The tour was unforgettable. I’ll never forget the bad parts, but I’ll never forget the good parts either. I’ll never forget the shows, the fans, the friends I made. I’ll never forget how insane opening for Cutting the Line was, or how ridiculous rating groupies afterward with the guys felt. I’ll never forget getting my ass handed to me by Mike at Call of Duty, or nights spent taking shots with the rest of the guys every time he made a headshot. Part of me missed my brothers back at home, but the other part of me already misses the ones I gained on tour.
“Yeah, Dad, I did.”
“Well, good then. Now eat your eggs. You’re getting scrawny.”
I finish breakfast thinking of Mike, of Joel, of Adam. And even though I try not to, I think of Shawn. My mom’s coffee doesn’t taste like his, and I find myself wondering what he’s doing as I sip it. I check my phone once, twice, a million times, and throughout the day, Kale mirrors my every move. He never hears from Leti, I never hear from Shawn, and as the hour hand on the clock ticks up—one, two, three, four—I type a million texts I never send.
Don’t come tonight.
Are you still coming tonight?
What does sorry for everything mean?
Why didn’t you want anyone to know about us?
What the fuck does everything mean?
I hate you.
Please don’t come tonight.
I loved you.
I never wanted this.
At five ’til six, I type two words and finally press SEND.
Don’t come.
But at 6:02, the doorbell rings and my heart plummets through the floorboards beneath my feet. Ryan answers the door, and I let the sound of voices draw me to the foyer.
Shawn’s eyes find mine across the room, giving no indication if he read my text yet or not. His shirt isn’t faded. His jeans aren’t torn. He looks . . . nice. God, really nice. He looks like someone I could bring home to meet my mom and dad.
I wish someone had slammed the door in his face.
“Is this them?” my mom asks from behind me, and I silently squeeze myself against the wall to let her pass. The rest of the band is making their way into my house, all looking equally as presentable—all except for Joel’s blond Mohawk, and Adam’s black nails, torn jeans, stacks of bracelets, and . . . well . . . yeah, everything about Adam, who would probably show up at his own grandmother’s funeral wearing the same stuff.
Shawn introduces himself first and holds out his hand, but my mom ignores it and pulls him in for a hug instead. He hugs her back, his gaze locking with mine over her shoulder. I don’t know if he wants to talk to me because of the texts I didn’t send, or because of the text I did send, but either way, I look down at my socks to keep from falling for the spell in his eyes again.
“And you must be Adam,” my mom says as she begins moving through the band one by one. Shawn shakes hands with my dad, who dragged himself from the den, and I slip closer to my brothers. Kale presses his shoulder against mine, reminding me I’m not alone.
My dad asks the guys which instrument each of them plays, and when Mike says he plays the drums, my dad starts talking about how my Uncle Pete played the drums in high school. All of the guys entertain his reminiscing as they follow him to the den, and somehow, I end up at the back of the man-parade with Shawn on one side and Kale on the other. I’m ignoring everything that isn’t front and center, but when Shawn clasps his hand with mine and tugs me to a stop, I have no choice but to stay in the hall with him or risk causing a scene. Kale stops too.
“Can we talk?” Shawn asks.
“Can we not?”
“What’s this about?” He shows me his phone, confirming that he got my text, and when I meet his eyes again, I can tell it isn’t something he’s going to let me ignore. With a sigh, I nod at Kale, giving him the okay to leave us for a minute. He doesn’t look happy, but when I nod again, he reluctantly slips into the den.
“Why’d you come here tonight when I asked you not to?” I snap at Shawn as soon as we’re alone.
“I was less than ten minutes away from your house,” he snaps back.
“So?” God, I sound like a child. And by the way his brows knit, he knows it.
“So . . . what the hell, Kit?”
Kale pops his head around the corner, since he’s obviously been eavesdropping and doesn’t like the way Shawn’s talking to me. “Are you guys coming?”
“In a minute,” I say, and when he gives me a look and disappears again, I resume barking at Shawn. “Can we just get through this? Then you can go back to being sorry. For everything.” I practically spit the last word, and then I escape to the den before he can stop me. I ungracefully plop down on the arm of Mason’s chair, gnawing on the inside of my lip to keep my lightning-quick tongue from striking out again.
It takes approximately two and three-quarters seconds for me to regret the past one and one-quarter minutes. I release my lip, glance at Shawn when he enters the room, and then bite down on it again. That didn’t go at all like I had planned. I didn’t keep my cool. I wasn’t aloof or even halfway professional. God, it was like the scorned fifteen-year-old girl inside of me clawed her way to the surface and threw her little fit.
But who was I to deny her?