Page 4 of This Side of Beautiful

“Sorry,” the boy muttered, stepping back.

The woman in the soaked dress waved him off. “Leave her alone. She don’t want to be bothered, whoever she is.”

Whoever she is.

Didn’t even recognize me.

Maybe that was better. Maybe it was worse.

Breathe. Breathe.

I can’t. I can’t.

Breathe.

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. I have to go. Right. Now.

I turned, ready to run, but smacked into a hard chest.

Strong hands caught mine, grounding me.

I blinked up, stunned by the warmth of his grip before my vision settled on the striking face staring down at me.

Arresting hazel eyes. Smooth caramel skin with hints of toffee and features carrying the traces of a blended African and Asian heritage. Maybe Indigenous. Perhaps not his parents. Somewhere down the line, he carried his ancestor’s defined cheekbones, Nubian nose, and lips that pouted naturally. His hat wasn’t quite like the others at the gala, and even in my heels, he towered over me. His chambray shirt was loose, but the way he held me — firm and steady — told me he was strong.

For the first time in minutes, my mind slowed.

The noise in my head quieted.

I could breathe.

He was the object that settled me.

“Janae?” His deep voice held familiarity, curiosity, recognition.

This beautiful strangerknewme?

I searched my mind, desperate to place him.

His hands were still wrapped around mine, like heknewI was on the verge of falling apart.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

And for some unexplainable reason, I didn’t want him to either.

Chapter Two

landon

One. Two.Three.Four. Five.Six. Se-ven.Eight.

I bopped my head and tapped my thigh to the constant rhythm of my mind while I leaned on our leased Range Rover, watching well-dressed people and musicians I’d seen around the circuits walk through the doors of the Brown Convention Center. Some we’d played for in the studio, some we’d backed up on the stage, and others we would never entertain. At least, that was what Cedrick, my co-founder of The Hollow Bones, boasted. He and I had started our band as teenagers, and we’d gone further than our wildest dreams. My tendency to get lost in the music made it easier for him to speak for the band and specifically for me in my bumbling moments, though I’d long been considered the leader. My quiet strength and impeccable skills on the guitar and the legacy of my musician parents deemed it so. Cedrick had been the first person who’d only noticed what I could do and not what kept me on the fringes when people gathered.

My observant gaze zeroed in on a maroon-haired woman, probably wearing a wig, standing outside the convention center with a black cowboy hat that matched her black fitted pantsuit. She was petite, and without the widening of her hips and round ass, she could’ve passed for a young girl. The glitter-heeled boots broke the monotonous black. I hated that I couldn’t see her face or even her profile. She’d been standing near the doors, wringing her hands, and from the movement of her head, she seemed to be talking to herself for way too long. Was she frustratedly waiting for someone before going inside? She dipped her head in a move I recognized as embarrassment when a couple walked past her to enter the doors.

Curiously, I observed her, wondering if we were kindred souls and if it were even possible to find someone like me. Watching. Waiting. Always hoping that no one noticed me. Was she a musician or a singer? Or maybe she was an invited guest of committee members and their friends and families, like me. And she dreaded going inside, like me, though it was my job.

Then the woman pulled out her phone and started talking, probably for her socials. Even from there, I could see she’d relaxed, and the spell had been broken. We were not kindred souls. She would never understand why I preferred solitude over people. Unreasonably, a stab of disappointment struck me. I shifted my thoughts to the familiar and resumed tapping my thigh to the constant rhythm in my head.

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