“Well, she invited you, too, silly. But I think the art show would end up being more fun. Besides, parties still make me uneasy. And I could very well run into William there.”
William is the guy who assaulted me and attempted to rape me at a party a few months ago. Thankfully, I was able to get away before he got too far, but the thought of being near him makes me uneasy.
“You shouldn’t worry about running into him,” Ayden says. “He’s the one who should be worried, not you.”
“I know, but unfortunately, that’s not the way it works. I saw him at school after he did his community service. The douche had the nerve to grin at me.”
“I want to punch him in the face,” Ayden growls through gritted teeth, gripping onto the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
“You already did that.” I gently touch his arm, hoping to calm him down. “We just need to move on now. Stewing in what he did only gives him more power.”
“You got that from my therapist.”
“Yeah. He said that to me when I went to visit him.”
I went to one therapy session after what happened with William, mainly because my parents needed to know my head was okay. Talking about what happened was therapeutic, but not enough for me go to weekly visits like Ayden does.
“So, what do you say?” I ask, clasping my hands in front of me. “Does an art show sound New Year’s Eve worthy? Pretty please, say yes.”
“Sure. An art show sounds good.” He offers me a small, grateful smile. “But only because you said pretty please.”
“Awesome.” I shove the door open all the way, and a chilly breeze gusts inside the cab. “I’m going to go tell my dad to come get the tree. Then I’m going to take a shower. I smell like pine needles and greasy burgers, not a great combo.” I pause before I jump out. “Are you driving tonight or am I?”
“I can...” He appears distracted, his attention on the shut garage ahead of us.
“Hey, are you okay?” I search for what he might be looking at, maybe hidden in the shadows, but I don’t see anything.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” His gaze finds mine and he blinks dazedly. “I was just thinking about some stuff I have to do tonight.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” I swing my legs over the edge of the seat to hop out of the truck.
He shakes his head then forces a stiff smile. “I’ll go take care of the trees and then head over to your house in about a half an hour.”
I suppress a sigh, jump out of the truck, and close the door. Giving a quick wave to Ayden, I round the fence between our driveways and enter the warmth of my home.
My dad is in the kitchen when I walk in. He has a notebook in his hand, intently reading one of the pages as he nibbles on a cookie. His blond hair is sticking up, and he looks stressed out.
“Yo, Daddy-O.” I slam the door with an excessive amount of force to scare him.
He jumps and drops the cookie on the floor. “Jesus Christ, Lyric.” He shakes off his jumpiness and scoops up the cookie from the hardwood floor. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“That’s what I was going for.” I unzip my jacket and grab a cookie off the plate in the middle of the table. “Nice hair by the way. Did you just get out of bed? Or were you going for that bedhead/fauxhawk look all the cool kids are wearing nowadays?”
He places his palm on the top of his head, flattening his hair down. “Is it really that bad?” When I nod, he puffs out a frazzled exhale. “I was just going through some things for work, and I guess I took my stress out on my hair.” He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table.
I rest my arms on the back of a chair and lean over the table to get a glimpse of what’s on the pages. “Anything I can help with?”
He fans through the pages then rakes his fingers through his hair, making the ends stand right back up and solving the culprit of the bedhead/fauxhawk look. “Nah, it’s just club stuff I’m trying to figure out.”
“Like what?”
His brows elevate. “You really want to hear about my business problems?”
I stuff the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “That all depends on if it has to do with the music business side of it.”
“It does.” He seems hesitant to embellish.
I drop down in the chair across from him. “Then lay it on me. I’m all ears.”
“Okay, but you have to promise me one thing,” he says with reluctance. “That you won’t mention your band at all during the conversation.”
“My lips are sealed.” I drag my fingers across my lips, pretending to zip them up.
His mouth is set in a firm frown, as if the last thing he wants to do is discuss whatever he’s stressing about. “It’s about one of the bands I had lined up for the opening.” He waits for me to go back on my word and react, and I almost do, but forcefully smash my lips together, instead. “The lineup’s pretty cool, but one of the opening bands backed out at the last second, so my big plan to carry it out all day isn’t going to be possible. I mean, I still have a lot of good ones lined up.” He reads over a scribbled list of band names. “I just wanted seven total.” He flips the page, muttering nonsense, while I struggle not to put my two cents in. “It really isn’t a big deal, except that it is since the flyer and advertisement said there’d be seven bands.”