When Shawn stares and stares and still can’t place me, I turn to Mike and answer, “Sometimes.”
As the guys continue asking me questions—have I been in a band before, were we any good, why’d we break up—and I continue giving them answers—in college, we could have been better, because they wanted nine-to-five jobs—I wonder what would happen if Shawn would remember me. Would I be happy? Would he laugh it off? Would he apologize for breaking my teenage heart?
Any apology now would be too little, too late. It’d be meaningless—and so infuriating that I’d have to use my combat boots to do just what Kale told me to.
“And you’re sure this is what you want to do with your life?” Mike asks me, and I nod.
“More than anything.”
Satisfied, Mike turns to Shawn. “Anything to add? Or should we have her play?”
Shawn, who hasn’t said another word since asking me what year I was, rubs the back of his neck and nods. “Sure. Let her play.”
Taking my dismissal for what it is, I walk away and grab my guitar, sliding it onto the stage before hoisting myself up behind it. I force Shawn from my mind and get set up in record time, strapping my Fender around my neck and stepping up to the mic. As I adjust it to fit my height, the guys are all sitting at the tables, laughing and carrying on. All of them but Shawn, who is too bored with my audition to laugh along with the rest of them.
“What do you want me to play?” I ask, ignoring the way he’s staring at the table in front of him like it’s far more interesting than anything I could possibly do onstage.
“Your favorite song!” Adam shouts, and the butterflies in my stomach fade away as I concentrate on the music in my head. I think about my options for a moment before chuckling under my breath and stepping back. As soon as I position my fingers and pluck the E string, all six American Idol judges start to groan and I can’t help laughing.
“Just kidding!” I say into the microphone, knowing they must have heard “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes a hundred times by now by amateur guitarists. When I step away from the mic again, I smile down at my guitar, thinking about it for another brief moment before I begin playing “Vices” by Brand New. My fingers slide over the strings, the harshness of my chords assaulting the very foundation of the building we’re in and reminding me how much I’ve missed being onstage. With my old band, I played small venues to small crowds, but a stage is a stage, and a show is a show. Performing is in my blood now—like being A positive or B negative. I couldn’t forget what it feels like if I tried.
When Adam’s hand lifts, I reluctantly stop playing.
“Do you write your own stuff?” he asks before my heart can sink too far. When I nod, he asks me to play something, and I play one of the new untitled songs I’ve been working on just because it’s the freshest on my fingers.
Again, I don’t get far into it before he stops me.
I wait for him to tell me I suck and order me to leave, but then the guys share a few words and all stand in unison, their chairs screeching against the floor as they get slid back. When Shawn, Adam, Joel, and Mike walk toward the stage, my heart beats hard, climbing inch by inch into my throat. I try to play it cool as Mike sits at the drums, as Joel and Shawn collect their guitars and hook them up, as Adam takes his place at the mic.
Adam names one of their songs and asks me if I know it, and I nod in a daze. My chin is still moving when Adam’s thumb goes up and Mike’s drumsticks tap together. Three taps, and then I’m swept up in a performance with The Last Ones to freaking Know.
We play bits and pieces of a few songs, and I’m feeling really, really good about my audition, when Adam gives me a big smile and says, “Okay. I think that’s good. Have we heard enough?”
He glances at Mike and Joel, who are both smiling equally wide and nodding, and then he looks at Shawn, who nods too, with no light in his eyes whatsoever. No smile, either—not a small one, not a forced one, just nothing. He doesn’t even try.
“Yeah,” Shawn says, turning that unfazed expression on me. “Thanks for coming. We’ll give you a call.”
I stare at him blankly, not giving myself permission to speak or think or feel—not with him standing in front of me, staring at me like I’m nothing. I politely thank the guys, and then I gather my things.
I leave knowing I’ll never hear from them again.
Because I know what it means when Shawn Scarlett says he’s going to give you a call.
Chapter Two
“FIND FROYO,” I order my phone on the way out of Mayhem’s parking lot. I’m not going to cry. Not going to cry. Not going to shed a single goddamn tear.
I am, however, going to drown myself in the biggest bucket of frozen yogurt I can find.
“Sorry, I do not understand,” the robotic voice of my phone says back to me syllable by syllable, and I growl at it sitting down in my cup holder before repeating myself.
“Find fro-zen yo-gurt.”