“Listen, I wish I could, but I can’t make you any promises,” he warned.
I kept the smile on my face. “I didn’t come here for promises.”
He grinned to the floor, hesitated, then locked his brown eyes onto mine.
“I was kind of hoping you did,” he said.
It was jarring, the way my heart threatened to grow, right in front of him. The way his finger brushing over the faint scar on his chin made me want to hold him. The way I longed to erase our last kiss from my memory by taking one step forward. It was dangerous, the way his eyes searched my face, as if in slow motion. I was a woman drunk on hope and something more.
Neither of us moved, we just drew each other in, as if recommitting each other to memory.
“Caroline wants a word,” said a voice behind Asher.
Asher blinked me back, turning toward a short man in a suit.
“I’ll be there in a second,” Asher said, his voice unusually low.
I had to get out of there. I had to pour a bucket of ice water on my body.
“It’s fine. I’ve already taken up enough of your time. I’ll see you in two days,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. I took a step away, and he caught my hand before it left his body. He squeezed his fingers around mine, and then let me go.
I shot him a polite smile and beelined for the exit with my cheeks flushed and my heart pounding. There was a giant wall mirror by the doors, and inside the reflection I could see Asher’s eyes on me, watching me leave. It was the reflection of his pure, boyish grin as he looked down at his shoes that nearly made my knees buckle to the floor.
I made it to the elevator banks and lay my back flat on the cool brick wall. Sweat ran down the back of my neck as my chest pounded against my ribs. A part of me had come undone. A part of me had come back to life. Maybe it was the best part of me. She was worthy. His smile mattered the most.
Fuck me. I was fifteen again.
16
FIFTEEN
I CLUTCHED THE THIN SILVER chain around my neck, rubbing the metal guitar pick charm between my fingers—a present from my dad. It was beautiful, and it had arrived a few months ago in the mail instead of in person. He was now a music theory professor at a Boston community college, and it was even more difficult for him to get into the city with this full-time job. Even though I should have gotten used to him not showing up, it stung every time. And that feeling—the anxiety of my dad’s rejection—it was currently invading my body. Unfortunately, this had nothing to do with my father. This circumstance was new. But my mouth was dry, my stomach churning, my throat constricting all the same.
I ran my hand along the neck of my guitar, sweat dripping down my temples, eyes blinking back the direct sun and the fuzzy faces in the crowd. The small stone amphitheater stood in the middle of an open field adjacent to the animal farm, and it was used primarily for drama camp to run their lines or try out new material. This mini-Colosseum and sun magnet was now being used for Asher Reyes’s girlfriend to overcome her stage fright. A dozen theater kids were scattered on the concrete steps above me, waiting for me to disappoint them.
We were three weeks into the summer, and the goal of taking the next step in my relationship with Asher had been replaced with the goal of telling my stage fright to kindly fuck off, forever. I had signed up for Talent Night with the intention of ripping off the Band-Aid. Performing at Talent Night meant that I would play in front of my largest audience—the entire camp—roughly three hundred people. I had asked Asher if he would help me overcome stage fright, since he was born to be onstage. Like everything thrown at Asher, he took my request seriously. Some （me） might say, too seriously.
He jumped down from the stone steps and walked over to me, his kind eyes trying to offer reprieve in a sea of nerves.
“This is your fault,” I said through gritted teeth. I clenched my trembling hand around my guitar. “I can’t believe you audience-bombed me.”
“You’re mad I didn’t tell you they’d be here?” he said, searching my face for the usual smile that his closeness brought out of me.
Being with Asher was my safe space, and he had yanked the safety net out from under my feet with his own two hands, without warning, which felt like a special kind of betrayal. He had asked a dozen theater kids to show up here so that I could have my first crowd to sing to.
Anger swirled in my chest as I saw him fight a grin. Truthfully, he’d been breathing down my neck all day. I knew I only had a day left to overcome stage fright before Talent Night, but he had barely let me think about anything else since this morning. I needed an exhale, and he was refusing to give me one. And not only that, but some part of him was enjoying pushing me outside of my comfort zone. Maybe that’s because it was my usual role. I was the first one to kiss him, the first one to suggest we sneak out of our cabins at night—I was the only one who gave him permission to embrace his wildness. To have fire in his belly instead of being so careful. And here he was, lighting a fire under me.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, taking in his grin. I tugged at my throat, which felt as dry as the hot concrete under my feet.
“Would you have come if I told you I had gathered an audience for you?”
I stared at him with steely eyes, confirming whatever point he was trying to make. Asher set a hand on my chin and raised it to his.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
His eyes swallowed the sun, and I watched him breathe in and out, deeply. I echoed his breathing, still mad at him, but also less mad because when he looked at me this way—unflinching—I wanted to fall onto his lips.
Last summer was spent working with different camp directors to polish my songwriting skills and vocal techniques. I learned the fundamentals—from developing my vocal sounds, to understanding different rhyming patterns. I was relaxed when singing and playing guitar in front of a paid professional—because I knew they wouldn’t tear me to shreds. Singing in front of my peers was a different story. I was at a sleepaway liberal arts camp—every camper here thought they were The Next Big Thing. It didn’t help that my mother believed singing and songwriting was a cute hobby that I’d one day outgrow. What if I was just mediocre, and singing in front of everyone proved her right?
“I’m not ready.”
“You know the song backward and forward. Mags, you have nothing to be scared of when you’re this great.”
He placed both his hands on my shoulders and tilted them back.
“Your confidence goes the way of your spine.”
I let my shoulders fall back into their protective place. “Did Mr. Greenway teach you that?” I asked, rolling my eyes.
Mr. Greenway was his high school drama teacher—a man who I gathered was more important to Asher than Asher’s parents. Asher talked about him more than his mom or dad, which was odd, because when Asher described his parents, it was always with such warmth. One would think he’d have more stories to share about his family, but it was always, Mr. Greenway THIS. And Mr. Greenway THAT.
“Wanna know my secret?”
“If you say, ‘picture everyone in their underwear,’ I’m going to physically harm you.”
“Find one person in the audience who loves you no matter what. No matter if you’re great or good or just okay.” He pointed to himself. “Sing to the person that feels like home. Everyone else will disappear.”