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I nod and hold the door wider for her to enter, even though I shouldn’t. “Yeah. Just . . . long day.” I scrub my hand over my face.
She steps inside, guitar slung over her shoulder, hair still damp from what I’m assuming is a post-soundcheck shower. “I was watching your soundcheck. You looked like you saw a ghost out there.”
I snort. “You caught that, huh?”
Justine nods. I should probably just come clean and tell her. It’s not like we haven’t been working together for months, between songwriting and performing.
“Feels like I did.” I shrug and sit down on the unforgiving vinyl couch.
Justine doesn’t press, which I appreciate. She wanders around my room and sighs. “It’s not fair you get your own room.”
I laugh. “I don’t even ask for my own room. Elle just does it. I think it’s a leftover habit from when our dads toured. There were four of us running around during shows, and our parents wanted us wrangled in one room so they knew where we were. We were a nightmare once they let us off the bus.”
“Four of you?”
“Liam’s son, Noah, toured with us sometimes. Back then, he was really into sports . . . well, I guess he still is, but he’d stayhome if he had a camp or tournament. The dads really tried to limit touring while we were in school.”
“That must’ve been some wild lifestyle growing up.”
“Probably not anything as wild as what’s going through your mind. Our parents were strict. We weren’t like other celebrity kids. We had homework, chores, and lived in a very modest house in a small town. The four of us went to public school, didn’t have a bodyguard, and had a pretty normal upbringing.”
“So, nothing like I’ve seen on MTV?”
I chuckle. “They came to our house once, and my mom threatened them with the garden hose. My dad forgot to tell her they were coming. It was comical. My mom is very no-nonsense. This life was definitely not for her, but if you asked her, she’d probably tell you it was the best time of her life.”
“If we record in Beaumont, maybe I’ll get to know her better. She seems like a pretty chill mom.”
“She is and it’s possible,” I say, shrugging. “I have a feeling she and my dad are going to move back.”
“Leaving you in LA by yourself?” she asks in mock horror.
“Honestly . . . yeah, I guess so.” If my parents move, I’ll probably go back to Beaumont and at least reset.
An uncomfortable silence fills the room. I hate the awkward pause, the unknowing of what you should say. I could ask her why she’s here, but that would be rude. We’ve spent time together writing songs. It makes sense for her to be here.
Sort of.
It’s probably odd for her to be in my green room. There has only been one other time we’ve been cut off from the rest of our bandmates, and that was in my hotel room. Every other time, we’ve been in common areas, working on music together. This is probably one of those moments where I should tell her to leave or stand up and open the door so that nothing nefarious happens between us.
Instead, I glance at her standing there, near the vanity, and ask, “You ready for tonight?”
She nods. “More than ready,” Justine says softly.
There’s a hint of self-assurance in her voice—steadier than before. She’s getting stronger. More confident.
Maybe I should take a page out of her book and grow a set. Part of me wants to tell her everything: from the note to the ring, to why I’ve been so damn moody. How Nola left me and how, until recently, I’ve been desperate to reach her but I’m too afraid to pick up the damn phone to call her. To what I saw—that for one fractured second, I thought Nola was out there.
But I don’t.
Because I know how that would sound.
Instead, I keep that part of me bottled up where it needs to stay.
It’s not time to share it.
Not yet.
Tonight,I’m watching Plum. I’ve seen bits and pieces of their show but haven’t sat through a full set. Normally, I show up before I go out to perform one of the duets Justine and I have, and then I bail. It’s been my modus operandi since the last tour. Mostly because I had Nola here, and I didn’t want to ignore her, and at the time, she was the most important person in my life.