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Before the doors have a chance to open, I push the button to keep the doors closed. Linus says nothing as he regards me with bored curiosity.
I breathe in once then exhale, desperate for the uncaring cold that will help me exist in this new mode of dealing. That will help me be numb to walking away from all my friendships...from walking away from Logan.
Being around Logan was like a hot bath after a cold day, warm sunshine through a window, velvet and silk against skin. It was a strong hand over terrified fingers. A stuffed bunny being held during a restless night. It was wonderful and freeing and losing it is awful.
Another sharp exhale to mask the quick ache in my heart and I release the doors and leave the elevator to enter hell.
Logan
Practicing with a band is nowhere close to the high of being onstage. It’s a lot of playing the same chords repeatedly, listening to the lead singer argue with the bass player and drummer over what songs they should play or who was off beat.
It’s a lot of routine and control. Not what I craved.
The rest of the guys in the band aren’t arguing now. They’re messing with a cover we’re doing. Attempting to make a pop song heavy metal. It’s a cool idea. One they’re into and one I’ll play once they figure out the arrangement.
We’re in the basement of the singer’s house. The walls are paneled, making the acoustics horrible. A flash of sunlight as the door to the top of the stairs opens. Sly ducks so he doesn’t slam his head on the way down and then straightens when he steps onto the tiled floor.
The guys greet him with fist bumps and a quick hug. Sly used to play with them, when he was my age, when they were in high school together, but then his talents got better. He outperformed them, outgrew them, and in the end moved on to another band, but these guys are still his brothers.
He walks over to me and I set my guitar back in its case. “How was the tour?”
“Fucking awesome.” Sly grins from ear to ear. “Girls, beer, music, and the open road. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
He opens a small fridge on the other side of a short bar, pops open a longneck, and jacks his thumb to the open door. “Want anything? They got water in there.”
I shake my head no.
“How’s the band?”
When I don’t answer immediately, he chuckles. “They still suck?”
I crack a grin along with him. “No more than me. Thanks for setting me up with this.”
“No problem. This is a good group
for you to see if playing really interests you.” From the other side of the bar, Sly leans over to me. “I talked to your mom last week. She filled me in.”
Which means he knows about Abby and the shooting. Sly was Mom’s first serious boyfriend after the divorce. He’s younger than her—by a lot—but they lived together for over two years until she met soul mate number three. Not sure how Mom does it, but she finds a way to force these guys to stay friends with her, even after she crushes them when she leaves.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Abby gets out of the hospital today.” I check my cell. She told me to pick her up by two thirty, that way I can get her home by three to see her grandmother.
With the beer dangling between two of his fingers he eyeballs me. “Good to know, but I was asking about your diabetes. Your mom said your numbers have been hanging high. Said they’ve been high long enough that your dad wants you to see a specialist.”
I immediately look over at the other guys in the band. They’re still wrapped up in their discussion of the arrangement for the song.
Sly drinks from the beer. “You’re still keeping the diabetes a secret?”
“It’s no one’s business.”
Sly finishes the beer and places it on the table. “When you were a kid, I got it. No one wants to stick out. No one wants to be different and give people a reason to pick on them, but now? You could take me out.”
I scratch the back of my head in an attempt to alleviate the annoyance festering inside me. “I’m not concerned with some third-grade bully shoving me around on the playground.”
“What exactly is it that you’re concerned with?” Sly reminds me of Isaiah with the tattoos and earrings, but Sly has that rock-show flare where Isaiah projects pure badass.
“When people look at you, what do they see?” I ask.
