“Oh, so this one’s a freebie?”
“No. Oh no, Windsor, you will pay. Mark my words, one day, you will pay.” I shake my finger at him, and he pretends to cower.
“You can have my first born.”
“If it’s anything like you, no thanks.”
He starts to say something, then he stops, and a shadow crosses his face. “Incoming.”
“Hey babe,” a deep voice whispers against my ear, “how’s my girl?”
My boyfriend’s hand comes up to wrap around the back of my neck and he pulls my head closer for a kiss.
“Hey Silas.” I lean in and press my lip against his and then squirm, hating the feel of his hot sweaty hand against my neck.
“Oh, sorry! I forgot, the princess hates her neck touched.” His voice has a mocking tone and I know he’s still pissed from our fight last night.
He pulls away and I face him, my eyes scanning his features, reading his expression. After a year and a half together, there isn’t much I don’t know about him. I certainly know enough that me hanging up the phone halfway through our argument last night was not going to sit well with him and that the radio silence since then was meant to express his discontent rather than an agreement to disagree.
But it was a disagreement that was a long time coming.
He’s made it clear he wants to go to the US to pursue his music, with me in faithful tow, and I want to stay in London and pursue my writing. The years at Guildhall School of Music have been wonderful in stoking my passion for music, but my talent has limits and I know that I’ve reached them. It won’t stop me from being surrounded by music; it would just be in a different capacity. What I do know is that that capacity isn’t as a groupie, which is what I’d be if I let Silas’s dream eclipse my own. He is good. But so am I.
A clear and logical mind would tell me the right thing to do, but the heart’s never been accused of such practicalities.
“Hey,” I tug gently on his hand and give him a crooked smile. His frown softens and I know that he’s as frustrated about our impasse as I am. He pulls me in for a hug and I can’t help but lock eyes with Brad over Silas’s shoulder as we embrace. The look on Brad’s face is tense, and I know he can sense that everything’s not all right between Silas and me.
I roll my eyes to lighten the mood, but he just stares back. Despite being friends since elementary school[JD1], lately they haven’t had more than two words to say to each other, and I’ve managed to keep the two relationships separate. There’s just so much room for gigantic egos at one time.
“Yo, Bradley!” a voice yells from across the courtyard and I see Jez, Sebastian, and Marius, Brad’s best friends and bandmates making their way toward us. He grins and jumps up, brushing the grass off his ass. “Gotta run! Nice seein’ ya, Silas. I’ll call you tonight, Butter.”
We barely have time to answer before he grabs his bag and is sprinting away to meet up with his friends. Not for the first time, I wish I could follow him.
“Babe,” Silas’s voice turns my attention back to him.
“Hmmm?”
“I thought we were going out tonight.”
“We are.” I nod, kissing him gently on the cheek, hoping to break the ice between us.
“Then why did Brad say he’d call you tonight?”
“I dunno,” I shrug. “Force of habit I guess. He knows we’ve got plans,” I say in reassurance.
“Good. As long as he remembers you’re mine and mine alone.” There’s a warning in his voice, and I brush it off as sheer possessiveness. Something that I’ve never really enjoyed but have tolerated in him. I’ve never given him reason to doubt my loyalty, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Brad
Present Day
Two hundred eyes turn toward me.
Pens poised higher and audio recorders stretched just that little bit further in my direction, waiting for an answer. I clear my throat. It echoes in the silent room, dancing back and forth on the waves of tension.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” I need the extra moment to compose myself, my thoughts.
I can just make out her silhouette as she pulls herself up taller and straightens her shoulders. It’s definitely her. I haven’t seen her for eight years, but I’d recognize her anywhere, from any angle. There’s no lack of confidence in her figure and she doesn’t need to clear her throat. She knows exactly what she wants to say.
“I said, ‘do you guys ever intend on doing anything but ripping off other musicians’ work?’ I mean, this is your fourth album now, the last one you won you two Grammys for Best New Artist and Best Contemporary Instrumental. But really, when you break it down, aren’t you nothing but a glorified cover band?”
The two hundred eyes turn back to me again.
In the corner of my eye I can see the guys trying to fight back grins and guffaws. I’m sure they’ve recognized her by now too and are probably picturing a hundred different times we’ve played out this very same argument. Of course, then it was just us, two stubborn music students trying to one up each other for fun. Now it was in front of every influential music journalist in England. And I wasn’t going to let her win.
“Well, um, I’m sorry, what was your name?” I play dumb, buying time as my mind ticks over, still trying to process that it’s her. Here.
“Emily,” comes the one-word curt reply.
“What a lovely name. I once had a best friend called that.”
“Poor girl,” she fires back.
Jez, on the far end of the table, chokes on his water and I kinda think he deserves it for enjoying my pain.
“Yes, well. She was a bit of a hag anyway. Huge Dumbo ears. And um, you know, that awkward, really long second toe. That’s weird.”
A light smattering of chuckles travels through the crowd. I’m not sure they know what’s going on, but they’re enjoying it anyway.
“Back to your question-it’s a doozy by the way. I might need a second to ponder it. While I’m doing that, can I ask you a question?”
She shrugs one shoulder in response.
“Hmm yes, chatty one, aren’t you, not at all like my old friend, Emily. Couldn’t shut that one up. Anyway, what’s your favorite song, Emily?”
I can just see her open her mouth, pausing, and then closing again before answering. “I don’t…”