I know deep down I’m not over the hurt Tristan has caused. It might not be his fault that we lost contact—in fact, it was maliciously ripped away from us—but that doesn’t change the way he treated me from the moment he came back into my life. Ripping his shirt from my body, the cutting words he threw in my face, the way he twisted our lyrics to cause me the most pain… That was all him.
But right now everything in me wants to have him close, to believe in the small amount of healing we’ve had today. I want to believe in it and nurture it like you would a sick plant that you’re trying to coax back to life. Tristan has always had my heart, why wouldn’t I want our relationship to blossom once more?
The movement of drumsticks twirling between Keaton’s fingers catches my attention. Something about the flow seems agitated, which puts me on edge immediately. I don’t like it. Keaton has used those sticks to express his emotions for as long as I’ve known him, I can only imagine how much longer it’s been before that. He even encouraged me to break one to release the anger building in me after I found out Carmen stole my song.
So what is it that has him in such a state where the graceful, normally calm tumble of his sticks has turned into something that’s jerky and off cadence? My mouth opens, the words on the tip of my tongue, but they don’t leave. There’s so much left unspoken piling up between us. It’s as if they’ve been tattooed there the moment they slide past, permanent, forever plastered there, never able to fly free on the air.
You wouldn’t think imaginary phrases would weigh so much, but the more I’m unable to speak, the heavier they get. I’m choking on them, and pretty soon I won’t be able to breathe all over again.
Phantom hands wrap around my throat, squeezing, suffocating me. My breath hitches and my body suddenly loses the memory of how to drag oxygen into my lungs.
Tristan shifts under me, and my ass suddenly plunges into the space between his body and the side of the armchair he’s sitting on. His protective arm holds onto me, urging me to snuggle into his body as the massive cushioning of the couch forms to my body.
Before I’m even able to process anything else happening around me, a warm blanket drapes across my lap, and Nashtucks the edges around me, leaving a searing kiss on my forehead.
My hand instinctively moves to the spot, my fingertips pressing against the lingering sensation. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since I’ve allowed myself to enjoy one of them doting on me. Any attention at all, for that matter.
Without even realizing it, it’s like I’m suddenly slammed back into my body. Reality rushing back, the world shifting from black and white into color. Smells and sensations becomestronger.
Breathing in, I get a whiff of myself. I know I’ve showered since I’ve been home, but I can’t… I can’t honestly remember when that was. How long has it been? If I’m anything to go by, it’s been several days. That is… unless someone just cut an onion open. No? I didn’t think so.
Glancing down, I find one of the T-shirts Tristan mailed me after I left home. Apparently, it was sent before those scum-eating bastards cut me off from my life. There are stains on it, some I can’t even identify.
Fuck me. I’m a mess. I run a hand through my hair and screw up my face in disgust with the greasy heaviness clinging to the strands. This keeps getting worse.
A heavy sigh falls from Keaton’s lips, drawing my attention away from myself and onto him. A much better view than I present. It’s a wonder none of them carried me down to the ocean and threw me in.
“Close the blinds if you’re so worried about it,” Blake says, running a hand through his blond strands. I narrow my eyes, slightly jealous of how lightly the strands flow back into place. “No need to obsess over it.”
“Our privacy is worth obsessing over though, don’t you think?” Nash counters his best friend.
“There is no privacy for the rich and famous. You should’ve been more careful what you wished for,” Dare quips, crossing his ankles and resting his feet on the ottoman in front of him.
“I’ve come to terms with it,” Tristan adds, resting his chin on my shoulder. Honestly, how can he stand to be this close to me? “Let them spy on us. They’ll learn what a family looks like. The true sight of love. Passion. Groveling. Forgiveness?”
His last word is more a question, the vulnerability from earlier peeking its head back up. At least he knows there’s still work to be done between us.
“Says the man whose videos are trending basically everywhere.” Blake scoffs.
I whip my head to the side and smack right into Tristan’s face. With a whimper, I hold a hand to my nose as he hisses and does the same thing. “Ouch, babe! Don’t look at me like that. Everything I post is for you.”
How is he doing that? Making it feel like we’ve never spent any time apart. Like his betrayal never stung me like a hornet’s nest. Slipping in a sweet term of endearment like it won’t make my heart go all gooey. Damn him.
A warm hand on my knee snaps me out of my thoughts, and I focusonce moreon Keaton. Somehow it makes me feel like a space cadet, my head full of air, unable to concentrate on a single thing.
He holds both sticks in his other hand and stares at me so earnestly it takes my breath away. At least this time it’s the good kind.
“I was seven,” he starts, and my heart skips a beat. Keaton and I have never needed many words between us, we’ve communicated perfectly fine without them, but his childhood isn’t something you can learn that way.
He suddenly glances down at his sticks, like he can’t bear to stare into my eyes when he reveals whatever is on his heart.
“I was seven,” he repeats, like he’s having to force the words out. “And I knew better.”
Several beats of silence pass, his thumb rubbing along the sides of his sticks as he holds them between his hands, one fist on either side. I feel like I’m sitting on pins and needles, waiting for what comes next.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one. “Knew better than what?” Nash voices the words I can’t. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His curiosity shines from his eyes like Keaton is telling him the story, and it’s not solely directed at me. Which might actually be the truth. Something tells me this is something we all need to hear to know our bandmate better than we ever have.
“It had been raining all day, the last day of school before Christmas break which meant we spent the day making ornaments to bring home. Our class had a party, so I was hyped up on too much sugar, which I’m sure our teacher regretted to no end.” He cuts off with a frown. “It was her first year. Probably learned her lesson with that one.”
