“I mean, it makes sense. It’s music. Your big dream.” A laugh-like breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”
“It’s just one night,” I argue. “One set. Tag asked us to do it. It’s not like I went looking for this.”
He shakes his head, staring at the itinerary. “But you didn’t say no either.”
“Because I want to do it. So much. This is an outlet for me—”
“Thisis your outlet.” He jabs a finger at the stack of papers, then stabs at his chest. “Me. Not him.”
“It’s not about him,” I say, a whispery appeal.
But that’s not entirely true. Chase is a large part of that outlet. The way we connect over lyrics and chords, guitar strings and songs.
He gets it. He gets me.
And I can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse.
“Try to understand,” I plead. “I’ve been working double shifts at the restaurant for overfour years. I sacrifice sleep just for a taste of something that matters to me. And now I have an opportunity to taste more. Spread my wings. See if music is where I belong.”
“And where does that leave me?”
“Nothing has to change between us. You should be proud of me. Supportive.”
“I support the things that benefit us. Our relationship. I don’t support you singing love songs onstage with a guy who clearly wants to fuck you.”
“He doesn’t—”
“No. Don’tfuckingdo that.” His voice drops, lethal. “Don’t insult me by acting like I’m seeing shit that isn’t there.”
Alex jumps to his feet, starts pacing in anxious circles, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. Then he stops. Pauses as something coasts across his face.
Dread.
When he turns to me again, he looks as close to petrified as I’ve ever seen him.
“How much time have you been spending with him?”
I choke. The question is too direct. Too damning. There’s no room for lies.
Color drains from my face. “He’s…at Tag’s sometimes. Working on music.”
A heavy beat.
Awareness. Pain.
“Your midnights,” he says.
All I do is nod.
I’ve seen Alex angry. I’ve seen him volatile, frustrated, confident, and passionate.
But never scared.
Not even when he woke up in a hospital bed after the accident, attached to needles and wires, head bandaged and bleeding, doctors warning him about possible long-term effects. I held his hand and sobbed against his chest. But he wasn’t afraid.
He had me.
I push to my feet, my legs unsteady. We stand there, staring at each otheras a car alarm wails outside. The ceiling fan whirs overhead. Cicadas sing from the cracked balcony door.
