Page 30

Chapter Thirty

Xavier

I t’s pretty obvious that Maggie's eagerness to hear how my evening played out is the real deal. Just like her surprise when I told her she's hot was the real deal. Which is weird, since I always just assumed she was aware that she's stunning. Because she's so confident about everything else. And also: mirrors.

I take a few steps around her and lower myself onto the couch. Relief spreads through my muscles as I sink into the soft cushions. "Yeah." My eyes meet hers. "I went to Cam's place." I shift to find a position that doesn't piss off my ribs. "Almost bailed when I walked into his garage, though," I admit once I've settled. "The guys were already deep into this groove, like they'd been playing together since the dawn of time."

Maggie moves to the couch and takes a seat a few feet away from me. She tucks her feet under herself and settles in, her hair catching the light, making it shimmer from pink to mauve the way it does under certain light. Another one of the many things about Maggie that's become familiar.

"But you didn't," Maggie confirms.

"No." I chuckle. "I did stand there like an idiot for a solid minute, though, clutching my guitar case like a freaking security blanket."

Maggie laughs. "No guy holding a guitar case ever looks like an idiot."

"Trust me on this one. It's possible."

"Whatever. You didn't stand there forever, right?"

"Long enough. They broke into this cool jazz version of 'Blackbird'—not the usual Beatles cover stuff. Cam was doing this insane fingerpicking pattern, and Tyler had a sick drum groove going. "

Maggie leans forward slightly, watching me with this intense focus that makes me want to keep talking, even though discussing anything remotely personal is not my thing. It's something about the way she's completely present in the moment. That, and the things I've come to learn about Maggie LeClair. That she gets stuff. And tries to respect boundaries. That, like me, she isn't as un-affected by things as she pretends to be. And has the balls to admit it, when it's someone she trusts.

Because, apparently, somewhere along the way, she started trusting me.

And clearly, I started trusting her too, because here I am, spilling the details of one of the most meaningful moments of my life. A moment that—yeah, I'm not unaware—she made happen.

" And? " she urges. "What happened then?"

"What happened is that I grew some balls." I grin, and Maggie lets out a dorky snort-laugh. "The version they were doing was so cool and so intriguing, that I was totally pulled in. Then I'm opening my case and strapping on my guitar and finding the key." I lean forward, wincing at the pull in my ribs.

Maggie's eyes are bright with curiosity. "And you just started playing?"

"Yeah. The chord progression is pretty simple. E minor to A minor with this cool walking bass line Cam was doing. I matched his rhythm, added some harmonics." I drum my fingers against my knee, recreating the pattern. "Then the chorus hit and I just… sang."

"Like a freaking rock star."

I shake my head as I roll my eyes. "We got into a groove. Cam and I started trading licks between verses."

Maggie's smile grows wider. "So, you killed it."

No idea why this girl has so much faith in my musical abilities. She barely heard me that day up in the Observatory.

"I thought I'd totally bombed ," I counter. "When we finished, there was this dead silence." I rub the back of my neck, remembering that sinking feeling. "I'm standing there thinking 'shit, I just made a complete ass of myself.' Like, who walks into a jam session and starts belting out vocals without even feeling things out? "

Maggie snorts again. "Badass people, that's who."

"I was ready to pack up my guitar and bolt."

"But?"

"But then Tyler lets out this wild screech and starts banging his drums. Liam's jumping around like he's at a metal concert. And Cam…" I shake my head, still amazed. "Cam just gives me this nod and goes 'Dude, your voice is insane.'"

Maggie's breath catches and she covers her mouth with her hand, like some prim southern belle. "Ohmygod, Xave…"

And when did she start calling me by my nickname?

"So, what about after that?" she asks on an exhale, still with her hand hovering over her mouth in a way that makes me want to grin.

Instead, I answer, "After that, Cam picks up his guitar and starts this riff from Spoonman and then we're all jamming to Soundgarden."

The memory of that moment hits me—the pure rush of playing with guys who actually get it, who feel the music the same way I do. No pressure, no expectations. Just… music.

"We ended up playing for almost eight hours straight," I tell her. "Totally lost track of time and realized we hadn't stopped to eat."

"So, basically, you were awesome." Maggie grins, finally lowering her hand.

" We were awesome," I correct, remembering how well we all seemed to gel. Not just the way we played together and riffed so naturally off each other, but our music tastes. Even the stuff not everyone had heard of before, we all still 'got it'. Liked it—were on board to try and see if it worked when we hashed it out together on our instruments. Not everything sounded good or was stuff we agreed to come back to and re-work later, but it was all fun. A fucking rush.

I think back to Cam's parting words as he leaned into the lowered window of my car just before I pulled out of his driveway. " We are gonna be trashing hotel rooms in no time, man."

Not sure about the hotel rooms, but we are definitely going to be jamming again soon. Tuesday evening, in fact. And again, later in the week, if we can fit in more time before next weekend.

"Did you play any of your original stuff?" Maggie asks .

"Nah." I shrug. "Too soon."

"But maybe another time?"

"Maybe."

Not sure I'm there yet. But then, I didn't think I was ready to jam with a group of guys I didn't know and look how that turned out. Not too fucking bad.

"Cool," she says, and then she's quiet.

We're both quiet.

Her eyes dip, and I watch her, curled up in the corner of the U-shaped couch like she owns it. Her pink hair's pulled up in this messy knot thing, with strands escaping around her face. And it hits me again how crazy it is that she was genuinely surprised to hear that my guy friends think she's hot. Christ, even wearing butt-ugly cowboy-print pajamas, she's fucking gorgeous. And that's saying something, because these things are next level hideous—dull beige flannel with ridiculous vintage cartoon cowboys all over them, throwing lassos and yelling "Yeehaw!" and "Ride 'em, cowboy!" in little speech bubbles. Like, where the hell would you even buy pajamas like that?

She's fiddling with one of her miniature creations. A hot dog stand, battered and graffitied. She glances down at it, then back at me, tilting her head a little when she notices me staring. Her nose wrinkles, drawing my eyes to those pale freckles that she has to know are sexy as hell. "What?" she asks, her hazel eyes catching the light.

I nudge her knee with my foot. "Thank you." My lips lift into a half-grin. "Again."

She nods once; doesn't have to ask what I'm talking about. She knows. Because, just like those guys today, she gets it. Gets me, apparently, in a way I'm not sure anyone else ever really has.

"Don't thank me," she says, bailing on the chance to gloat about being right. Even though, with the way I pushed back about the jam session thing, she's earned it. Instead, she says, "You're the one who grew some balls, remember? To put yourself out there and give it a shot."

She glances back down at the hotdog stand in her hands and my eyes follow .

"So, what's the deal with the diorama? School project or something?"

Her eyes go wide. "I wish." She runs a finger along the edge of the hotdog stand. "It's just for fun. I mean, I have a YouTube Channel. But someday…" her voice trails off.

"Someday what?"

"You're going to make fun of me."

I'm offended she'd think that, because I can tell whatever she was about to say is important to her. But I can't blame her; she has every reason to assume I'll make some asshole comment, based on the version of myself I've given her these past couple of months.

"I swear I won't make fun of you."

"Good," she says. "Because it's serious… It's something other people do—artists. As a legitimate profession."

"What is?"

"Creating dioramas." She pauses for a second, almost like she's waiting to see if I'm going to make some dig, even though I just swore I wouldn't. And again, it stings. She continues, "Someday I'm hoping I'll be able to be a full-time miniature diorama artist. I just… I want to get better; more skilled. And build up a portfolio. Then I want to sell them." Her eyebrows lift. "I've already started working on a website… I want the website to be really kickass and give a feel for the pieces I create; the worlds I build. Not just some lame, boxy online store."

This girl… she's like one of those wooden Russian dolls that you open up and there's another one inside, and then another one, and another one… Always some new surprising or quirky or interesting thing about her.

"That's really cool," I say, my voice softer than usual, because it feels a little like I'm walking on eggshells. She was expecting my scorn, so I want to be extra careful with whatever words I do give her now. I don't want to screw things up even more than I already have. "I mean, really cool." I emphasize. "I really respect that—the fact that you know what you want to do, and you've figured out a plan."

She eyes me dubiously. "Really? "

"Hell, yeah. You've got your shit figured out." I nudge her again with my foot. "You're gonna go far, Maggie LeClair."

"Taking over the world, one diorama at a time."

"Damn straight."

We sit in silence for a minute. Then she unfolds her legs. "So…" She pushes forward on the couch. "You know how I said you didn't need to thank me for singing your praises to Cam and pushing your ass to jam with the guys this afternoon?"

"Yeah…" I have a feeling the gloating is gonna make an appearance now, and I brace for it.

"Well, I changed my mind." She leans in closer. "I have a request. Something I want… To thank me."

Fuck. Worse than gloating. And just when I thought she wasn't like that— wanting something from me. Expecting some material form of reciprocation. Leave it to Maggie to turn ‘thank you’ into a power move.

I should have listened to my internal warning bells—that this genuine act she throws around is exactly that: an act. You think I'd learn: there's always a price tag hidden somewhere.

I study her face, searching for signs I missed before—the calculated moves, the careful manipulation. How many times has she mentioned my family's wealth, made comments about privilege? And here I was starting to think she was just being real, calling things as she sees them. Instead, she was setting up for this moment, waiting to cash in on helping me connect with Cam's band. My jaw clenches as I remember how she seemed genuinely excited for me earlier, how she didn't gloat or make it about herself.

The worst part isn't even that she wants something from me—it's the fact that I was starting to trust that she didn't. But apparently trust is a game I’m stupid enough to keep playing, even when I know the house always wins. And trusting Maggie LeClair felt like a free fall. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised by the hard landing. Or the fact that she’s just another chapter in the same story, and I’m the idiot who keeps rereading it, hoping for a different ending.