into the green room like a guilty kid trying to evade his parents’ eye.
He unpocketed his phone and held his breath.
No response. Cal either hadn’t heard his message, or he’d listened and rebuffed it.
Great.
Blake intended to go straight back to the hotel, too distracted to socialize. He was trying to figure out what Cal’s silence meant. He called a car, then settled into the backseat and let his forehead rest against the window. The cool glass grounded him, kept his feet planted firmly on the ground even when his heart wandered haphazardly all over the place. Cold rain kept the glass chilly for him, his breath fogging up the pane.
He couldn’t leave Denver without seeing Cal again. Not after getting that close. Not after getting that tiny taste of what reconciliation might feel like.
Just as the cab rolled into the hotel’s parking lot, Blake understood. His insistent longing to see Cal before the band departed was worse than he thought.
He didn’t want to leave Denver without Cal beside him. Like there was a chance in hell of that happening.
Blake shoved a hundred-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand and staggered outside, his brain racing a mile a minute.
This was who he was. This was what he did. This impulsiveness, this emotion-driven, frenetic existence. He wasn’t scared of his feelings because feelings this crazy felt right to him.
Fingers slipping on his phone’s touchscreen in the chilly rain, Blake dialed Cal’s phone number again. He hadn’t thought about what he wanted to say, but the less he thought, the better. He gave in to his id and began pacing back and forth, cursing each ring in his ear. Surely Cal kept his phone on him even at work. There was no way he hadn’t noticed Blake calling.
“Come on, you son of a bitch. Pick up.”
But despite Blake’s imploring, the voicemail was what greeted him once again.
Blake didn’t care.
“Hey,” he said. “Me again.”
He could hardly hear his own voice over the sound of pattering rain and LoDo traffic. He wiped water out of his eyes, realizing that his fingers had gone numb with cold. But he felt warmed from the inside out, powered by the belief that what he was doing was right.
“I wish you’d pick up your phone, idiot,” he said. “I have something I want to say. But if you’re gonna make me say it here, fine: I want you to come with us. Take a couple weeks off. Join us on the tour. We’ll make room. I don’t care if you’re out of practice. I don’t care if you’re still mad.”
Blake gave in to the thunderous beating of his heart, the frantic pace of his speech bolstered by adrenaline.
“I don’t care about any of that. I just want to make music with you again. Call me.”
12
Cal, Three Days Later
C al stood in the parking lot, a warm spring wind tugging at his coat. The guitar case in his hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He stood beside the open driver’s door of Yanmei’s Forester. She slouched in the driver’s seat, sipping on a coffee. The meet-up they’d had for breakfast that morning had evolved from a friendly meal to an all-out pep talk on her part.
Cal was rarely one to second-guess himself and especially wasn’t one to talk about that second-guessing out loud. But then again, this wasn’t a normal decision.
“Relax,” Yanmei said. “You’ve totally got this.”
Cal grunted and shifted his boots on the asphalt.
“I feel like I’ve partially got this.”
“So get the rest of your grip later.”
Further down the parking lot, a pair of lengthy dark-gray buses loitered outside the hotel beside the white truck from the other night. People Cal didn’t recognize were hauling his old band’s baggage, packing away suitcases and stacks. It was still surreal to him, that level of success. The idea of having an entourage to do that stuff.
Cal wondered if he’d made a mistake, sharing the contents of Blake’s voicemail with her. Yanmei was a force of nature when she got an idea
He unpocketed his phone and held his breath.
No response. Cal either hadn’t heard his message, or he’d listened and rebuffed it.
Great.
Blake intended to go straight back to the hotel, too distracted to socialize. He was trying to figure out what Cal’s silence meant. He called a car, then settled into the backseat and let his forehead rest against the window. The cool glass grounded him, kept his feet planted firmly on the ground even when his heart wandered haphazardly all over the place. Cold rain kept the glass chilly for him, his breath fogging up the pane.
He couldn’t leave Denver without seeing Cal again. Not after getting that close. Not after getting that tiny taste of what reconciliation might feel like.
Just as the cab rolled into the hotel’s parking lot, Blake understood. His insistent longing to see Cal before the band departed was worse than he thought.
He didn’t want to leave Denver without Cal beside him. Like there was a chance in hell of that happening.
Blake shoved a hundred-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand and staggered outside, his brain racing a mile a minute.
This was who he was. This was what he did. This impulsiveness, this emotion-driven, frenetic existence. He wasn’t scared of his feelings because feelings this crazy felt right to him.
Fingers slipping on his phone’s touchscreen in the chilly rain, Blake dialed Cal’s phone number again. He hadn’t thought about what he wanted to say, but the less he thought, the better. He gave in to his id and began pacing back and forth, cursing each ring in his ear. Surely Cal kept his phone on him even at work. There was no way he hadn’t noticed Blake calling.
“Come on, you son of a bitch. Pick up.”
But despite Blake’s imploring, the voicemail was what greeted him once again.
Blake didn’t care.
“Hey,” he said. “Me again.”
He could hardly hear his own voice over the sound of pattering rain and LoDo traffic. He wiped water out of his eyes, realizing that his fingers had gone numb with cold. But he felt warmed from the inside out, powered by the belief that what he was doing was right.
“I wish you’d pick up your phone, idiot,” he said. “I have something I want to say. But if you’re gonna make me say it here, fine: I want you to come with us. Take a couple weeks off. Join us on the tour. We’ll make room. I don’t care if you’re out of practice. I don’t care if you’re still mad.”
Blake gave in to the thunderous beating of his heart, the frantic pace of his speech bolstered by adrenaline.
“I don’t care about any of that. I just want to make music with you again. Call me.”
12
Cal, Three Days Later
C al stood in the parking lot, a warm spring wind tugging at his coat. The guitar case in his hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He stood beside the open driver’s door of Yanmei’s Forester. She slouched in the driver’s seat, sipping on a coffee. The meet-up they’d had for breakfast that morning had evolved from a friendly meal to an all-out pep talk on her part.
Cal was rarely one to second-guess himself and especially wasn’t one to talk about that second-guessing out loud. But then again, this wasn’t a normal decision.
“Relax,” Yanmei said. “You’ve totally got this.”
Cal grunted and shifted his boots on the asphalt.
“I feel like I’ve partially got this.”
“So get the rest of your grip later.”
Further down the parking lot, a pair of lengthy dark-gray buses loitered outside the hotel beside the white truck from the other night. People Cal didn’t recognize were hauling his old band’s baggage, packing away suitcases and stacks. It was still surreal to him, that level of success. The idea of having an entourage to do that stuff.
Cal wondered if he’d made a mistake, sharing the contents of Blake’s voicemail with her. Yanmei was a force of nature when she got an idea
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