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“I’m sorry—”
“Quit saying you’re sorry. You’re not sorry. How can you be sorry when you just don’t get it?”
Hurt, for a moment I couldn’t get the words out, and when I did, my voice was tremulous and weak.
“You’re not the only one who’s been through shit, you know.”
He yanked his hand through his hair, his eyes glittery and angry. “Look, you brought me here. I didn’t ask to come, but Jesus, Monroe, did you really think this was gonna be a good idea? I know I’m not the only one dealing with crap. I heard you the other night. Your mistake died? Is that it? Does that make your shit worse than mine?”
Pain lashed across my chest so tightly that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I looked away, afraid that I was going to lose it big-time, and I tried to still the trembling in my fingers.
“I can’t believe you just said that.” My words were barely a whisper. How had everything fallen apart already?
I stared across the street for the longest time, not really knowing what to do or say. Nate was right. This was my fault. I had brought him here. I must have known this wasn’t going to end well, so why had I done it? What was wrong with me?
Me, Monroe Blackwell, the person who didn’t like to feel anything, and now I was so full of emotion I was choking on it. It hurt.
I’d forgotten how much it could hurt.
Brent poked his head out of the door and I watched him look across the street at us. He lifted his hand, gave a half wave, beckoned for us to come, and then disappeared back inside with most of the crowd following him.
It was after nine, so I knew they were getting ready to play.
I watched a couple walk along the sidewalk, the guy with his arm across the girl’s shoulder, leaning into her, laughing, talking, kissing her neck as they headed toward the Coffee House.
They looked happy. Carefree.
Something else ripped through me in that moment, and it took a few seconds for me to get what it was. Jealousy.
I had to look away. I had to bury it or choke.
“I’m going in,” I said quietly. “You can come with me, or wait in the car, or you can leave. I really don’t care.”
Except that I did. I cared a lot.
I yanked on the door, slammed it shut, and crossed the street without looking back. What was the point?
I was alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Nathan
I waited in Monroe’s car for about twenty minutes. I sat there, pissed off at everything. Monroe. Brent. Myself. Trevor. The Coffee House.
I watched guys I knew walk in with their guitars, and it was hard not to get out and walk in the other direction. I couldn’t fathom hearing and feeling the music without Trevor. I didn’t think I could stand it.
And yet, there was a part of me that was tired of fighting all of it, and I suppose it was that part of me that propelled me forward. I got out of the car, but instead of heading in the opposite direction, I found myself crossing the street.
Out here, near the patio, I could hear Brent singing—or trying to sing. The guy was great for background vocals, but he didn’t have the chops to carry anything on his own. He hit a particularly difficult note—a high C—and I winced.
“Please tell me you’re going in?”
Janelle, one of the waitresses, wiped up the last table and nodded toward the door. With the music on, the patio was empty.
I didn’t answer her because I wasn’t sure.
“I hope you do, hon,” she said before heading to the door. “I’m pretty sure Trevor would want you up on that stage.”
