“I said I can’t come right now,” I said through clenched teeth.
Then there was silence again.
It lasted so long I started to think that Garrett had hung up.
“Hello?” I said.
“Is that how things are going to be? This is it?” Garrett asked quietly and I felt a twinge of guilt at the sound of regret in my friend’s voice.
Was this how it was going to be? Was I really going to shaft my band and go out on my own?
Was I really going to leave behind everything that had made me who I am and think only of myself?
The possibility was too tempting to ignore.
But I still couldn’t be the dick that they expected me to be. I still owed them something.
“Look, I’ve got to get my head in the right place. Give me some time. Yeah, I’m pissed, Garrett. I’m really fucking pissed. I don’t want to come over and it turn into another round of the Jordan and Cole agro hour,” I said, feeling really tired. I still hadn’t found any ibuprophen and my headache was attacking my brain with renewed force.
“Cole, man, I don’t think it’ll be like that. You and Jordan just need to hear each other out. You’re friends-” Garrett argued.
“No, he’s your friend. He’s never been my friend. I think that’s fucking obvious,” I said, sounding like a whiny bitch.
“Shit, are you for real? You’ve been playing in a band together for years. Stop being such a *. Your feelings are hurt. I get it. But you need to get over that shit for the sake of the band,” Garrett growled. He was pissed. I could tell because he wasn’t neutral anymore. He was spitting nails.
“For the sake of the band? What band, Garrett? Because where I’m standing I don’t see anything resembling a group I want to be a part of.”
Garrett hissed in a breath.
“Well, if that’s how you feel, I won’t stop you. And I’m not going to argue over the fucking phone like two high school cunts. If you want to talk about the band and about what the hell has been going on, you know where I live.”
And he hung up.
I threw my phone on the couch and kicked over the trashcan.
I covered my face with my hands and screamed as loud as I could. Two seconds later there was a pounding on the other side of my wall.
“Shut up! Some people are trying to sleep!” my meth head neighbor yelled through the paper-thin partitions.
I had hoped that my life would change for the better.
How wrong I was.
“You seem distracted, Vivian. What’s wrong?” Theo asked as we sat in at the table in the foyer of The Claremont Center on Tuesday morning. It had only been two days since Maysie had shown up our doorstep and I was a nervous wreck.
I had skirted around town, dodging places where I was convinced I’d run into Cole. I stayed the hell away from Barton’s, the liquor store, and Deanne’s Diner, only because I knew how he loved their pecan pie.
But even as I tried to avoid him, I couldn’t help but look for him everywhere I went. I was picking up ice cream and facial cleanser at Walmart and I couldn’t help but look anxiously around for that dark head I was desperate, yet loathed to see.
I went through the drive-thru at Burger King for a vanilla milkshake and I found myself peering into the dining room, wondering if Cole was perhaps there, picking up his usual Whopper with cheese.
And when I drove down his street, because it seemed like the shortest way to get to my hairdresser, I tried to suppress the instant swarm of butterflies that unleashed their holy terror in my stomach when I caught sight of his beat up clunker sat out front of his building.
So damn straight I was distracted. I was a huge, giant, sweaty mess of distraction and it wasn’t getting any better. Every hour, every minute, every goddamned second that passed, knowing that Cole and I were in breathing distance from one another felt like a ticking time bomb.
I just waited for it to go off in my face.