Page 78 of Gin and Bear It

Bianca nods, scooping up Sadie with one hand and putting down her cocktail glass. “Like you’re being tested for the first time?”

“Exactly,” I say, wishing I had a soft, fluffy animal to pet. But Dennis is sitting on the back of the couch, watching us with a vaguely judgmental look in his eye but not a thought in his orange head. Sadie is already comfily pressed up against Bianca’s chest, and Murphy is snoring in the chair across from us. “It’s hard and I don’t know what to do.”

“Just be there for him,” Rose says. “If he’s going through a rough patch, don’t bet on reading his mind. Just ask him what he needs and he might say he doesn’t need much at all.”

“That sounds like Ash.” Even though he’s opened up to me, I don’t think he’s itching to have any heart to hearts. “Not gonna lie, a lot of the pain is my own worry about what the changes mean.”

“That’s part of love and marriage. You don’t know what will change, but you know you’re committed to riding it out regardless,” Bianca says. “At least that’s what my parents said. It’s going in my vows if I can ever finish them.”

We sit in silence, absorbing Bianca’s words.

It’s true—no one knows what’ll change, and that’s the scary part of taking a leap. But no one said the changes all had to be hard or risky. If we said screw it and actually dated—or whatever this would be called—things might be great. We wouldn’t be hovering at the edge of each others’ hearts, worrying about diving in.

But we still hardly know each other, even though it’s been three months. The time we’ve spent together has felt good, but it always feels good in the beginning. That’s literally why it’s called a honeymoon phase. It’s the fantasy before real life hits.

Maybe we need to let the honeymoon phase ride out for now and see what we feel later.

I finish my drink, swirling the last tiny bit that’s pooled at the bottom of the glass. Yes, we need to maintain our friendship with benefits, even if it’s leaving uncomfortable truths unsaid. We need to know each other way better before we make a plunge into anything beyond what we are.

Even if sitting on our feelings and not doing a damn thing with them sucks.

TWENTY-FOUR

ASH

“Bro, is this you?” My cousin, Jim, shoves his phone in my face. The video that someone recorded of me talking about how Dylan and I wrote our music is playing loudly on the screen, right in the middle of the sales section of the office.

I blow out a breath. I’ve been with the sales team, led by Jim, for the past two weeks.

It’s been a long two weeks. Half in part because I’ve learned I hate sales, and half because Jim never shuts the fuck up. He should have taken up our grandfather’s offer to give him his inheritance if he went to a three-month-long silent retreat. He lacks the self-awareness to understand the connection between him and why Grandpa wanted that particular contingency.

“Yeah,” I say, holding in a heavy sigh. “It’s me.”

“Dang, dude. That’s wild.” He claps me on the shoulder. “That song is sick. You know, I tell people all the time on sales calls and shit that we’re related. That always gets me in the door. I can’t believe your band’s on hiatus. You could have made it even bigger.”

I nod along because Jim will continue talking regardless, and there’s nothing I can say to make this less awkward. People blowing smoke up my ass always made me feel more uncomfortable than big-headed, and it’s even worse now that the band is broken up.

When I was younger, I always thought being famous would feel incredible, but it’s not. It’s just an annoyance that got strapped to the part of my career that I loved—the actual music.

“I’m going to lunch,” I say to Jim, who’s been standing over me and talking to a sales rep on the other side of my cubicle for who knows how long.

“Alright. Don’t forget the Friday huddle at one thirty,” Jim says.

I grab my phone and head to the break room. Bubba has taken up his favorite spot at the edge of the open doorway, right below the signs that tell everyone not to feed him people food. His tail thumps against the floor when he sees me, so I give him a few good scratches.

I feel his eyes on me as I heat up my food, but I avoid looking at him. His sad eyes are hypnotic, and I’ll end up giving him some of these dumplings if he snares me.

Instead, I sit down alone with my lunch. The relative quiet is a relief after the constant chatter in the sales area. I can’t wait to move on to another division. I’m going to lose my fucking mind soon listening to endless phone calls and ass kissing.

I’ve avoided social media since coming to Jepsen, so I switch between an eBook and my email. The latter is more out of morbid curiosity than anything. I see one from our lawyer, who’s still a little pissed off about the karaoke incident. But this latest email said it could possibly (with a big emphasis on possibly) help with the general public’s opinion in our favor. Legally, it probably won’t do much.

I archive a bunch of bullshit emails but stop when I see one from a familiar name—Luis. He’s a songwriter I know. He’s known for writing similar music to ours, rock with a touch of pop and some electronic influences. I didn’t know he had my email.

Hey, Ash. I saw that video of you at karaoke and didn’t know you and Dylan were the ones who wrote your music. Caro always made it sound like it was mostly her, with you two on the side.

I snort to myself. Of course she’d say that. Now I’m wondering how often she made it seem like she was the creative genius behind everything instead of just the voice.

I also saw that you all are on hiatus. If you’re interested in chatting about songwriting, I’d love to meet up. I’m in Nashville all the time. I know a few people who are looking for a sound you can deliver.