Page 67 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

Thankfully, my purse is still here, but it slipped down under the table, and I have to slide along the bench seat to reach it. Pulling it up, I eye the five-dollar bill that Dave put down for me and swap it with the one I intended to pay with myself. Maybe I can find a way to sneak it into his pocket or something. But amongst the bills on the table, there’s a folded piece of paper.

Pulling it toward me, I open it up. It’s covered in faded blue and black ink.

See band name on a marquee.

Complete first national tour.

What is this? It’s like some kind of list.

Get asked for an autograph.

This one is struck through with a line, and my heart flutters in my chest like a wild bird at the sight of my name next to it.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Is this . . . ? This is Dave’s list. Is this what he was looking at so intently when I came in this morning? My eyes flit over the things he’s written. Most are music related, like ‘Sell out tickets to a show.’ I can’t stop the smile that pulls the sides of my lips up. ‘Be featured in a newspaper article.’ SomethingIhelped him complete. Actually, two of these items I’ve helped him complete.

But some others look like things he simply wants to do, like‘Try each city’s signature dish’and ‘Go skinny dipping.’I laughat that one. Has this man never been skinny dipping before? My eyes catch on the last one:‘Hook up backstage.’Heat creeps up my neck all the way to the tips of my ears. Does this mean he hasn’t hooked up with someone backstage? I remember the night we met. How he had twirled my hair around his finger. How he had so confidently flirted with me and made me feel like I was the only woman in the room.

If you were any other girl, I would’ve had my way with you that first night we met, then promptly ditched you.

At least I have the answer to one question: it hasn’t all been in my head.

“Isabella!”

I look up to find Becks’s head floating through the doors to the diner.

“I’m coming!” I quickly stash the list in my purse then walk toward the door. “Sorry,” I say when I catch up. “I had a tampon emergency.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, just tired and now . . . bloated.”

“You and me both. You don’t mind sharing a mattress with me in the van, do you? I need a nap.”

I grip her around the waist and squeeze. “Only if I can be the big spoon.”

Later that afternoon as we head back to San Francisco, I watch Dave’s station wagon following along behind us on the highway in the side mirror for a while. I haven’t found a time to return his list to him, or his money, and I’m ashamed to say that I’ve discretely opened it and read it through five times since we left Vegas—one entry sticking out in my mind the most. The one at the very bottom of the list.

Prove them all wrong.

I don’t know who “them” is, but it does tell me more about whoDaveis. That he has something to prove and people who didn’t believe in him. I hope he knows I’m not one of those people. When he goes out on tour, he’ll be able to do so many of these things and prove to himselfandeveryone else that he made it. And even though I know it’s not meant to be between us, I hope while he’s out there being a wicked cool rockstar, that he thinks of me. That I cross his mind once in a while. If he does, then maybe I won’t feel so stupid for thinking of him.

CHAPTER 20

In League with Satan

ISABELLA

“So, how does it feel to be a married woman?” I ask Becks while we sit and eat our lunch in the cafeteria. It’s the first time I’ve seen or spoken to her since they dropped me off last week.

“Honestly? It doesn’t feel much different,” she confesses. “I was brought up to believe that marriage would solve all of my worries and make me feel fulfilled, but . . . I already felt that way.”

I smile. “I’m jealous,” I confess. “You and James—You both seem so happy.”

“Well, what about you?” she asks and leans in closer to me, like we’re sharing a secret. “Did anything happen between you and Dave? I thought maybe . . .”

Part of me wants to confess everything. The way we confided in each other on the ride there, how he freaked out when I got too comfortable. How he acted like a total jealous asshole but most of all, I want to gush about how he took care of me, then told me it’ll never work out between us. But I don’t. Something tells me Becks would understand, and I would be mortified if she went home to chastise Dave about the choices he made for his life because ofme. The list he wrote burns a hole through my pocket and I’m ashamed to admit that even though a few opportunities presented themselves to return it to him . . . I kept it anyway. I guess I just had a harder time letting go of the small, secret part of him I discovered than I thought I would. It doesn’t change the fact that Dave Noblar is a man who knows what he wants, and the best thing I can do now is move on.

“No,” I say. “I mean, nothing romantic,” I continue. “I got pretty drunk and he took care of me, made sure I was safe, but . . .” The memory of his hand on my waist makes my stomach clench. “No. Nothing happened.”

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