He trusted me with them, and that made me feel good about myself in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. But thinking about Jonah’s actual heart transplant made my guts twist, like I’d just tossed back something super strong on an empty stomach. Terrible medical catastrophes struck innocent young people every day, but this one seemed like some cosmic screw-up. A terrible mistake. I couldn’t work out why the situation felt so wrong.
I moved my hand to the bare skin above my towel. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have someone else’s heart beating in my chest. Did it feel like his own? Could he feel it wasn’t? Once, when I was a kid, I accidentally swallowed an ice cube. I felt the cold hard rock of it in my chest as it went down. I wondered if Jonah felt that way—not the cold, but the presence of something hard and heavy and foreign in his chest.
You’re being stupid, I told myself. I’m sure it doesn’t feel any different. Or it feels better. His old heart was sick. The new one has given him life.
The thought bolstered me a bit, though the suspicion of something being not quite right didn’t leave me.
I put on cut-off shorts and a tank top, and exited the bathroom. But for the AC churning on the window, the apartment was silent. Peaceful. I sat on the couch to admire Jonah’s beautiful glass on the coffee table. I picked up the nautical paperweight, the sea life forever suspended in a quiet ocean.
Worlds away.
Twenty-four hours ago, my residence had been one of five bedrooms in the Summerlin house, the halls echoing with dozens of voices, loud music, and drunken laughter at all hours. I wasn’t the only partier in our group—just the most dedicated. My room in that house was trashed: clothes strewn all over, makeup messes in the bathroom. The only glass around wasn’t delicate art, but overflowing ashtrays, or empty bottles littering the floors.
The peaceful quiet of Jonah’s apartment seeped into me. I absorbed it, tried to bank it, sock it away for later, when I had to hit the road again.
My chest tightened at the thought of saying goodbye to Jonah. I’d only known him for a handful of hours, but it felt like longer. I was different around him than I was with other men. Instead of engaging in a fumbling, grasping union of bodies in a drunken haze, we talked. It felt like laying the foundation of something more lasting. Jonah had some magic quality about him that let me feel like myself. I liked being around him and I think he liked hanging out with me. Given time, who knew what might come of it?
Only we didn’t have time. Anything we started was just going to be torn up again when I left on Tuesday.
“We can stay in touch,” I murmured to myself. The crazy, relentless tour schedule loomed in front of me like an endless road, but a text or call from Jonah might make it more bearable. Just thinking about it made leaving a little less daunting.
The ring of my cell phone broke the silence. I jogged to the bedroom and fished the phone out of my bag to see Lola’s number.
“Hey.”
“Hey, girl,” she said, sounding tired on the other end. “You still alive?”
“Yeah, but you sound rough,” I said. “How was the party?”
“Oh God, I can’t even…”
I heard the flick of a cigarette lighter, and it occurred to me I hadn’t smoked since last night’s show. Or wanted to.
“It was epic,” she said, exhaling. “Booze was consumed. Police were called. Sex was had by many, including yours truly.”
“Oh yeah?” I sat on the edge of Jonah’s bed. “Who?”
“Jason Hughes. The bassist from our soon-to-be former opening act. It’s too bad, really. He’s hot. You should appreciate the sacrifices I make for you.”
“For me?” Then I remembered Ryan Perry, the drummer, getting grabby with me last night. Jonah stepped in and Lola demanded Jimmy fire Until Tomorrow.
“Yeah, for you,” Lola said.
“Maybe we could—”
“We have twenty-five more cities and six months’ worth of touring left with those guys. You really want to take your chances?”
I glanced down at my hands in my lap. “I’m sure Ryan was just drunk and being stupid.”
“Yes, to both. Neither excuses him.” Lola exhaled, her voice revved up to lecture mode. “You get drunk and stupid too, Kace, and it would only be a matter of time before he took advantage of the situation. Hell, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Wow, thanks,” I said, my cheeks burning. I almost told her I could take care of myself, but I had zero evidence to back that up. Lola had watched over me since I was seventeen years old, when the band’s success swept me up in a whirlwind of recording and non-stop touring. I’d never stood on my own two feet and hadn’t ever been sober long enough to try.
But I could try. If I had the guts…
“Sorry I’m grouchy, hon,” Lola said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want anything to wreck this, Kace.”
“I know,” I said. “But getting a new opening act is a hassle.”
It might be easier for Rapid Confession to get a new guitarist.
The words rose suddenly on my tongue, shocking me. But I couldn’t spit them out.
“I don’t see an alternative,” Lola teased, “unless we assign Hugo to you twenty-four/seven.”