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“I’m not so convinced anymore.”
I take a step back, my chest burning worse than after a missed strike during training.
Gabe sighs. “You’re darker. Unhappier. You don’t come around anymore unless you’re forced to.”
Bjornson’s words about Juliette crushing my heart whizz through my mind. I suspected he wasn’t the only one who thought I was devastated, but I’d also hoped I did a better job at hiding it. That would explain why Shane helicopters around me whenever we’re all together. I was mostly joking about asking Laurel to be my rebound, but it turns out, I need her more than I realized.
“Marina is back.” I don’t sound too convincing. “I’ve been giving you all some more space because you need time to reconnect.”
“You’re still like a son to me. And like a brother to Juliette—”
Even knowing that I shouldn’t, I scowl and turn away.
He grabs my shoulder again. “Stop and listen.” Gabe’s voice is seven-layer steel, unbreakable and sharp. “One: I will not let your ruin Juliette’s happiness. She wants you around, I want you around, but if you spiral out of control, you’re out.”
I nod. Fair enough.
“And two, and take it from someone who knows a great deal about the topic, you’ve got to let yourself grieve the fact that the life you had before Shane is over.”
I struggle to restrain a huff. Gabe doesn’t understand that my life before Shane ended when I was sixteen, not when Juliette married him.
He grabs me by the neck and thuds his forehead against mine. “You’ve got to grieve that things will never be the same with Juliette. That she will never be yours. That the kid she’ll have in December is not from you—”
“Enough!” I use a standard kung fu form to put distance between us by snatching his hand with my left hand and applying my right elbow to his chest in a decided blow. “There is nothing to grieve, okay? I’m fine.”
“You’re angry.” Gabe doesn’t seem to care at all that I punched him.
Guilt, however, floods me from head to toe. You don’t fight the man who has been substituting your father for the last seven years. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too that you had to hear this from me. When you’re a dad, you’ll understand where I’m coming from. Now go get that cream. And be nice to your new girl. It’s not her fault you're dealing with emotional fallout.”
I can never be mad at Gabe, no matter how hard he picks at the wounds I have long buried. My own dad wouldn’t bother with warning me to be respectful. “I will be, and she doesn’t take crap from me anyway.”
He smiles. “Good. Now seriously. Get the cream.”
Track 15
He’s Real
Laurel
That first morning after my run through the streets with Jace, I give reality a wide berth. It’s impossible that Jace knows my dad and doesn’t care. Not just doesn’t care, he refused Mom’s offer for a shout out about ACD. Who in their right mind would do that? I've come to the conclusion that I’m dreaming. I’ve always longed for a boyfriend who’d ignore my name and my relatives, but now that I have one, I can’t help but wonder if I made Jace up.
Judging by my family’s coy glances, he’s real. At least they have enough self-restraint to not bring him up every five seconds. In fact, Mom has been the Saint of All Patience. She talks to me about everything mundane, acting like nothing has happened at all. Like I haven’t brought over a guy who can coax me out into the world. A guy who filled my head with notes and chords and visions of stadiums clapping along with my songs.
A few days later, for the first time in months, I set foot in my dad’s guitar den. Most people have staring matches with other people. I, however, stare at the guitar my father used to teach me my first chords. This guitar—a rich red-brown, all-mahogany Martin with thin black and white rings for the rosette—has seen the world. It endured my Popsicle-covered hands. It survived my terrible voice. This is the guitar that revealed I had the patience to learn and advance past simple riffs.
It also sparked my father’s hopes that I’d follow in his footsteps. The memories of his proud face still haunt me. Then it dawns on me. What if I did it all wrong? I love music, but I went into show biz for my father. I don’t think I ever saw myself performing without him. What if I don’t know who I am? I always thought I did.
I pick up the Martin, sit on the floor, back against the wall, and play. One thing I know about myself without a doubt—music is in my DNA. I love it, I crave it, and I miss it when I shroud myself with silence. My fingers tingle, still sore from my practice with Jace, but the chords and harmonies I weave soothe the rest of me. I pause and pat the guitar on the side. It’s been a long time, old friend.
“There you are.” Dad appears in the doorway.
I scramble to my feet and return his guitar to its stand.
“You sound good,” he says.
“Mm-hm. Thanks.” I steal a careful look at him. He’d better not get his hopes up. Something is happening to me, but I’m not sure what, and I don’t know how it’ll affect my music. Or if our music will ever happen again.
