bends to grab her guitar case, and I force myself to look away from the line of her spine.
When she straightens, her lips twitch into something that’s trying to be a smile, but it’s more of a grimace.
“You look—” I stop. Clear my throat. “Good. You’re… Yeah. Great.”What the fuck am I even saying?
She shifts her weight, one red boot crossing in front of the other. “Thanks.” She won’t meet my gaze.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “We could drive together—if you want.”
“Actually, I have to run an errand. On the way.” She tries for another smile, but doesn’t quite manage it.
A pit forms in my stomach. All I want is to hold her, even one of those short, awkward hugs. To fill my lungs with that citrus scent and let it go to my head.
