Page 8 of Don't Think

“Yeah. I know.” I gesture toward the counter. “Go on and open your bottles. See if you can get Donny boy to loosen up while you’re at it.” I offer a forced smile before turning and sinking onto the sofa beside Casey.

He yawns, arms stretching high before one drops lazily behind me.

“So,” he mumbles, still mid-yawn, “when are we expected in the studio?”

I glance over at him, then let my head fall back against the sofa, eyes locked on the ceiling fan spinning above. “Exactly one month.”

Each blade rotates, pulling me further into scattered thoughts that I can’t escape.

Did James have a point about me never leaving the hotel? Yeah, sure. But the last year of my life has been… well, shit. So can they really blame me?

First there was the divorce, then Mum being ripped away, and thentwoweekslater, I was expected to pack up and travel back to America. It’s all just felt like too much.

The label gave us a few extra months at home, which helped in some ways. But they could only delay things for so long before they’d have to take back their offer. Honestly, though? I needed the extra shove. Otherwise, I’d still be glued to her living room floor.

Realizing she’s really gone—that I’ll never get another phone call about some new hand-painted figurine she found at an antique fair, or asking me to hang another shelf for them—it fucking guts me. The number of times I rescheduled visits for things that didn’t even matter... I truly hate myself for that. I think I always will.

Then I woke up this morning and could physically feel her with me, and somehow I just knew that from now on, everything was going to be okay. I’m not exactly sure if it’s because today marks six months since she’s been gone, or if my brain finally ran out of room for the grief.

Then later the same day, I felt my heart come back to life. The overwhelming happiness I felt just by looking into the eyes of a beautiful stranger made me realize how lucky I am to still be here. To be able to live through the dreams my mum fought so hard to give me.

“Jax!” Gareth’s voice booms out of nowhere, suddenly towering over me.

My eyes snap to his while he stares at me with his eyebrows drawn tight.

“Yeah? Why are youyellingright now?” I ask with a chuckle.

“I said your name like four times, mate. We were gonna go over the plan for tomorrow.” He drops down beside me and gives my shoulder a quick shake. “You want a drink or something? You look like you could use one.”

I start to shake my head, but then my eyes catch on the wine bottles from earlier. The merlot and the Moscato sit side by side, begging me to test if she was right about it being the perfect mix of fruit and alcohol.

“Actually, yeah,” I mutter, already pushing off the sofa.

I grab the Moscato and twist off the cap, relieved it’s not a bloody cork since I’m pretty sure hotel rooms don’t typically come with them. Plus, there’s the fact I wasn’t even supposed to belookingat wine.

Reaching up, I quickly snag a glass from the cupboard and pour a generous amount, then reluctantly press the glass to my lips. I let it sit on my tongue for a moment, savoring the taste ofexactlywhat she said—theperfectmix of fruit and alcohol.

A loudslammakes me flinch, nearly spilling the wine.

I glance over. Casey’s at the minibar, pouring a beer into a glass, giving me a side-eye. Why he insists on pouring it instead of drinking straight from the bottle is beyond me, but hey, I’m not here to judge how the guy drinks his beer.

I clear my throat. “So, what do you think of Boston so far?” I ask awkwardly.

I’m still trying to figure out how to talk to the guy. He’s only been with us two years, and his tendency to keep quiet doesn’t exactly help. James, Gareth, and I? We all went to school together. That’s ten years of playing in a band, learning each other’s quirks, and figuring out how much pressure we can handle. But ever since Max left and Casey stepped in, it’s like we hit a social reset button and forgot how to hold a conversation.

Which leaves Casey as a giant question mark to the three of us.

What wedoknow is that he’s a damn good drummer, he likes video games, and he grew up in Scotland. And that pretty much sums up everything we know about Casey Price.

He takes a slow sip of his beer, sets the glass down, then squints over at me.

“I mean, we haven’t been here long enough for me to get a feel for it,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out. But if Boston’s what’s making you drink frilly wine, I might have some doubts.” He chuckles and nods at the glass in my hand.

Says the guy drinking beer from a glass.

I shrug. “Just expanding my taste buds,” I say, half lying since there’s no way in hell I’m telling any of them I ran into a girl at the store.

Why would I bother saying anything? All they’d do is harp on me about calling her to see what otherrecommendationsshe had. They think I need some sort of… distraction. Or ahookup. The word alone sends a chill down my spine.