Page 42 of Strum Me

“You mean be young and famous and gorgeous and enjoy it? If they’re single, who cares? I just know that Sebastian can’t wait but come home to me at night. And he makes sure I know it.”

I envy her. I envy her confidence, I envy her utter trust. I would envy her happiness but I like her and think she deserves it. I’m going to miss her. I wish we’d had more time to get to know one another.

“Hmm, it’s time to break up the flirt fest, I think, give the guys a rest,” Hailey tells us before she squeezes herself through the crowd to the signing table.

“Everyone? Can I have your attention please? We’re going to have a half-hour break so the guys can grab a bite to eat. You guys can grab a number and come back at 1 p.m. That’ll save you from lining up. See you all again soon, and thank you, it’s been a great day so far!”

There’s a loud collective groan as the crowd watches the guys stand up and give them all a wave. Hailey walks over to them, handing out fresh bottles of cold water, instructing them on the day’s schedule. I watch as Brad asks her a question and she points over to me. He jumps over the table and I realize he’s heading my way. He’s been so busy this morning I haven’t spoken to him other than a quick good morning on the ride over, and so far, it’s been better that way. I’ll eventually have to tell him I’m leaving, but not before I get to spend these last few hours with him. And then I’ll tell him. But that time isn’t now.

“Um, I’m just going to run off and grab everyone some sandwiches. The guys must be starved,” I tell Cadence.

“Someone else can do that! That’s what their assistants are for, babe.”

“Nah, I don’t mind. I feel like a quick walk anyway,” I insist.

She smiles and squeezes my arm.

Grabbing my purse, I almost race out of the music store just as I hear Brad calling my name.

I pretend not to hear and take off on a slow trot toward the food court. I can still hear him calling me. I can’t start running; that’d be too obvious. I can only hope that he gives up. Something sour is leeching into my mouth at the thought that I’m going to have to say goodbye to him, and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to hold it in if he catches up with me now.

The sound of footsteps grows louder and then his hand is on my arm.

“Hey!” He pulls me to a stop, breathing heavy. “Butter, you didn’t hear me?”

I take a beat before I face him, trying not to look like I wasn’t running away from him. “Oh, no. Did you call me?”

“Yeah, you were practically sprinting away,” he pants, his arms on his hips as he draws long deep breaths.

“Oh, sorry, I just wanted to get to the sandwich shop and back before your break was over.”

He knows better than to believe me. There’s a question mark growing in his pupils as he holds my gaze. His chest heaves, slowing as his eyes pierce mine.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” he asks.

“What? Yeah, of course, I mean, I have a bit of a hangover. I’m not a pro like you guys.” I give a little shrug, hoping he’ll buy it.

“You sure? You haven’t said a word to me all morning…I mean, there was a time I would’ve done anything for that.” He winks at his references to our friendship.

I know he means it as a joke but it feels anything but jocular. It’s a reminder. One I’d rather not have.

“Nah, just have a headache, I’m fine.” I wave his concern away.

“Butter…come on. It’s me,” he presses gently.

Exactly. It’s you, you asshole. Why can’t I not feel anything when I’m around you?!

“I told you, Brad, it’s nothing.” I can feel my jaw tense. I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend that everything’s okay.

“But I can tell…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Just leave me alone and go flirt with your fans! Or Felicity or whatever her name is. Just leave me alone! I don’t need you hounding me all the fucking time!”

My outburst catches the attention of everyone around me, which is the last thing we need—to be recognized. I glare back at everyone, hoping to shame them into looking away. But Brad’s been doing this for longer than I have. He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into a quiet clothing store.

“Can I…help…you?” the sales assistant asks, clearly recognizing him halfway through her sentence.

“Er, yes, I want one of all your current season’s shirts, please. Medium. Wrap them up, take your time. We’ll be over here in the fitting rooms, if you don’t mind,” he says to her over his shoulder. We pass a few open-mouthed customers as he marches me into an empty fitting room lining the back wall and pushes me into it, squeezing in behind me and pulling the curtain closed.