“Oh.” The single syllable gives away my disappointment.
She shifts the guitar case to her other hand. “I’ll see you there?”
“Yeah. See you there.” I smile and hope it’s more convincing than all her attempts.
I lean against the newel post as she moves toward the door, and when her hand closes around the doorknob, I blurt, “Drive safe,” too loud.
Her shoulders rise and fall. “I will.”
Then she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her, foyer suddenly too quiet.
I stand there, wondering if there’s still a way back from all of this.
“Damn,” Helm says, craning his neck to see over the crowd. “Hannah really did invite everyone.”
Fox is near the stage with Mia. Volk’s at the bar with a few other guys from the team, with Ada and Natalie posted at the opposite end.
Volk waves and makes the universal,want a drink?gesture, tipping an invisible bottle toward his mouth.
“Beer?” Helm echoes the offer at my side.
“Yeah.”
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the nervous energy thrumming under my skin.
I haven’t seen her perform. Not unless social media videos and that impromptu song on the pond count.
A guy steps onto the small stage and says something about welcoming tonight’s performers.
Helm reappears, pressing a cold beer into my hand. He shoots a “C’mon, Cap,” over his shoulder before he heads toward the stage, where the rest of our friends have migrated.
I don’t follow, finding a spot along the wall, midway between the stage and the bar. Close enough to see, far enough to not be in her way.
The host calls Summer’s name. She hops up the steps to the stage, and the room erupts. I bring two fingers to my mouth and whistle.
Her smile is wide as she adjusts the strap on her guitar, then tips her head to the crowd. The stage lights catch in her hair, giving it streaks of copper and gold. She adjusts the mic stand, then sits on the stool and settles her guitar on her lap.
The noise of the crowd slowly dies down.
She’s so natural, up there, bathed in spotlight, bright and beautiful and completely out of reach. I take a long pull from my beer.
The opening chord of something I don’t recognize but immediately love sounds.
Her gaze sweeps the room, slowly, like she’s trying to thank each person who decided to spend their Sunday night watching her.
Everything she does is hypnotizing—her fingers moving over the strings, the way she closes her eyes on the bridge, how completely she loses herself. I can’t look away.
This is who she is. What she’s meant to be. I know it with such certainty.
She’s going to leave Chicago and become something incredible, and for the first time since I started falling for her, I don’t begrudge it. It’d be cruel for the world not to have this. Not to haveher.
Summer finishes the first song and launches into another, then another. I lose track of how many. But I don’t miss how she connects with every person in the audience—except for me. Maybe I should’ve followed Helm to the front. I want her eyes on me, if only for a second.
The crowd applauds as the song ends. She smiles, says something about the next one. That she wrote it.
My pulse drums in my ears. I’ve heard pieces through the walls, through the floor. But never like this, when she wants me and everyone else in the room to hear it.
She takes a breath, adjusts her grip on the guitar. Then she finds me immediately, like she knew exactly where I was the whole time.
