Even before I find whom I’m after, Lisa’s truth is settling into my mind: I can’t stop thinking of Gavin, but I’m sure he’s not thinking of me.
It hurts to realize. I honestly didn’t see it coming, but once Lisa said something, I couldn’t miss it. I’m writing songs about me, not him or anyone else. They’re naive and childish. They’re four-minute stories about girls who are found, girls who are rescued, girls who fall in love. Thank God I’ve been working on these alone because I’d be mortified to show Gavin … especially given what I’m coming to realize has always been true about him, and how he feels (or doesn’t feel) about me.
I’ve been thinking about him since that first night, when I sang the song he’ll no longer let me touch. I’ve been dreaming about him. I keep thinking about Mom and Dad and my old life, and when I do, I think of my life here with Gavin as its alternative. Because now that I have Gavin, I know I was right to leave. I was right to break things off with Brian, and it even made sense to turn down my scholarship, seeing as I ended up living the artistic, writing life I’d always wanted, with a handsome musician on my arm.
Except that Gavin isn’t on my arm, and never has been. We went on one date, and shared a few good kisses. Beyond that, has there been anything more than empty smolder?
God help me, I’ve allowed myself to fall in love with a man who will never love me back.
And worse, it hasn’t been close. The more I think on it, the more obvious that is. How long have we known each other? What have we truly shared, beyond a few good hours? How much do I really even know about him? He’s a closed book. I’ve spilled my guts, about my family and past, but if Chloe hadn’t told me about Gavin’s old bandmates and his connection to the singer, Grace, I wouldn’t even know that much. Officially, he’s a brooding guitarist, and I’m a slobbering fan. I’m into him, no matter what I told Lisa. Just like all the other anonymous, faceless girls are into the stunning Gavin Adams.
What can possibly come of it?
And yet I can’t shake him from my head. I can’t stop writing the songs, though I definitely hide them better now. I can’t chase him from my dreams. When I think of home, I can’t keep Gavin out of my justification for leaving. When I think of my future, I can’t help but imagine it with him.
If I can’t get past this, I won’t have any of it. So I have to get past it. I have to let these feelings go. Because yes, I hated Gavin at first, and no, I don’t hate him anymore. Even without my one-sided love, I like him now. I respect him. Even though he’d hate it, I feel bad for him. And despite my conflicts, I can imagine a platonic future. Me, Freddy, and Gavin? We have something; I can feel it. And the worst thing I could do would be letting my emotions screw it up.
Two days later, a couple sits in Maya’s section at the Pit. She’s on her way out to greet them when I grab her arm and pull her into the breakroom, careful to evade Ed’s roving eye. He was flirting hideously with Maya earlier and I felt sad watching it, but right now things seem to be clear.
Once we’re in the room, Maya looks at me, waiting to see what’s up.
“I need you to trade me tables,” I say.
“Trade? You know Roxanne hates that.”
“Screw Roxanne.”
“Ed listens to her more than she listens to Ed.”
“Screw Ed, too.”
Maya plants a hand on one hip. She looks tired. Her daughter is a hell of a kid, but Maya still looks like an exhausted mom because apparently it’s an all-or-nothing situation, no matter how good her offspring might behave. Maya is young, like me, and superpretty, but she’s still always struck me as wise beyond her years. Given what Mackenzie’s father did to Maya, it’s easy to understand. Wisdom is a double-edged sword. You’re less innocent, yes. But it usually takes hard times to strip that innocence away, and make you see truth.
“Which table?” she asks.
“Riley and Brandon Grant.”
“Okay,” she says.
“It’s not for the tips,” I say.
Maya smiles. She could just as easily look at me as if I’ve insulted her because Maya cares about people a whole lot more than money. Implying I’m swapping my customers for hers to get more tips should insult her as much as the implication that she might care about it if it means something to me, but she’s kind enough to say nothing, understanding that I must have my reasons.
“Of course,” she tells me. Then: “Who do you want me to take?”
Maya may not care about the tip imbalance I’ve created by stealing one of Cherry Hill’s richest couples, but I still feel the need to compensate.
“Mr. Shale. He’s at 7.”
“Ebon’s out there?”
I nod. I should add that he’s a good tipper, too, but again, I don’t want to insult her. Ebon comes and goes as he travels, so we can pretend it’s only his stories and encyclopedic memory that make him interesting.
“Sure. Of course. Whatever you need.”
Ed bellows from somewhere up front. He’s not yelling for us, but he’s definitely yelling at someone. I glance at Maya, nod my thanks, and we head out. I enter the front from the far end so I won’t have to walk by Ed (Maya goes the short way, and I cringe at the realization that he’s probably calling her “Sugar Tits” or something and they’re both pretending it’s funny), and grab a pot of coffee to top off my neglected customers.
When I arrive at the Grants’ table, I don’t run through my usual song and dance, telling them that I’m Abigail and that I’ll be taking care of them today. I’ve only met the man, Brandon, once or twice, but Riley — who’s usually in with her friend Phoebe — has been a regular since she came home from college.
Riley looks up with a toothy smile.
“Hi, Abigail.”
“Hey there.” Then I turn and nod at Riley’s husband. Brandon has some high-powered job with Riley’s father, Mason, and everyone knows Mason James. Interestingly, it’s not as incestuous as it sounds. The way the rumor mill tells it, Brandon has his job in spite of being with Riley rather than because of it.
“Coffee today?” I ask.
“Just water.”
I look at Brandon. He has a huge scar across one cheek, but it does nothing to mar his handsome face. It seems to enhance it, if anything. The rumor mill has things to say about that scar, too.
“Water’s good for me, too,” he says.
I head off and grab their waters. Normally, I’d circulate and hit my other tables before returning, but this time I run over, get their glasses, and come right back. Maybe fifty seconds have passed. They look up at me, Riley on my right and Brandon on my left. I set the drinks down but don’t grab my pad. Riley, who’s here all the time, must sense this disturbance in the normal order because she seems confused, waiting for me to fetch what’s missing.
“Do you … ” she begins.
I sit beside her and shoot a glance back at the hostess stand, where I last saw Roxanne and Ed, but Riley and Brandon’s table is in a nook. They won’t see me shirking duty unless one of them walks right by.
“Oh, hey there,” Riley says.
“I know this is awkward,” I say. “But I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Sure,” Riley says, baffled.
“Actually, I’m thinking more of your husband.”
Brandon seems a bit surprised but maintains his pleasant look. He has deep-blue eyes, like Gavin. The first time I met him, he had a big mountain-man beard. Not that I see him that often or know him at all, but every time I see him featured in the paper, I always think his eyes look lost without the beard.
“Okay,” he says.
“You know Gavin Adams, don’t you?”
Riley giggles. She probably thinks I want his autograph.
“Yeah. We’ve known each other a while.”
I nod back, still looking around, wondering if this was wise. In name, I’m a regular waitress, and Riley is my regular customer. I was hoping to talk to her, but there was always the off ch
ance I’d get Brandon too, and he’s whom I really wanted. And as odd as it is for the waitress to sit with her customers, it would have been odder for me to find Riley’s (or Brandon’s) phone number and call them at home or work. It was the Nosh Pit or nothing, and now I need to be quick.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a great guy.”
“But … what’s he like?”
Brandon seems a bit uncomfortable. If I’d asked Riley this question about one of her friends, it would be awkward, but I haven’t even asked Riley, whom I sort of know. I’ve asked Brandon. And he barely knows me at all, despite him dropping by the Overlook at times I’d never be around.
“What do you mean?”
This is impossible. Time is short, so I’ll have to be blunt. If Brandon thinks I’m a nosy bitch, so be it.
“I know his girlfriend was killed a while back. In a car accident.”
Brandon blinks a little, probably wondering where this is going. He looks at Riley, probably to see how he should take all of this, but then he returns my gaze and says, “Yes. He did.”
“He still seems very … ” Is there a way to say this that isn’t too forward or intrusive? “Wounded by it,” I finish lamely.
“Of course.”
“I should explain,” I say. “I work with Gavin. I’m also a waitress at the Overlook. Danny. I know Danny. I know he knows you.”
What am I doing? I sound like I’m defending myself. I just want him to know I’m a friend, not some wacko. Although to be fair, it’s not unreasonable that I might be both.
“Sure, I know Danny.” Another glance at Riley. “But what’s this about Gavin?”
“I’ve … talked to him a lot.” An idea strikes me, and I add, “We’re sort of working together. Not just at the club. Like, collaborating. We and Freddy Trembles.”
“Sure, I know Freddy.”
Now I’m the one looking furtively at Riley. This was a bad idea. I’m not committing any crimes, but I must look guilty. I’m tossing out names and credits like I’m trying to prove my legitimacy, but it’s only making me seem weirder. And what’s more, I don’t know if my, Freddy’s, and Gavin’s arrangement is secret or not. It might be. And now I’ve blown it, proving I can’t be trusted.
I sigh, meeting Brandon’s eyes, feeling seconds ticking away. Time to go for broke. He’ll either think I’m crazy to ask, or he won’t. Either way, I’ll have Riley to vouch for me at least a little.
“If I’m going to work with him — ” I pause, leaving a gap in which Brandon might infer that this is a question of our partnership’s financial stability. “I’m just wondering if he’s … you know. Stable?”
“‘Stable’?”
“I know this is forward. I’m so sorry. I just didn’t know whom else to ask. I don’t know his friends, but Riley said you guys go back.”
Riley nods at Brandon, apparently buying my line of crap.
“Don’t apologize. I’m just trying to be sure I understand.”
“You guys are friends. You have history. I guess I’m just wondering, how is he in … well, in relationships?”
“You could ask him.” I sense the first signs of defensiveness, but don’t take it personally. I’d protect my friends from people like me, too.
Riley saves me. “She can’t ask him.”
Brandon gives me another half second’s hesitation and says, “You can trust Gavin with your life.”
That lifts my heart. Unwanted and unwise, the tips of all my blushing fantasies about him threaten to rush forward. He really is a white knight. A man you can trust with your life.
“Really?”
“If you’ve got some sort of a deal going, he’ll honor it.” Again, he glances at Riley, as if wondering whether to go on. “I guess I can tell you this. What he had with Charlie and Grace — his bandmates who died in that crash? They didn’t even have a contract. They were owed a bunch of money for concerts and some indie sales at the time of the accident, so, like, a week later all that money came to Gavin. It was legally his to keep. But he divided it in three, then hand-delivered it to Charlie’s wife and Grace’s mother.”
A switch flips inside me. Brandon’s story, simple and distant as it is, makes me want to cry.
“You’re lucky to be a relationship with Gavin Adams.”
I laugh a little at his phrasing. Embarrassment mingles with the laughter. “We’re not in a relationship.”
Brandon, apparently deciding he can trust me, laughs back. The laugh is hearty and more than the simple misunderstanding calls for. I wait for him to finish, sure that any second Ed or Roxanne will pop around the corner and bust me. But then Brandon wipes his eyes and settles. I look over at Riley, also grinning, inches from laughter herself.
“Oh, wow,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“He didn’t mean it that way,” Riley echoes.
“Of course. I didn’t even think of it and didn’t realize it would sound that way. I’m sorry.”
Now I’m looking from one to the other. A joke bomb has been set off, and I didn’t even notice the blast. Someone needs to let me in on this because whatever Riley and Brandon are sharing, it seems like a doozy.
“What is it?” I ask again.
Brandon’s eyes clear. He looks across the table at me.
“Give you a piece of advice about my good friend Gavin,” he says.
“What advice?”
“He wants you in a partnership, consider yourself lucky.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Brandon looks at Riley, and again they both laugh. “But if he ever wants you in a relationship, run away as fast as you can.”
CHAPTER 28
Gavin
Abigail surprises me by calling and asking if I’d like to get together and work on our songs. She’s pleasant, but something is different about all of this. For one, she’s never called, and I’m pretty sure she’s never even instigated discussion. I’ve been the pursuer in all of this; she’s been the pursued. Her coming to me is strange.
I tell her okay, fine, sure, come on over, that sounds great. Because it does. As much as I’m averse to thinking about Abigail in the ways that set off my alarm bells, I can’t seem to stop doing it. Little by little, I’m making excuses for why it’s okay: why it’s okay to imagine holding her. Why it’s okay to imagine kissing her. Why, even, it might be okay to imagine some sort of a future together. And in all of it, I feel like I’m talking to Grace. Like I’m asking her permission — and probably because she’s not really here and I’m the one forming the words and thoughts, I find that Grace gives that permission more and more.
But Abigail says she’d rather meet at the Overlook. There’s a pause after that wherein I’m thinking of my soft couch and wondering why the sometimes-busy, often-loud club is a better thinking spot than my apartment, and she must intuit my questions because she says, “Home turf, and all that.” As if that explains anything. As if thinking of the Overlook as “home turf” for us to play our songs makes more sense than … gee, I don’t know … my apartment.
So I agree. Maybe it’s good. On the Overlook’s neutral grounds, with accidental chaperones, there’s little chance I’ll be triggered into my borderline ways of seeing Abigail. I’ll still see how she thinks and moves and pauses while writing lyrics, but doubt I’ll imagine her in my bed. In the Overlook, I probably won’t find my eyes strolling down the curve of her pale neck, wondering at the shape of her shoulders, the way those contours curve down to her small breasts, the flatness of her stomach, and what I might explore beyond.
And that’s good. For sure. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. But also maybe not. Because inside me, Grace seems to be saying, I love you, Gavin, and I don’t want you to suffer. I want you to be happy. But again, that’s likely just me, justifying. And yes, it’s best that we keep things on the level.
I tell her yes, the Overlook is great. I tell her I’ll be there at no
on, and I ask her if she’s working then.
She tells me that she’s not.
So I tell her, great, see you then.
But she says, Wait. I need to check with Freddy.
Freddy?
For perhaps two full seconds, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Then it does, and I realize, yes, of course, Freddy. The guy who bullied me into this. The guy who bullied Abigail into writing lyrics. The guy who’s attempting to bully both of us into working on the song I can no longer bring myself to touch, even though it was all I could think of before that night in the club that brought us all together. Grace is giving me permission for a lot lately, but I can practically see her holding onto that song. She has her thin arms wrapped around it, holding it tight, refusing to let it go.
Freddy?
Yes, Freddy.
And then I understand: So far, we’ve worked in pairs. Now it’s time for all three of us to write together. As a team, even though we don’t have a proper band. I suppose we could cobble something together if we had a drummer, if I was willing to sing and play guitar, or if Freddy, who has a good voice, wanted to try vocals while playing bass. Hell, it’d be more than Firecracker Confession. In Firecracker, we didn’t even have a bassist for all but the songs that truly required one because Grace didn’t play an instrument, and even then we usually dragged someone onstage from another act or hired out.
But do we really need to write as a trio? The system so far, new as it is, seems to work. I get raw words on for my melodies with Abigail then let Freddy spice it all up. He tweaks both words and music then sends it back. Abigail and I get final cut. I suppose it makes sense to close that loop, but I don’t know how it would work. What we have now is linear, like an assembly line: first this, then that, then that. She’s pitching more of a round table. Maybe it’d be better. But why now?
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 17