His eyes were flat. “I don’t want this shit pushed on me.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Quit saying you’re sorry. You’re not sorry. How can you be sorry when you just don’t get it?”
Hurt, for a moment I couldn’t get the words out, and when I did, my voice was tremulous and weak.
“You’re not the only one who’s been through shit, you know.”
He yanked his hand through his hair, his eyes glittery and angry. “Look, you brought me here. I didn’t ask to come, but Jesus, Monroe, did you really think this was gonna be a good idea? I know I’m not the only one dealing with crap. I heard you the other night. Your mistake died? Is that it? Does that make your shit worse than mine?”
Pain lashed across my chest so tightly that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I looked away, afraid that I was going to lose it big-time, and I tried to still the trembling in my fingers.
“I can’t believe you just said that.” My words were barely a whisper. How had everything fallen apart already?
I stared across the street for the longest time, not really knowing what to do or say. Nate was right. This was my fault. I had brought him here. I must have known this wasn’t going to end well, so why had I done it? What was wrong with me?
Me, Monroe Blackwell, the person who didn’t like to feel anything, and now I was so full of emotion I was choking on it. It hurt.
I’d forgotten how much it could hurt.
Brent poked his head out of the door and I watched him look across the street at us. He lifted his hand, gave a half wave, beckoned for us to come, and then disappeared back inside with most of the crowd following him.
It was after nine, so I knew they were getting ready to play.
I watched a couple walk along the sidewalk, the guy with his arm across the girl’s shoulder, leaning into her, laughing, talking, kissing her neck as they headed toward the Coffee House.
They looked happy. Carefree.
Something else ripped through me in that moment, and it took a few seconds for me to get what it was. Jealousy.
I had to look away. I had to bury it or choke.
“I’m going in,” I said quietly. “You can come with me, or wait in the car, or you can leave. I really don’t care.”
Except that I did. I cared a lot.
I yanked on the door, slammed it shut, and crossed the street without looking back. What was the point?
I was alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Nathan
I waited in Monroe’s car for about twenty minutes. I sat there, pissed off at everything. Monroe. Brent. Myself. Trevor. The Coffee House.
I watched guys I knew walk in with their guitars, and it was hard not to get out and walk in the other direction. I couldn’t fathom hearing and feeling the music without Trevor. I didn’t think I could stand it.
And yet, there was a part of me that was tired of fighting all of it, and I suppose it was that part of me that propelled me forward. I got out of the car, but instead of heading in the opposite direction, I found myself crossing the street.
Out here, near the patio, I could hear Brent singing—or trying to sing. The guy was great for background vocals, but he didn’t have the chops to carry anything on his own. He hit a particularly difficult note—a high C—and I winced.
“Please tell me you’re going in?”
Janelle, one of the waitresses, wiped up the last table and nodded toward the door. With the music on, the patio was empty.
I didn’t answer her because I wasn’t sure.
“I hope you do, hon,” she said before heading to the door. “I’m pretty sure Trevor would want you up on that stage.”
I wasn’t so sure of that. I thought that maybe, if Trevor was here right now, he’d want to knock me on my ass. And I’d let him.
She disappeared inside, and I stared after her until my eyes blurred. I took a step but froze because I couldn’t go inside. Not yet.
I slid into a chair and leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees as I gazed at the stone floor. My shoulders felt heavy. So did my feet, like my boots were encased in cement or something. The air was damp, and I shivered as a wave of laughter rolled through the Coffee House.
Someone was speaking, Brent maybe, but the words were muffled—it sounded as if he was talking underwater.
For a second, with my eyes closed, I went back in time. Back to last summer when Trevor, Brent, and I would spend every other Friday night inside, playing until our fingers felt like they were gonna fall off.
Trevor could pick apart any song we wanted to play. And his voice, man, we sounded good together. When the two of us were in the moment, when that rush of adrenaline pumped through our veins, when the crowd chanted and clapped because they wanted more—it was heaven.
There was nothing like it.
I wondered if he heard anything now. If, when he was alone, unable to speak or to communicate…did he hear stuff? Did he think of all these things from before? Did he wonder why he was in a hospital bed, frozen in time? Broken. Damaged.
“Jesus,” I muttered and ran a hand through my hair. It was still damp from the shower, and as I leaned back and gazed up at the starless sky, I heard Brent and his buddy break into an old Skynyrd song.
My fingers began to move, and as Brent found his place, his comfort zone, he began to belt out the lyrics. A little off key, but there was something there nonetheless, and I heard the crowd singing along.
I was up on my feet before I knew what I was doing, crossing the patio and pushing the door open.
A wall of heat hit me.
The Coffee House was full—standing room only—and even though the tables had candles burning, it was dark. Dark and intimate. Just like I remembered.
It was a great place to be. You could find a dark corner and get busy with your girl while enjoying the tunes.
I closed my eyes for a second, knowing that the coffee bar was to my left. That over the top of the door leading to the kitchen there was a fake talking parrot. I knew that if you asked it a question, it would answer with something nasty.
I knew that Mr. J would be back there cooking and that his wife, Macy, would be serving up coffees and lattes, their daughter Kristy helping out. I knew that if I went over to the coffee bar, Kristy would try to slip me her cell number and her mom would frown but pretend that she hadn’t seen anything.
In here, the sounds were the same as before. The smells. Cinnamon. Chocolate. The muted voices, the music. The vibrations along the floor.
Nothing had changed and yet, as Brent sang a Foos song, his voice cracking a little, I felt the weight of my world crushing me from the inside out. I felt the weight of my existence.
The weight of my change.
Someone bumped into me and I moved forward, sliding through the crowd gathered along the edges. It was three bodies deep here, and I nodded at a few girls who waved, not stopping to talk. My eyes scanned for Monroe, and I found her near the stage.
She was sitting at a table, just in front of Brent. And she was alone.
Brent grinned when he saw me, and I felt a bit of that weight lift, though when Monroe followed his gaze, I kind of froze.
Her large, expressive eyes didn’t waver as I took another step closer. Someone grabbed my arm and I glanced to the side, irritated. It was Rachel.
“Hey, Nate,” she said. Her eyes were glassy and her smile was lopsided. She was high. “Come sit with me.”
“It’s not gonna happen, Rachel.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit and she looked past me toward Monroe. “So that’s her? That’s the girl you took to the festival?” Her voice trembled a bit and I felt bad. Some kids were looking our way, elbowing each other and waiting for something big to happen. Rachel had never had a filter when it came to public scenes. The girl liked it when everyone was watching.