“Oh no,” I said. “This is just for a few weeks, so I dropped a shift and swapped with Frankie to work weekends. My schedule is more intense now, but I can make time for practice. Don’t want us to get rusty, right?”
“Right. Well, look, it’s a little bonkers on my end, and the in-laws are here all through the next week. Why don’t we plan to get together sometime next weekend? Maybe in the early afternoon if you’re at the bar in the evening?” There was something measured in his tone that I didn’t like.
“Okay, that works.”
“It will be good to chat about our plans for once Mason leaves,” he added as an afterthought, but I knew it was anything but.
“Yes. We do need to talk about that,” I conceded.
“All right, I gotta go back and make sure they don’t plant any ideas about the kitchen in Van’s head. Talk soon?”
“Good luck,” I said with a smile and hung up.
I’d expected all of the unspoken implications in that conversation, but I couldn’t help but feel disheartened anyway. I knew that Liam would likely want to quit before the baby came, and Mason’s departure was the perfect excuse. We were losing our drummer, and looking for a new one would involve too much work for any of us to comfortably take on. Still, this band was my lifeline, an IV that kept a part of me alive, and without it, the last link to my identity as a musician would die.
By the end of my first week working on Bleeding Moonlight’s album, I already knew that parting ways with the musicians in three weeks would be hard. Without Through Azure Skies waiting for me on the other side, I suspected I was setting myself up for a spectacular crash.
* * *
Silas lived in one of the few condominiums in town. I was greeted by an aging receptionist who looked at my ID for a few seconds before waving me into the steel-paneled elevator. The low-pile carpet smelled like it had just been cleaned.
I got off on the top floor and made my way to the penthouse unit at the end of the hall. The walls were painted with abstract motifs that caught me off guard with their intended trendiness. River Valley was not a trendy place by any means, although with more people moving outside of the cities, maybe that would change over the next few years. I wondered how that would impact the price of our home, and if I would be better off not selling it right now.
My thoughts were interrupted when the door to Silas’s unit swung open before I even knocked. Then they disappeared altogether.
Silas was shirtless, with broken-in jeans that hung low on his hips, revealing a prominent vee leading toward a place I had no business being curious about. His long hair was still wet from a shower and drops of water crawled down his muscular chest and well-defined abs. The tattoos on his right arm bled all the way over his shoulder. Were those dragons?
My tongue may as well have been sticking out of my mouth. Craning my neck to look at his face was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. When I finally made my way there, his eyes shone with an amused satisfaction.
“Hi,” I squeaked in a pathetically thin voice.
“Come on in. The security guard gave me the heads-up you were on your way.”
He turned around, giving me a perfect view of his enormous back. The way his muscles rippled under his skin reminded me of a mountain lion stalking his prey.
I took my shoes off while keeping my guitar close to me and then followed him into the open-concept kitchen. I expected the place to feel modern, like the hallway outside, but it was decorated in a cozy vintage style.
“Nice place.” I swiveled my head around, noticing how the art prints on the walls and the teal color of the crushed velvet couch and armchair all fit together. This wasn’t a hodgepodge of random belongings. Someone had put some thought into making this place feel like a home.
“Thanks.” Silas grabbed a T-shirt from the back of a stool and tugged it on. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as I watched his smooth movements.
“I’m kind of into interior design,” he added before moving to open the fridge. “Do you want some water? Beer? Soda?”
“Water’s great, thanks. So you put all of this together?” I asked somewhat incredulously.
“Is that so hard to believe?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“No, of course not. I just figured you’d be too busy with touring and recording. I guess I didn’t think you spent a lot of time here,” I said, accepting the glass from him.
“I got this place when the building was being just built. Four years ago, I think? I worked on it a room at a time, buying furniture and decor online so that it would get here when I was in town,” he explained, leading me to the couch.
I realized I loved his voice. It was like top-shelf whiskey—deep, smooth, and complex. I wanted him to keep talking, so I asked him about the print hanging across the room from us, a medley of chains thrown against a brick wall.
“What does it mean?”
He laughed, a rich, booming sound that made my toes curl against the woven rug beneath my feet.
“I don’t know. I don’t believe that art has intrinsic meaning. The experience of looking at art adds to the piece itself. We bring our context, our past experiences, our emotions and view the art through all those personalized lenses,” he explained.
