“Um, yeah. I get it. I’m just not sure what we can really say about it…” I drag my lip between my teeth. “I’m not mad at you.”
“I never said you were mad,” he says. “But you’re hurting. In pain. And I’m a part of that.”
“No. This is on me.”
“Annie, that’s my point. It shouldn’t all be on you.” Chase takes a slow step toward me, cautious and careful. “I can’t change anything. But I’m here. I can help.”
Emotion bubbles behind my eyes.
I can’t blame him for feeling confused, shunned. I’m finally single. And I’macting as if I felt nothing when his body pressed into me and his tongue wielded poetry against my lips.
“Chase,” I breathe, meeting his gaze. “I just need a little time. To heal. To grieve.”
He studies me for a while, his throat rolling. “Right. Okay.”
I force my eyes to brighten, to override the blanket of trapped tears. “Thank you for trying to help.”
Looking down at the floor, he nods.
“You’re going to kill it out there. I feel it.” I step toward him, taking his hand in mine. “The man who strums stars.”
He gives my palm a squeeze before loosening his grip. As he opens his mouth to reply, he blinks at me several times, then lowers his head with a noticeable wince.
I frown. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” He hisses on a sharp exhale, rubbing the side of his head with the heel of his hand.
“Chase…”
“I’m okay. Sorry. Just a headache.” Two fingers gently massage his temple as he looks back up, eyes wearier. He shakes it off. “Go shower. I’ll be in the van.”
“Are you sure—”
He spins away, heading out the front door and disappearing into the autumn sunshine.
Chapter 39Annalise
Thirty-six hours later, the van is jam-packed with five worn-down duffels, a tangled mess of cables and gear, and enough snacks to shame a college frat house.
Kenna triple-checks the merch crates before she heads off to the airport to meet her niece, while Tag tunes his guitar in the passenger seat, his foot propped on the dashboard. Rock is already asleep in the back, curled up like a house cat beside a bass amp.
Toaster is with Solomon for the week—Chase’s old boss who pretends he’s not obsessed with the dog, even though he hand-feeds him rotisserie chicken and calls him “The Toastinator.”
Chase slides into the driver’s seat, shooting me a small, unreadable glance in the rearview mirror. It lasts less than a second. Then he turns the key and the engine purrs to life, the gas tank full and prepped for a week of travel.
I climb onto the back bench and wedge myself between an amp and Rock, a bag of Takis in hand and my hoodie acting as a pillow. The smell of coffee and vinyl fills the air.
It’s cramped. Chaotic. Magical.
Zach untangles himself from his daughter’s hug in the driveway, the last to enter the van as he waves goodbye and hops in, sealing the door shut.
Music blares from the radio.
A crisp fifty-degree breeze sneaks through the open window, filling my lungs.
I pop up from my seat and lean outside as the van rolls forward. “Bye, bestie!”
Kenna slaps a sun hat to her head just before it floats away, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Honey Moons, bitches! That’s my best friend!”
