by Jamie Howard
A familiar face broke through the crowd, but not before being waylaid by at least half a dozen people. I watched in bemusement as Ian stopped and chatted, shook hands and smiled at people. It was like I was seeing a completely different person. He’d said his friend owned this place, but I was still wrapping my brain around the fact that he had friends. That he socialized. Where was the awkward, lonely guy who was so nervous to go to a yoga class with me that he drank himself under the table?
He walked toward me, a goofy grin on his face, and I felt jealous. I tried to fight it down, but there it was, plain as day. Not only that, but I was angry. So much so that I felt the warm tingle of tears flooding my eyes. I fought tooth and nail for every miniscule quirk of his lips, and despite all my best efforts, I’d never seen him smile quite like that. What. The. Hell.
He stepped in front of me, stooping down to kiss me on the cheek. Not the lips, the cheek. I reigned in my surging emotions, struggling to get them under control. When he pulled back, his eyes searched my face, then scrolled down my body. “You . . .”
I grimaced, running a hand down my leg. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” My words had a bite to them that they usually didn’t, and his eyes narrowed with my tone.
He snagged my coat from where I’d folded it over my arm. “C’mon, there’s a bathroom in the back.”
He held his hand out behind him, and I took it, keeping a step off his heels. The crowd was thick around the bar but much thinner through the tables. For the most part, everyone was focused on the new singer (“Wanted Dead or Alive,” this time), though a few stray waves were sent in Ian’s direction.
I was so busy taking everyone in, silently freaking out as I counted how many people were there that when Ian stopped, I walked right into his back, nose first. My eyes watered and I stumbled back, a flash of pain climbing up the bridge of my nose. His shoulders blocked my view so I couldn’t see who he was talking to, but I could hear them well enough.
“—looking for you.”
“I don’t have time for this right now, Ben.”
“Well, you’re gonna make time. You think you can keep blowing me off and then just show up here?”
“Seriously, not now.”
Ian swayed backward like whoever this Ben person was had just shoved him. I’d had enough already, and with these stupid leather pants chafing in all the wrong places, I lost it.
Dropping Ian’s hand, I stepped around him and confronted this annoying impediment to my bathroom trip. “Hi, Ben, is it? Are you deaf or just dumb?”
There wasn’t much room between us, maybe an inch, if that. He took a step back, looking thoroughly confused by my appearance. He stared at me, eyes widening, and sweeping down my length. When Ian dropped a hand on my shoulder, Ben’s mouth fell open, and his gaze darted up and over my shoulder with an expression of shock.
My stomach twisted in knots, and my mind immediately flew off into a thousand directions as to what that look could have possibly meant. Get it together.
“Great,” I said. “Deaf it is. If you’ll excuse me.” Brushing by him, my shoulder clipped his, but I didn’t stop to apologize. I kept right on walking until Ian appeared next to me.
“Bianca, are you okay?”
“No.” I didn’t let myself say any more because I honestly wasn’t sure what was going to come out of my mouth. “Bathroom?”
He pointed just in front of me and to the left. I let my eyes scan his face, before I squeezed mine shut. I was such a mess. His fingertips grazed my cheek before I pulled away and shoved the bathroom door closed behind me.
I popped the lock into place before wrapping my fingers around the white ceramic sink. I pressed my fingertips into my eyes, swallowing heavily. I needed to calm down and relax.
It took a few minutes, but slowly I was able to fend off thoughts of my parents, the annoyance of Harper standing me up at the last minute, the aggravation of getting rained on, the anxiety of tonight, the constant ache of missing Renée, and the cocktail of emotions I was feeling toward Ian. An image of that smile flashed across my brain one more time, and my heart clenched, aching like a day-old bruise. I had to stop this, right now.
I sniffed and reached for the toilet paper, wiping up the black smudges across my cheeks of runny mascara, and, okay, a tear that managed to escape against my permission. Untying the halter top I was wearing, sans bra, I turned on the hand dryer and worked on that. When it was mostly dry, I ducked my head under the machine and finger dried my hair.
The leather pants caused an issue, and I made a mental reminder to myself to strangle Harper later for the suggestion. Once I had them down and towel-dried my legs, it was nearly impossible to get them back up again. Bouncing, hopping, and tugging, I finally succeeded, but by then my face was almost as red as my shirt.
With one last glance in the mirror, I readjusted my top and finally exited the bathroom. Ian lounged against the wall, his short-sleeved shirt showing off his ink and his arms folded across his chest.
He pushed off the wall when he saw me. “Better?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.” I let my gaze coast over him, searching his face for that elusive smile.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t even know me. Bianca, what’s wrong?”
“It’s . . .” I caught sight of Ben making his way toward us, and lamely finished with, “Nothing.” What else would I have said anyway? Sorry, Ian, I just can’t help wondering why you look so happy around everyone else, but when you’re with me I practically have to beg for a smile.
Ian’s head whipped to the side as Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, with a glance in my direction. “I think we might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“I’m sure.” I stretched my lips across my teeth into something that resembled a smile.
Ian nodded toward Ben. “This is Ben, my brother.”
“Oh.” I flipped my gaze between the two of them. Now that he’d said it, they did look similar. Ben was a few inches taller, his hair the same color but shorter. Same nose, similar face shape. I might’ve noticed if I hadn’t been out of my mind before. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ben.” Holding out my hand, I flipped on my high-wattage smile.
He shook it. “And you are?” He widened his eyes expectantly.
“Bianca.”
Ben shifted his eyes between the two of us, clearly not satisfied with the vagueness of my answer.
“You’re gonna have to excuse us, big brother. Bianca’s up next on stage.”
“You’re a singer?” Ben asked, his lips sinking to a thin line and pulling tight.
“Not even close.” I clasped my hands behind my back because I wasn’t sure what else to do with them. Ian kept his distance, and if I was reading the situation correctly (which, with my state of mind, I wasn’t quite sure I was) I was getting the feeling he didn’t want Ben to know that he and I had a thing. “Why” was another question that I didn’t feel like pondering at that moment.
I lifted my shoulder in a half shrug. “I guess I’ll catch you later.”
Ian led me over to the stage, bending over to say, “Ben’s a good guy. He’s just looking out for me.”
I frowned, and when I looked up at him, he was frowning too, like he was wondering why he just said what he did.
We waited on the outskirts of the stage, listening to the last few bars of “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.” After so many upbeat songs, mine was definitely going to be a downer. With every note the woman sang, coming closer to the end, my stomach plummeted and my pulse jackhammered.
I tried to convince myself this was no different than public speaking. Don’t look at anyone specific, focus on something in the crowd, calm and even breaths. As the woman hopped off the stage, her pink sequined dress glinting in the light, I took in one deep breath and held it till my lungs felt like they were going to explode. I climbed on the stage in front of me like
I was walking up to a firing squad.
The lights blinded me, but not enough that I couldn’t see the people in the crowd. My palms were damp as I wrapped them around the microphone stand, my fingers shaking. I listened to the first few notes through the speakers, waiting for my cue. When it came, I opened my mouth and . . . nothing came out. I froze.
Everyone looked at me expectantly. A man leaned toward his date, whispering in her ear with a laugh. Oh God, I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t just failing, I was failing Renée. Letting her down. I was about five seconds away from having a panic attack when a pair of warm hands gripped my waist and spun me around.
“Breathe, Bianca.”
A breath trembled through my chest, sending a fine course of shivers through my entire body.
Ian’s fingers gripped my chin and angled my face upwards. “You’re going to do this, do you hear me?” His lips pinched together. “Let me help you.”
I could only nod. Help me? How in the world could he help me?
He left the stage, and all I wanted to do was cling to his arm. Static buzzed through the now silent speakers, and even though my back was to the crowd, I could feel their eyes on me, the rumbling of their voices keeping up a low, consistent drone. Exchanging words and a few gestures, Ben disappeared and then reappeared, handing Ian a guitar. Ian shoved a stool behind me and then pushed me down on it. I covered the microphone with my hand. “Ian, what are you doing?” I hissed.
The stool screeched across the stage as he scooted it closer, then sat down on it. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and all the color drained from his face. “Don’t look at them, just look at me. You can do this.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I told him.
He looked down at his fingers where they clenched the neck of the guitar, the strings digging into his fingertips. He shifted his gaze to me, and his eyes softened. “I want to.”
Leaning forward, he snagged the microphone off the stand. “Sorry about that guys, I missed my cue.”
“Not the first time!” Someone shouted from the crowd, which caused a ripple of laughter.
“Probably not the last, either,” Ian joked. A smile was there, pinned on his face, but it was strained and painful to look at. No one else seemed to notice though. “You ready for some music?”
A cheer went up, and I focused on my breathing. I couldn’t sing if I couldn’t breathe.
Ian passed the mic back to me, and I cradled it in my lap.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
The place went silent, dead quiet. Even the bartender stopped to watch. Someone dimmed the lights as the first slow strains of the song peeled out from Ian’s guitar. I turned on my stool so I could watch him, and pretended that we were alone in the room.
He went for the long intro, adding a little flourish here or there that was completely his own. I relaxed, letting myself flow into the music, feeling my heart rate settle into an almost normal rhythm. But every breath I took seemed to steal one away from Ian. While I relaxed and my nerves stitched themselves back together, his chest heaved like he was struggling to breathe. When I thought he might pass out, his eyes flew up to mine, locking there.
Something stretched between us, like a lifeline we were each desperately grasping. I gave him a small smile, trying to squeeze every feeling that was overwhelming me at that moment into one tiny expression. He took in a deep breath that seemed to shudder through him, never breaking eye contact.
My first words were as shaky as Ian’s first strums, my voice almost cracking. The lyrics didn’t sound right when they were coming out of my mouth; it should’ve been Renée up here singing. This was her song, her list. My eyes burned as I made my way through the chorus, but I couldn’t shut my eyes like I wanted to. Not when Ian was staring at me like he thought I might disappear.
As Ian picked up steam, so did I—his fingers flew over the strings, his muscles in his arms rippling, and my voice steadied, ringing loud and clear. I forgot the crowd, stopped being embarrassed, and sang like no one was listening. I sang like Renée could hear me. I sang for her.
And through it all, I listened. I don’t know what I’d been expecting from Ian, but it wasn’t this. The guitar was like an extension of his arms and hands. He didn’t just play the guitar, he made love to it, coaxed out sounds I didn’t even know a guitar could make. Each note was breathtaking and heartbreaking and beautiful. I’d never in my whole life heard something that pure.
Before I knew it, the song was over, my throat aching, and the only thing I wanted was to do it again, just so I could hear him play one more time. The crowd cheered and whistled, and I offered them a quick smile, slipping the microphone back onto the stand. But it wasn’t me they were going crazy for, I knew that. Ian seemed oblivious to the applause. He set the guitar down so gently on the stool it was like he thought it was made of glass.
Hopping off the stage, he walked straight past Ben, down a narrow hallway and out the doors at the end. I hurried after him, bursting out into the night. We were in an alley, the dark pavement shimmering in the glow of the streetlight. The brick walls were soaked with rain, and mist clung heavily to the air.
Ian stood a few feet away, hands clenched in his hair like he was getting ready to rip it out.
“Ian,” I said, reaching out a hand toward him, but drawing it back at the last second. He took a step forward at the sound of my voice, away from me.
“Please, Bianca. Please just leave me alone.” The words were strangled, like they had to fight a battle just to make their way out of his mouth. His hands dropped from his head to cover his face, and his shoulders shook silently.
The walls I’d been building around my heart to keep him out cracked and crumbled. I took a hesitant step, the asphalt crunching underneath my feet.
“Bianca, please.”
I froze, the raw vulnerability in his voice making my lip tremble. My hand slipped to my throat, skimming up to my lips so I could press my knuckles against my mouth. And because he asked, because he practically begged me to leave, I turned around and left.
Chapter 26: Ian
3 Years Earlier
“I got it!” Maggie danced through the door, a magazine clutched between her fingers. She skipped across the kitchen, launching herself onto the couch between Felix and me. We bounced with the impact, and I almost lost the grip on my Xbox controller.
Gavin peeled his eyes away from the TV long enough to peek at Maggie. “You left the apartment in that?”
Felix snorted, and Mags backhanded him in the arm.
“Shut up. There’s nothing wrong with my outfit.”
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye—a faded pair of overalls with a hole in the knee, a purple crop top that kept wandering off her shoulder and showing off her blue polka-dotted bra underneath. Paint splatters covered all of it, stuck to strands of her hair, and there was one large brushstroke that went from one corner of her eyebrow to the tip of her ear. Her easel was still set up in the corner, the canvas shining from the wet oils. Thank God she had the drop cloth down, or we’d never be getting our deposit back on this place.
“Whatcha got there, Maggie?” Ben asked, without pulling his eyes away from the screen. He slammed down on the buttons, sending a barrage of bullets in my direction.
“Lemme guess,” Felix said, his tongue creeping out over his lip as he concentrated. His whole body rocked to the side as he sent his character diving behind a tree. “It’s Cosmo—‘Fifteen Secrets to Spice Up Your Sex Life.’”
I reached behind me to grab a pillow. Swinging with my left arm, Maggie ducked, and I walloped him in the face with it.
His yell was muffled in the fabric. He swiped it away, his hair standing straight out from his head with static cling.
Maggie sighed and hopped up on the coffee table, blocking out the TV. “Guys, I have the brand new issue of Rolling Stone. I don’t know, I think there’s someone you might recognize on the cover?” She waved the issue up a
nd down, practically vibrating with excitement.
Felix was the first one off the couch, the controller left forgotten on the cushion. “Whoa! Check out these sexy beasts!”
Gavin snatched the magazine from Maggie. “Man, this is so unreal. This is real, right?”
“‘Inside the Downfall,’” Ben read, passing the magazine on to me.
The glossy pages slid through my fingers as I flipped it open. “You read this yet, Mags?”
She hopped down from the coffee table and curled onto my lap, readjusting the magazine in front of her. “Couldn’t help it.”
“Summarize it for us,” Felix said.
“Forget how to read?”
“Christ, you two,” I said, poking a finger in Maggie’s side and making her giggle. “What’d it say?”
She skimmed through the pages, stopping when she got to more images of the band. They’d done interviews with all of us, one-on-ones and then as a group. Same with the pictures. We each had one page dedicated to us with a quick summary of the Q&A on the side.
“Let’s see.” Maggie stroked a finger over her chin. “The writer called Felix a descendant of Vikings, comparing his vicious performance on the drums to his appearance.”
Felix grinned and pointed to his nose. “It’s the nose, isn’t it? Or the hair, maybe it’s the hair.” Another pillow flew at him, this time from Ben’s direction.
“They said Ben was ‘silently sexy.’” She air-quoted that. “Something about him clearly being dedicated to the band, and his intelligence and business acumen shining through a playful personality.”
Ben shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased with the description. Whoever had done his interview nailed it. The memory of the party boy he used to be still popped through now and then, but between the night classes he was taking to finish his business degree and the role he took in managing the band, you were much more likely to see his serious side.
“And then there’s Gavin.” Maggie turned the page with a flick of her wrist. “A true sweetheart.” She leaned back against my chest and clapped a hand to her heart. “With a sultry voice and a talent at songwriting that is hard to surpass.”