“I heard about Vik.”
Martin pulls his glasses off and sits back in his chair, assessing me. “I’m not going to facilitate you speaking with Cassie just for you to give her shit.”
My jaw drops. “What the fuck … No. That’s not why I want to talk to her. Why would you say that?”
Martin crosses his arms. “What exactly is going on with you and her?”
There are some moments in life where you know you’re at a crossroads. You can see two paths ahead of you very clearly, and you know you have to choose one. You know you have to commit to walking down only one, and you must leave the other behind in the process. What makes these moments stand out–because, of course, we make decisions like this all day, every day–is that you have no clue which path to take. You have no clue because even though you know where you want to end up, it’s impossible to know which path will get you there.
“We’re friends,” I settle on eventually.
His eyebrow arches. “Like you and Jon are friends? And you and Jakob? And you and?—”
“Thank you.” I hold a hand up to stop him. “Point made.”
He shakes his head and pushes a long stream of air through his pouted lips. “This is the last thing Kev needs.”
I lean over the table. “I just want to know she’s okay.”
“And you won’t take my word for it?”
“Fuck, no.” I sit back. “You always hide things from me. In fact, I can see you’ve just halved my clothing budget for the North America leg of the tour without even consulting me.”
He looks down at one of the papers in front of him, opens his mouth and then closes it again. “I’ll see if I can get you a phone call when we get to London.” I try really hard not to smile, but it’s impossible. It’s almost worth it when I see Martin fight his own grin. “And I’ll see what I can do about the clothing?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the clothes, Martin,” I say, and I reach for his hand, which is something I have never, ever done before. He’s as shocked as he should be. “Just get me that phone call.”
His eyes narrow for a few seconds. “I like this version of you,” he says. “You’re … I don’t know, more you.”
I laugh with my whole body. “I would have thought that would be your worst nightmare.”
“You’d think,” he says, and reaches for his glasses. “But it’s not. It’s … refreshing. Now piss off and let me get back to work.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” I shuffle out of the booth, guitar in my hand. “I’ll be in my bunk writing next year’s number one album.”
“That’s the right fucking attitude!” he calls as I walk away.
I smile as I allow myself to actually imagine that.
CHAPTER 22
CASSIE
One of the reasons I was so reluctant to move to Los Angeles was the rain. Or the lack thereof.
This may seem shocking to some, and terribly English to others, but I have always liked the rain. Its many rhythms. It’s necessity. The nurturing and clarifying nature of it. The better of my childhood memories feature a lot of rain. Splashing in puddles. Watching raindrops glide down windowpanes. Inhaling the cleanest fresh air that is only possible after a downpour.
So when we arrive in Seattle to an overcast sky and a steady drizzle, I waste no time getting changed and heading out for a walk.
It’s not my first time in the city, yet somehow I’ve forgotten the hills. Still I welcome the strain on my calves and the burn in my thighs as I walk without any purpose other than feeling the misty rain on my face.
Rain and pain. Apparently, that’s exactly what I need to help me make sense of the last few days.
Vik is out on bail in Vancouver but unable to leave the country.
Stephan is still behaving like we’re a married couple fighting, due to reconcile any day now.
George was so drunk on stage last night he walked into Vik’s drum kit, which was being played by a friend of a friend of a friend of Clarence, who promptly said he wasn’t going to do any more dates with us.
