“This was us the night of the record release party,” he says, turning his phone around.
I gently take his phone and stare down at the picture.
“I want to be jealous,” I say after a beat, “but I’m just so sad for you.” To my surprise, I feel tears welling up in my eyes.
“Hey, don’t do that.” He reaches over and brushes my tears away. “I want to share my past with you, but I don’t want you to cry.”
“I’m sad for her, that her life was cut short for no reason. The woman in that picture was so happy, so full of life.”
That makes him smile. “I’d like to think she was. I mean, I know she was. We were happy and in love. She, uh, thanked me for loving her before she died.”
“They didn’t die right away?” I ask, overwhelmed with sadness for him all over again.
“Dixon and Rambo did. Joey died on the way to the hospital. Clara died in my arms on the side of the road before help got there.”
“Oh, Ross.” I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize…I don’t know what I thought but for some reason I assumed they died on impact.”
“Not all of them.” He gently kisses my forehead. “And it’s okay. Don’t be sad. It was a long time ago. I’m just glad we got to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry, babe.” I nestle closer.
“I have no regrets,” he says after a moment. “If the choice was never having met any of them, so I wouldn’t lose them, I would still choose to do everything exactly the same way. Clara taught me about true love. My band taught me about true friendship and making amazing music. I wouldn’t trade that.”
“I wouldn’t trade the friendship I had with Carter either, even knowing I was going to lose him. And I think Harley would say the same thing.”
“I have to agree with that as well.”
“And now, because of them—collective them from different parts of our lives—we’ve found each other. We wouldn’t be here right now if not for them.”
He cups the side of my face and leans in for a kiss. “Amen to that.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ross
I don’t remember the exact moment that I fell in love with Clara and that haunted me for years after her death—but now I understand why.
What I’ve discovered is that falling in love is not a moment—it’s a series of moments that culminate in something magical when it finally hits you.
The day in Vancouver was a handful of those moments.
We lost ourselves in the city and each other.
Talking, laughing, holding hands. We shopped and ate and explored, walking down side streets and along the river. There was a museum exhibit she wanted to take in, and we spent two hours staring at art that made no sense to me but made her incredibly happy.
Then we stopped in a music store.
Unless one of the guys in the band needs something or there’s a specific luthier they want to visit, I can’t remember the last time I walked into one. As we stand outside debating whether or not to go in, I realize that no matter what decision I make about my professional future, I need a guitar.
After the bus crash, I had our management company sell almost everything.
I told myself I would never pick up an instrument again.
That turned out to be a lie—I’ve played guitar quite a bit with Onyx Knight in a casual setting or when testing equipment—but I don’t personally own a decent guitar, something I could use to perform. Back home in my Los Angeles apartment, there’s a cheap acoustic Z gave me. I use it sometimes when I feel the pull to play but could never bring myself to use it for anything beyond working on some of the lyrics going on in my head. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed—my instinctive need to write songs.
I’ve sold a few over the years, made a little money when I couldn’t find any other job, but it stopped being a priority once I did. And now they’re mostly scraps scribbled on napkins and hotel notepads, filling a briefcase I no longer carry. Between the accident and my change in career, I found my confidence floundering. On top of that, it wasn’t my usual style either, vacillating between painful, poignant and depressing songs about life. Death. And everything in between.
It felt deeply personal, my own type of self-medication.
