I feel his green eyes on me as I play, and I gaze through the orange glow illuminating the stage to stare back at him. He’s shouting lyrics into his backup mic, his fingers viciously strumming the strings of his guitar, looking like the rock god I could never help falling for. Every girl in this place is wishing they could go home with him tonight, and I’m the one who could. I could ditch my brothers, pull him somewhere private after the show. I could let him take me and pretend it means nothing to me. I could be his secret.
I could let him break my heart.
Again.
I watch him watching me, missing him already. I miss the dream of him. I miss the lie of us.
I look away because stupid tears are stinging, and the only way I fight them back is by pouring myself into the music. I close my eyes, I bounce with the beat. I jump, I spin, I shred my fucking guitar like it’s never been shredded before. When I have a freestyle opportunity, I play my fucking heart out for him.
Because I’m not that same pathetic girl who thought her name wasn’t worth telling. I’m Kit Fucking Larson. I’m a goddamn fucking rock star.
When I open my eyes again, the faces in the crowd are wild, and so am I. The pit is the sea in my storm, pitching crowd surfers over its waves. They reach for us with desperate fingers before getting snatched by security and tossed away. Adam is singing his heart out, Mike is pulverizing the drums, and the crowd is a thrashing, living beast dancing to our chaos. I play for them. For this.
I lose myself in the music, the motion, the lights. My heart pounds, my blood rushes, my skin blazes. In a damp shirt, with numb fingers, I hit a break in the song and pin my guitar pick between my lips, yanking off my flannel and chucking it into the crowd. The churning ocean catches it, and I watch it sink beneath the swell. Then I drop the pick back to my fingers and hit my next note—flawlessly, like the mid-song striptease was fucking easy.
It’s the kind of show that should last forever. I’m the kind of lost that should never be found. But all too soon, our first “last song” ends and the guys and I walk offstage. My brothers are still there, Shawn is still breathing, and even though Adam is normally the one to rave about how great everyone was, tonight Bryce beats him to it.
“Holy shit!” he says while I wait for the backlash. I’m expecting my brothers to bitch about my career choices, clothing choices, life choices. But instead, he shouts, “You were fucking awesome!”
He claps me hard on the shoulder, and my thoroughly worked body nearly topples. But Mason catches me before I stumble, wrapping a big arm tight around my shoulder to hold me steady. “You’re a damn rock star, sis.”
I tilt my chin to stare up at his big smile . . . and then, I fucking cry. I hiccup, and then I cry.
I don’t even know why I’m breaking down. Maybe because I’m happy my brothers love me. Maybe because I’m devastated Shawn doesn’t. Maybe because I’m homesick. Maybe because I never want these past few weeks to end. Maybe because I’m not dreaming anymore. Maybe because I can’t.
Kale’s arms are the next to wrap around me, and I soon find myself smothered in a four-brother hug—in Mason’s big arms, under Ryan’s careful gaze, in front of Bryce’s twice-broken nose, with Kale squeezing my shoulder until I pull myself together. They shield me from the world until the hiccups stop coming, and I kiss each one of them on the cheek before I let them go.
“Are you okay?” Ryan whispers in my ear on the last hug.
I sniffle and wipe my nose on the shoulder of his button-down shirt. “Yeah, I think I’m just a little homesick. Are you guys driving home tonight?”
He pulls away to study me. “Yeah, why?”
“Do you have room for me?”
I force a reassuring smile at his worried expression, and eventually, he nods. “Of course we have room for you. Come on . . . Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Nineteen
ARE WE OKAY?
In the light streaming through my childhood bedroom window, I read Shawn’s text for the millionth time.
We’re fine, I typed back last night on the car ride home with my brothers. Ryan’s SUV was a mobile interrogation unit, and I wasn’t sure which made me feel worse—dealing with their questions, or drifting farther away from Shawn, mile by mile, minute by minute. I felt like I should have confronted him, should have called him out about everything and heard what he had to say for himself. But I wanted him to come to me. I wanted him to come clean while he had the chance, to tell me he cared about me enough to shout it to the whole world. But he never did.
We don’t feel fine.
You’re coming to meet my parents tomorrow.
My thumbs punished the letters on my touchpad as I typed. I was angry with my brothers for inviting the band to a Saturday family dinner, angry with the band for agreeing to come, and most of all, angry with Shawn. For everything. When my brothers invited the guys to dinner before we left for home, I tried to object, but without being able to give the real reason, it was pointless. It was four against one. Even Kale wasn’t on my side, and Shawn said nothing. He just stared at me like I had broken his heart and not the other way around.
I guess losing a toy can be pretty devastating.
You’ve been avoiding me since this morning.
“What are you doing?” Kale asks, and I look to my doorway to see my twin leaning against the jamb. I hadn’t responded to Shawn’s text last night, and I woke up this morning to one more.
I’m sorry.