I’m sensing Tag hasn’t filled Annie in on his plan yet.
“It’s nothing. Just had a bad idea,” he mumbles, collapsing into a reclining chair and reaching for a triangular slice of pizza, now cold and crusty.
She makes a humming sound. “Groundbreaking.”
I stare down at the taut wire strings. “Your brother wants us to play a wedding with him.”
An involuntary laugh slips out. But when a wash of silence answers, she lifts her head, attention flicking from Tag to me, then back to Tag.
Slowly, she rises to her feet. “Wait, what?”
“That’s what I said.” I keep my head bowed, watching her from beneath my lashes as she floats across the room, staring at her brother like he just dropped the bomb that “Blinded by the Light” does not, in fact, saydouche.
“Tag.” Her voice pitches higher. “Explain.”
He fills her in, avoiding eye contact, barely decipherable between giant bites of pizza.
Annie blinks at him. Turns to face me. “Are you doing it?” she asks, close to breathless.
I nod. “Yeah.”
It’s a no-brainer. Who am I to pass on six hundred bucks, doing something I love?
“Oh my God.” A smile lights up her face, one that’s been absent lately. Suppressed by broken dreams and no-way-outs. “We need to start practicing. There are so many good covers. They need to be upbeat, songs about love. I can research. A mix of classics and modern. Maybe…”
Her voice fades out. She’s still talking, alive and soul-stirred, practically singing the words. But all I do is watch her, drinking in the new bounce to her step, the animated way her hands move, the grin that doesn’t falter. No tears, no sorrow, no ghosts.
Just joy.
Ten minutes later, we’re out on the deck.
Tag called it a night, but 1:00 a.m. is prime time for us. Annie is still buzzing, a fireball of energy, pacing back and forth with a cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes are wide, gleaming in the low light. “God, this is going to be incredible. I can’t believe we only have two weeks to put together a setlist.” She takes another puff. “Think we can do it?”
My mind is somewhere else. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, as in, yes?” A grin flickers. Another pull, another cloud. “Sounds like a yes.”
My gaze pans to the half-burned cigarette as she flicks ashes to the ground. “You’ve been smoking more.”
She stops pacing and glances at me, the smile slipping. “Yeah, I know. It’s becoming a habit.” Her arm drops to her side, tiny live coals scattering. “Guess I’m in my rebel era. Did you ever have one of those?”
I’ve had plenty. But one stands out. “Told my parents to fuck off, packed a box of essentials, and moved across the country with my dog and no plan.” I pop a shoulder. “That count?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, a small frown forming. “That counts.”
She takes another drag, lips glossy, parted. A plume of smoke slips through.
Her chest rises and falls beneath the thin fabric of her top, the breeze bringing her nipples to a tight peak. My gaze dips for a beat too long before I force it back up.
What I don’t say is that I’m one wrong look away from diving headfirst into another rebel era. All I’ve got keeping me grounded is a shred of integrity and a few threads of willpower, frayed like old guitar strings.
One bad pull, and I’m snapping.
I step toward her.
She watches me approach, still as the night, save for the slow rise and fall of her breath. The cigarette dangles between her fingers, delicate kindling against the dark.
I reach for it, my hand brushing hers, our gazes still tangled.
