“A reminder that I’m not the person I was. That’s the last question of yours I’m going to answer because I don’t owe you anything. You walked away from me.”
The pain and accusation in her voice has my chest tightening, but I remind myself she’s fine. She got over me fast.
“I know Beck’s my mentor and he’s your roommate,” she goes on, “but we can stay out of each other’s way.”
The way she looks when she says it, the hint of vulnerability in those dark-rimmed eyes, the waver in those gloss-slicked lips, tells me the earnest, honest girl I knew isn’t gone. Not entirely.
It makes her ten times harder to ignore.
I steel myself, unwilling to show what I’m feeling as I drop the pendant into the bag and hold it out.
“He likes you,” I mutter grudgingly as our hands meet on the fabric.
“Beck?” Her brows lift. “I like him, too.”
But her gaze drops down my body before flicking back up. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure your girlfriend is more than enough to keep you occupied.”
“My what?”
Doubt has her licking her lips. “The girl who was climbing you in that practice room.”
Knowing it bothered her has adrenaline surging through me. I should correct her assumption, tell her Meara wasn’t my girlfriend then and isn’t now.
But for some fucked-up reason, I need to remind her what went down between us might be over but it happened. More than that, it mattered.
I step closer, inhale her scent as I brush her hair back behind her ear. To her credit, she doesn’t back away.
She’s all grown up? Fine. I’ll treat her like it.
“You want me to pretend I don’t know you?” I murmur against her ear. “That I never kissed that mouth? Never slept in your bed?”
Never made you laugh. Never stared at you in utter awe for how beautiful you were, the way you saw the world.
I force those thoughts away because they’re stirring up feelings I can’t stand.
“Never watched those eyes get big when you imagined me fucking you, when you practically begged me to do it?”
The little shiver that overtakes her has me wanting to drop my lips to her jaw, see if it’s as soft as I remember.
Applause in the distance tells me the previous performer has wrapped up, and someone shouts at me to take the stage, but I can’t move.
She pulls back first, tucking her bag under her arm and sucking in a breath. “That’s exactly what I expect. This is my fresh start. No one’s going to mess it up. Not even you, Tyler.”
As she disappears down the stairs, I don’t feel anything like vindicated.
The only thing I can think is that I’d give everything I have to hear her say my name again.
5
“You were great at Leo’s last night.”
I look up from my notebook the next afternoon at the Vanier library to see a slender blond guy from class leaning over my chair.
“Jake,” he volunteers. “We survived acting intensive together with Talbot.”
“Right.” I smile back.
I don’t remember seeing him at Leo’s, but most of the night I was distracted—by my need to prove myself and by the one guy who could ruin my chances of doing that.
“Homework?” Jake nods to my notebook.
“No, actually. Just writing.”
I used to force my brain to work in logic and answers and solutions. Getting good grades meant everything needed to fit into a cogent argument.
Now, I think in feelings. Emotions.
I don’t know if it’s an evolution or a devolution.
When I feel something, I drop it onto a page. The words flow out of me, contained by the paper. It keeps them from burning me alive, breaking me from the inside.
“Thanks for the compliment about last night,” I say. “It’s easy to get lost here there are so many good people.”
“I know, right? Did you see that guy, Tyler something? He was the best of the night by far.”
I smile tightly. “He was pretty good.”
I saw him. He waited for me backstage only to strip me bare with his hard gaze and his harder words. Then I watched him perform, reminding me he’s not only the most capable musician but magnetic enough you’d give your soul for another minute in his presence.
And you practically volunteered that you aren’t supposed to be here.
Chalk it up to being caught off guard. Again.
It’s not enough to be in a new place trying to make my way—the one guy from my past has to be holding my secret over my head.
Next time, I’ll be ready.
But what the hell was he saying about me getting over him? Did he mean Beck? Is he jealous?
Impossible.
“Are you trying out for the fall showcase?” Jake’s words have me blinking.
“I heard only upper years get in.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t try out.” His brows wiggle under his hair. “I’m there. Figured you would be, too—you seem like the go-getter type. Auditions are in two weeks, so you better work something up.”
He takes off, and I stare after him.
Then I type a message on my phone.
There’s a response five minutes later.
Beck: Meet me in P69.
It takes me ten minutes to figure out P refers to the practice rooms, not parking, but there’s no 69.
It takes me another five minutes to find the closed door with a small window and P69 carved into the door.
I knock on the door, and it opens an inch. Inside, Beck’s sitting in a desk chair, feet propped on a shelf.
“What is this place?” I ask. “It looks like a supply closet.”
“Practice rooms are hard to come by. Sometimes you gotta grab whatever you can find.”
He pulls the door open, and I wedge myself inside.
“What’re you working on?” I look at his computer and the book in front of him.
“King Lear. And my vlog.” He nods at his computer. “New episode every week.”
I glance as his profile, my brows lifting. “That’s a lot of subscribers.”
“Half wanna watch me strip. Half are actually interested in what I have to say.” He cocks his head. “But you wanted to hear about the showcase. It’s the BFD. You want to get noticed in this city, that’s how you do it. The biggest casting agents, producers, directors—everyone comes. You see the EGOT wall downstairs?”
I think of the portraits in the main hall. “Hasn’t everybody?”
“All of ‘em not only played the showcase but closed it. And I happen to know who’s gonna close this year.” He grins.
Electricity hums through my body. “You mean your roommate.”
Beck shrugs. “The guy’s a beast with a guitar. Everyone thinks it’s going to be his year.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
He shifts back in his chair, braces one foot on the table he’s rigged up as a desk. “I might be more Shaw and Shakespeare than Stryker or the Stones, but even I can tell that dude’s gonna burn up a stage. And my roomie needs a break. Be patient. You’ll have your shot next year.”
“It’s supposed to be an open competition, Beck. Are you afraid I’ll take it from him?”