“If I call you to run music stuff by you,” I say, “will you pick up the phone?”
Rowan gave me all the guys’ numbers tonight, insisting that they were idiots for not exchanging them earlier. The only number I had was Dee’s, and Rowan’s blue eyes dimmed when she told me that Dee has gone AWOL.
Shawn’s eyebrows turn in. “Why wouldn’t I pick up the phone?”
When my worried expression doesn’t change, his softens.
“Yeah, Kit . . . I’ll pick up.”
“You sure?”
“I promise.”
THAT NIGHT, WHEN I’m home alone in my own bed, I remember the way I practically begged him to answer my call and groan. My face is buried in my overstuffed pillow, and it’s not enough to get his scent out of my nose or his voice out of my head.
Just because I wouldn’t change what happened that night doesn’t mean I want to do it all over. I don’t want to fall for him again—not when the ground comes so quick, and not when it hurts so damn much.
I fell for Shawn Scarlett once.
And once was more than enough.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT FEW days are spent practicing music, listening to music, writing music, and doing whatever I can to go back to being the person I was before I reconnected with Shawn Scarlett.
Tough. Independent. Indestructible.
My hours are spent with a guitar pick between my fingers or between my lips, and food becomes an annoyance that nags at my stomach during songs and between songs and after songs. I live off of peanut butter crackers and coffee, and when I run out of the latter on Wednesday morning, I’m forced to change into real clothes and venture out of my apartment. In a black thermal, a tattered black skirt, a pair of star-print knee-high socks, and my trusty combat boots, I sit in my Jeep arguing with my phone until it gives me directions to the closest coffee shop: a Starbucks near the local college campus—one with no freaking drive-thru.
I somehow manage to keep my eyes open during the drive, and after reluctantly climbing out of my Jeep and into the real world, I cross the weather-beaten parking lot. Inside, I find myself in a mishmash of polo-wearing college kids who make me look like a neon blue sharpie in a box of ballpoint pens. Some of the guys stare at me like I’m contagious? and some stare at me like they want to catch whatever I’ve got, but most just stare at me like I’m a foreign food they want to taste but are too intimidated to try.
I scan customers gathered at tables and cozied on couches in the corner before my gaze drifts to the front of the line, where one guy is pulling at another guy’s shoulder to get him to place his order, but the latter is too busy smiling at me like I’m an adorable kitten with a “Free to a Good Home” sign hovering above my head.
He’s wearing pink Chucks, long cargo shorts, and a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt that looks like it’s legitimately scratch-and-sniff. Dark shades are pushed up into a thick lick of ombré hair, making the guy look just as out of place as I do.
When he smiles at me, I furrow my brows at him, and he turns around and places his order.
There’s this weird dude staring at me in a Starbucks, I text Kale while I wait for my turn.
Oh, look who’s alive.
If he murders me, bury me in my boots.
Those boots have probably melded to your feet. We’d never get them off.
Good!
“Miss?”
“Oh, uh.” I pocket my phone and scan the board behind the barista’s head. “A caramel mocha, please. Extra salt. Extra espresso.” I glance around for Mr. Shortcake, but all that’s left is polo, polo, polo.
I hold back a laugh when I realize that if I called out “Marco” right now, every single guy in this entire joint would need to call back to me. And judging by the way a few of them are beginning to ogle, they wouldn’t mind if I felt around for them with my eyes closed.
I ignore the unwanted attention and move to the end of the bar to wait for my drink, pulling out my phone again.
Sorry I missed family dinner Sunday.
Where were you?
The writing cave. I’ll make it up to you.
Better make it up to Bryce and Mason too. All they did the whole time was whine about how they’ve been replaced.
Considering I haven’t seen much of Adam, Joel, or Mike, and Shawn is so not ever going to be like a brother to me, they have nothing to worry about.
Did you tell them to stop being girls?
I have the bruises on my arms to prove it.
I smile and pocket my phone again when the barista slides my drink over. It smells like heaven, and I risk burning the roof of my mouth to take a long sip. Of course, it burns the shit out of me, but the caramel flavor on my tongue is worth it, and I’m still sipping as I toss my straw paper in the trash. I’m five steps from the door when a college guy in a red polo shirt abruptly stands to get it for me, but I hurry my pace and escape outside before he can get to it. I’m chuckling under my breath when a voice from behind me nearly makes me drop my drink.