Page 56 of Dream On

Stevie

I close the door behind us.

The cup of spiked punch joggles in my hand as I watch Lex stroll over to a king-size bed topped with a mulberry quilt and collapse onto the mattress with a worn-out sigh. Part of me wishes I wasn’t drinking. I’m not normally a drinker; I prefer stability and clearheadedness over muddled vision and slurred words. But I knew he was coming, and I knew what I wanted to say to him, and those things didn’t align with a sober mind.

Lex flops backward, his arms stretched above his head, fingers teasing tufts of warm golden hair. He looks like he just ran a twenty-mile race, then promptly buckled to his knees at the finish line. I guess that’s what performing feels like. Nerves and adrenaline coil into a tight knot, only to unravel and implode with profound exhaustion the moment the last note fades away.

He implied something was wrong, and I’m not sure what that meant. But the way he squeezed my hand told me he was comfortable with me, so I allow that confirmation to overpower my anxiety as I step forward and beg my courage to prevail.

My balance is wobbly as I make a sluggish trek toward him, watching his eyes lift to mine. “You came,” I say, but what I really want to ask him iswhyhe came.

He releases another long breath before folding his hands behind his head and staring up at the decorative tray ceiling. “Woo-hoo.”

“I’m really glad you did.” I send him a smile and hope it reaches my glazed eyes. The vodka stirs in my bloodstream, making me feel weightless and brave. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Talk about what?” He glances at the ornate bedspread and picks at the stitching, waiting for me to elaborate.

“The show, I guess. How do you feel about it?”

“You were incredible.”

Elation pinches my heart. “So were you.”

A shrug. “You were better.”

The pinching feeling contracts as I find the courage to sit beside him. The mattress slumps with the added weight, and I rub my dark matte lips together, debating what to say next. His scent envelops me the moment we’re an inch apart: citrus, sandalwood, and masculine musk. I squeeze my thighs together, that kiss funneling through my brain on overdrive.

He kissed me.

He kissed me like I was his, like I was everything, and part of me wants that to be true—to take our relationship to the next level, to experience heart-tingling romance for the first time, just like our characters.

Minus the tragedy, of course.

He’s so different than he was that day in the street, when expensive blue streaked across my vision and wreckage lay sprinkled at our feet. Lex is different now.

We are different.

Looking back at him, I take a few more chugs of my pink punch and let it slide down my throat. There’s a dopey smile on his lips, almost like he’s feeling the utmost contentment lying here on this embellished quilt beside me. “Do you still have the star pendant?” I ask.

His eyes skim over my face. Then he nods and reaches into his pocket. “Yeah.”

I glance at the turquoise swirl in his hand as he holds it up. My Morrison star. A good-luck charm I’ve carried with me for years.

He tries to hand it back to me, but I shake my head. “You can hold on to it for now.”

“You sure?”

Something tells me he needs it more than I do. Maybe it’s the dark circles under his eyes that are no longer veiled by stage makeup. Maybe it’s the way he seemed jittery and frazzled just moments ago or how his palm was slick with sweat when I discovered him standing in the living room, looking so out of place. “I’m sure.”

“Well, thanks.” Lex returns it to his pocket before popping up and leaning back on his hands. He peers over at me as I sit like a statue at the edge of the bed, my knees knocking together. “I like it better in here.”

I blink at him, my cheeks flushing. “How so?”

“The quiet,” he says. “The quiet doesn’t sound as loud when you’re around.”

When the statement registers, I chew on my lip and duck my head. The tumbler twirls between my hands as I watch the alcohol slosh against the sides. I take another sip, allowing it to quell my prickling nerves. “I love the quiet. Maybe I’m just used to it…farm life and all.”

“I envy you, Nicks,” he tells me, craning his neck and watching the ceiling fan spin in aimless circles. “Open fields. Vegetable gardens. Cows and shit.”