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Well, almost.
"I swear." Piper squeezes the steering wheel. Her blue eyes—they're the same shade as Ethan's—narrow. "I can't believe Ethan is so stupid. He never listens to me. I told him that you wouldn't have left unless he pushed you. I told him that you loved him and that he was never going to find anyone like you—God, you should see the way he mows through cheap sluts. I know I shouldn't slut-shame and everything but ugh! It's gross. He always looks at me like—" she mimics Ethan "—'Aw, poor Pipes, she's so young that she doesn't understand grownup relationships.'"
"That was a long time ago." I cross and uncross my legs. I appreciate that Piper sees my side of things, but I don't want to talk about this with her. Hell, I don't want to talk about it with anyone.
Ethan threw me away. If I give him the chance, he'll throw me away again.
"Yeah, that's true. And you know I get it if you want nothing to do with Ethan romantically. But if you do… if you still love him… well, he still cares about you, Violet. He's not happy without you," she says.
"He's a millionaire rock star now." It's not that I doubt people with money, fame, and success can have problems. It's more that Ethan has always put music ahead of everything. How can he have the success he's always dreamed of and still be miserable?
"Hmmm." Piper takes a deep breath. "He's happy on stage, when he plays, when he goes and talks to fans. But other times… I think he misses you."
Is that really possible? Ethan didn't say a single word to me after he dared me to leave. Nearly two years passed.
He had a million chances to reach out. He had a million chances to get me back.
My stomach twists. This conversation is making me nauseous.
Need to change the subject. "Tell me more about your classes."
She looks at me with concern, but she still takes the bait.
We arrive just in time for the sound check. After greeting a few roadies—Piper knows everyone and everyone adores her—we hang out by the side of the stage.
The stage lights are bright enough it's hard to see anything but Ethan on stage, his guitar strap pulling his t-shirt down his chest. He looks good from behind, especially in those tight jeans. The man has an ass to die for. His back is strong. Those broad shoulders…
Damn. This isn't working. I fetch two water bottles—one for me and one for Piper—and perfect my I don't give a fuck about you, Ethan face as I make my way back to the stage.
Only when I catch a glimpse of my reflection, I can see every crack. My lips are fighting a smile. Because there's Ethan with his guitar, looking at me between songs.
The only solution is more eyeliner. And more lipstick. Hell, I'll add more blush while I'm there. My hair is all natural at the moment, but I can grab a bottle of Vampire Red and go from strawberry blond to the perfect crimson don't fuck with me or I'll kick your ass shade.
Sure, changing my appearance isn't going to do anything to convince my mind or my heart that all this is okay. But it will convince everyone I'm the kind of girl who doesn't take shit.
His eyelids press together as his fingers glide over his guitar. He rocks his hips and throws his body into his playing in this perfect mix of you want to fuck me sexy and guy who can't believe he's actually standing on stage in a venue this big gleeful energy.
He stays lost in his playing until his turn is over. Then he's handing his guitar to a roadie. His eyes fix on mine. His lips curl into a smile.
Mine do the same. It's a reflex. There's no way to fight it.
Friends.
We're going to be friends.
I'm there. I can be friends with the guy who broke my heart when he was supposed to paste it back together.
I'm not about to admit I can't handle it.
He takes a step towards me. His eyes go to something else.
Is that Tom Steele?
It is.
Tom saunters into the room like he owns the place. And, really, he does. Tom is the Sinful Serenade drummer and he's the most famous guy any of us know. But he doesn't need fame to own every room he steps into. He oozes playful charisma.
It's the same charisma that drew me to Ethan, though Ethan is more obvious about wearing his heart on his sleeve. Or he was. Or I was particularly good at seeing that side of him.
