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All that, and she’s yet to ask for a single dime.
If I knew her better, I’d tell her she’s being used, but then again, that’s probably the whole point. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her, and if it was so awful or if she was expecting to be on the payroll, she’d have bounced five states ago.
“Sorry about your dad.” Charla or Charlotte pouts her lower lip and takes a seat beside me on the bus couch.
“Thank you.”
How I missed it before, I’m not sure, but Charla-Charlotte is wearing a Phantom Symphony T-shirt that has been bedazzled with rhinestones and glitter, making her sparkle every time she shifts around.
“Oh, you like this?” She tugs on her shirt when she sees me noticing it.
Her innocent smile and big sky-blue eyes make it difficult for me to tell her I hate it.
I hate glitter.
Glitter reminds me of Briar.
And Briar is the last person I want to be reminded of.
She’s the reason I couldn’t leave Driftway fast enough. The whole place was dripping with tears. Everywhere I looked there were puffy eyes, crumpled Kleenex, ancient photos of better times forever captured. It was as depressing as hell. And on top of that, I had to watch my brother receive undeserved comfort and sympathy from the woman I can’t stop wanting, no matter how much I try.
“I can make you one,” she offers after my silence.
“No, thank you.”
Her smile vanishes.
“Appreciate it though,” I add.
Connor swipes a can of Voodoo Ranger IPA from the fridge, pops the top, and chugs it in one go. We’ve got a show in about six hours, and downing a six-pack has always been part of his preshow ritual.
Fans go crazy over his stage presence, but they’d never know that, deep down, he’s an anxious wreck before each and every performance. That’s the thing about guys like him. All that over-the-top confidence is simply overcompensation for their lack of confidence.
Billy, our bassist, steps out from behind the curtain next.
“Thought that was you, man.” He gives me his usual high-five-half-hug combo before plopping down in the seat across from me. “Glad you’re back. Sorry about your old man.”
“Thank you.”
There are four other members of the band, a handful of girlfriends, and an entire second bus full of stage crew, which means I’m going to have to hear about my dead dad the rest of the night. Not ideal, but nothing I can do about it other than get through it.
Last week, the band offered to cancel their Baton Rouge show and come to the funeral, but I told them not to.
The show must go on.
It’s the number one rule in the entertainment industry, but I ought to adopt it as my personal mantra from here on out.
When Audrina left me for my brother, I was crushed, confused, heartbroken, but I hardened my heart, pushed her out of my mind, and went on my way.
The world didn’t end then, and it’s not going to end now.
All it took was time.
Someday, there’ll come a time when I’ll be able to write Briar off once and for all.
Hopefully sooner rather than later.
Then, and only then, the show will go on, and the intensity of what we had will fade like a vivid dream that’s turned into some misty, long-forgotten, watercolored memory.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BRIAR
Present Day
“Wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” The glossy-haired, baby-faced intern I’d just begun to train before I left last month places a mug of coffee on my desk. “You have a good time?”
“I did,” I say.
“Go anywhere fun?” Her enthusiasm is forced, but I can’t blame her. I remember the days of being an underpaid office nobody and wanting everyone to like me in the hope that my internship might one day turn into an actual job.
“Stayed with some friends at their beach house.” It’s the version closest to the truth I can give due to my NDA.
“Oh, fun! Like, in the Hamptons?” She perks up as if she loves the Hamptons and goes all the time.
“Not the Hamptons, no,” I say, “but similar vibe.”
Give or take a private island and significantly fewer people . . .
My email dings with an iCal invite from Burke. After Redmond’s funeral, we spent another week on Driftway, tying up loose ends. We’ve been in the city a few days now but back at the office for a mere two.
While we didn’t discuss how things were going to be once we were back in the proverbial real world, I didn’t expect that we’d go back to being two passing ships in the night.
The man has walked past my desk no fewer than seven times, and he hasn’t so much as coughed in my direction.
I can’t say that I’m surprised—nor am I disappointed.
We’re not friends . . . and after everything that came to light, it’s safe to say we never will be.
