Alex opens the message but doesn’t respond.
Swallowing the bone-dry lump in my throat, I glance up and pocket my phone. “Hey, listen, I need to head out early. I know I suck. I’m sorry.”
Kenna jolts from her seat. “I got you.”
“No, please stay. Enjoy the show. Tell Tag I’ll catch him next time.”
“I drove you here. I’m not making you pay for an Uber back.” Collecting her purse, Kenna does some sort of hand gesture to Tag to alert him of our departure.
She knows why I need to go.
She always knows—we just don’t talk about it anymore.
Chase studies Kenna for a beat before his gaze shifts to me, searching. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Yes, of course. Something came up.” I muster a small smile, though my heart wilts like a sad, sunless petal. The truth is, I don’t want to leave. Chase finally showed up, and I’m walking out before my brother’s even finished his second song.
I don’t know if he’ll show up next week.
Once again, I wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever see him.
His eyes flicker with something. Curiosity, concern. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Thank you for coming tonight. I’m sorry to cut it short.”
“You never have to apologize to me.”
I hesitate. “I just feel like…” My sentence trails off. For once, I can’t catch any words.
As Kenna moves toward the exit, I snatch up my purse, loathing the hot pressure that swells behind my eyes.
Before I retreat, I pause, placing my hand on Chase’s shoulder, feeling his muscles tighten and strain. “Come back next week.”
He meets my eyes and holds before looking away and palming the nape of his neck. “Yeah, I don’t know. I think—”
“Please.”
Another glance. Another hold.
Finally, he relents with a single nod.
Relief spirals through me, golden and warm. I shouldn’t want to see him again, not after everything that happened between us. But I think he needs this. This music, this outlet.
He needs it like my brother needs it.
And I’ve always been a sucker for a person in need.
I look over my shoulder as I waltz away, smiling a mournful goodbye to Tag and watching as Chase stands from the table, preparing to leave.
Then I stick my hand inside the pocket of my skirt and head outside, my fingers curling around the napkin.
Chapter 8Chase
A week rolls by.
It’s Thursday.
Toaster sits beside me, a chew bone clasped between his paws, as I tighten the final tuning peg. The scent of sawdust and lacquer sticks to the air, mingling with the faint burn of solder from earlier. The body—a pale, arctic blue with a mahogany neck and a rosewood fingerboard—gleams under the makeshift clip-on lamp attached to a floating wall shelf.
