Page 33 of Over You
Nash: Where the hell are you?
Nash: Seriously. Not funny. We can’t do the show without you.
Leo: I hope you find the peace to get clean one day.
Even though that self-righteous comment grated my nerves, sober me felt like a dickhead for choking one of my best friends. My Buddhist, everything is Zen, don’t kill bugs because they’re living creatures, best friend at that.
I had a show.
The right thing to do would be to catch a ride to Glastonbury, suck it up and apologize, and not let my fans down. I opened the last text from Nash and typed out:I’ll be there.My finger hovered over the blue send arrow. That worn-out Jiminy Cricket voice that tried to keep my ass out of trouble whistled, and I glanced around the room.
While most of last night was foggy, the way Georgia looked at me in that pub stuck out like a gangrened thumb. Her eyes were a little sad. A little hopeful. She’d given me those same eyes when I had climbed onto her roof that first night, when I had left for our debut tour, and the last time I had told her I was sorry, then fucked her on the counter. There was still something there. Any idiot knows love doesn’t just go away. It morphs maybe, possibly even into hate, but a person can only hate someone they loved. And the way I saw it, hate was the heart’s defense mechanism.
Not a day had gone by that I hadn’t thought about her. Missed her. I would be a fool if I just walked away, willingly surrendering the one thing that made life worth living.
Screw the label. Screw the guys. The fans would get over it. Dropping my chin, I rubbed at the tattoo of Rapunzel’s tower on my forearm. After all, Flynn Ryder ignored his pack of thieves for Rapunzel, right?
This was more important than any record contract would ever be. I would give up every penny, every ounce of fame if I could have a do-over. I knew Georgia Anne and I were meant to be together, but the shitty thing about life: Do-overs didn’t exist.
This philosophical bullshit was why I hated being sober. Everything was too clear when my mind wasn’t muddied. At the very least, I needed to have a serious talk with her. Forgiveness. Resolution. Closure.Something.
Anxiety buzzed through my chest like a swarm of bees when I made my way to the steps. My nerves had never been wound so tight—not even at Midnite Kills’s first, sold-out show. By the time I had moved into the living room, a cold sweat dotted my forehead. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. I had no idea what I was going to say. It wasn’t as simple as, “I’m sorry.” Definitely not as easy as “Come back home.” She had thought her leaving would drive me to sobriety, and I wished it had.
Maybe I could get away with an:I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. God, I was selfish.
When I rounded the corner, it was Lottie, not Georgia, standing at the stove with a teapot in hand. What the hell was she wearing? Polka-dot tights and black jean overalls.Dear God, Georgia, are you living with Boy George’s cousin?
“Hey. Where’s Georgia?”
She jumped and spun around with a hand over her heart. “Bloody hell. You’re like a stealth ninja. And Georgia’s in class.”
I rubbed at my throat. I was stuck in the same rut, digging the hole deeper and deeper, and she’d literally started a new life. “So, she’s in college?”
“Yeah. Uni.” Her gaze narrowed. “This is mental. I’m standing inmykitchen, talking to Spencer Hailstorm. Who happens to be my best friend’s. . .” She choked back her next words by faking a cough. “Not to make you feel weird or anything, but it’s making me feel kind of weird, so, you know.”
I thumbed over my shoulder. “I can go if you—”
“Oh no. No, I didn’t mean for you to. . .” She lifted the teakettle with steam billowing from the spout. “Want some tea?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. I didn’t drink tea; Georgia was right. “What’s she studying?”
“Creative writing.”
Georgia had hated writing assignments in school. She had moved in with me halfway through her senior year, and she was failing English and math. I’d had to withhold sex on several occasions to force her to finish term papers. She moaned about how tedious writing was and now. . . How was it possible that within the course of a year I no longer knew her? One year should not trump five.
Lottie poured water from the kettle into a thermos, then grabbed a tea bag, dunking it on her way across the kitchen. “Does that shock you?”
“A little.”
A soft grin shaped her lips like she was privy to some secret I wasn’t. “They’ve dubbed you the Houdini of Punk Rock. Runaway Rock Star.” She took a backpack from the kitchen table and shouldered it.
“I’ve been called way worse.” I traced my finger over the edge of the table. “What time does Georgia usually get back?”
“Around three.” She pulled her hair free from the book bag strap. “I’m about to head out to Glastonbury, you know, the festival you’re supposed to play at. And while I feel I should tell you that you’re about to let down a lot of fans, it seems there are some pretty important things you need to tie up here.”
She snagged keys from a hook. Sunlight spilled into the tiny kitchen when she yanked the door open and hesitated at the threshold. “She may not have told mewhoyou were, but she talked about you. A lot. More than I’d ever talk about a guy I didn’t still love. And I want to believe that if you love her as much as she loves you, you can find a way to fix it. Or at the least, show her that you’re trying.”
Before I could respond, she was out the door, and I was alone with my sober thoughts.
