When I finished, Fox looked like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Shaking his head for the thousandth time, he said, “It makes so much sense now. I never fully understood how a shy, insecure kid like you could find the guts to do what you did. We didn’t see each other for a few years after you dropped out of college and moved to New York, and then I came to your show in Dallas and thought, shit! Jamie ain’t no Silent J no more.”
“I remember when you came to that show. That was probably the best tour of my life. It was right when I was starting to see the benefits from all the live performance coaching, and I was trying to change how we were running things in the band. The problem was that was exactly what Oliver didn’t want me doing.”
“So he tried a different approach,” Fox concluded easily, armed with the new information I had shared.
“Yeah. It worked. He got five more years out of me before I finally walked away.”
Fox lifted his cap to run his hand over his hair. I don’t think he even noticed when he did it. “Good for you, J.”
Emotion flooded my chest and rose until I felt it in my throat. I wouldn’t cry—hadn’t since I was a kid—but I struggled to respond. His eyes softened. “Have you told me everything? Or was there more?”
I shook my head. “That’s all. You don’t think it’s enough?”
“I think it’s plenty,” he said with a dark laugh. “Now don’t go thinking all is fuckin’ jolly between us, but hearing about all the shit you were handed does make me feel a bit more sympathetic. For years, I wanted to make you feel the pain you caused me, and shit, looks like maybe you already did.” He let out a long exhale. “I’m glad we talked.”
“Me, too.” This time, he returned my smile. “Can we hang out again sometime?” I asked. “If it’s too much too soon, I get it. But I really could use a new friend. Or an old friend who no longer wants to kill me.”
“No longer wants to kill you? You’ve become a fuckin’ optimist, huh?” Fox chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll see you again. Maybe next time you can treat me to a real dinner instead of goddamn In-N-Out.”
“You’re the one who picked this place,” I exclaimed.
We fell into a familiar banter, and by the time I was back in my car, my cheeks hurt from laughing so much. I’d missed Fox.
I’d missed so many things.
11
IVY
At ten pm sharp,I stood waiting for Mimi in the hallway in my skinny jeans and a tube top that cut above my belly button. I was contoured, powdered, and highlighted to death, and when I looked in the mirror, I was pleased. My face had been transformed.
At ten fifteen, Mimi still hadn’t emerged from her apartment, so I mustered up the courage to knock. After about a minute, the door opened. Mimi stood in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, her face scrunched in confusion, as if she had just woken from a nap.
“Uh, hi,” I said awkwardly. “Are we still going out?”
Her eyes widened in recognition. “Ivy! Oh, shit, sorry, I fell asleep after smoking a bowl. My bad. I need ten minutes, okay? Come on in while you wait.”
I stepped into her apartment and was greeted by a mess. It looked like she hadn’t washed her dishes in at least a few days. Pizza boxes were stacked on the kitchen island, the top one open to reveal a half-eaten slice. A dirty pan sat on the stove, remnants of what looked like scrambled egg caked to its surface.
Something fell inside her bedroom.
“You okay?” I called out, glancing over at the sofa. It was covered with about four different blankets, all of them tangled together. A sad-looking pillow peeked out on one end. Maybe this is where Mimi had taken her nap.
“Shit. Fine! Dropped something off my desk. Make yourself at home! There might be a beer in the fridge if Evan didn’t drink them all this morning.”
I felt like a jerk even as I wrinkled my nose in disapproval. Who drank beers in the morning? People like Jamie. People I didn’t like.
She did just break up with Evan, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the drinking. An anxious feeling rose in my chest. Maybe Zoey was right. Was I being crazy going clubbing with a girl I had just met?
“Ready,” Mimi exclaimed, coming out of her room in a strappy mini dress that highlighted her curves. Her lips were painted red, her eyes lined with thick eyeliner. She gave off an Amy Winehouse vibe, and when she sashayed to put on ballet flats by the door, I suspected it may have been intentional.
“So you excited? Nervous?” she asked, grinning up at me as she slid on the right shoe, balancing herself by holding the wall.
“A little,” I admitted.
“You’ve never gone clubbing before?”
“I have,” I rushed to clarify. It was the truth. I went to two clubs on tour with Bleeding Moonlight. “But it’s been a few years.”
