Page 69 of Hard Rock Muse
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Iflung a dark purple, knee-high boot behind me with a frustrated growl. Its mate soon followed. I sent a pair of black pumps flying. They hit the opposite wall with a thud.
“Hey!” Abby cried.
I jumped, turning to find her standing in the hallway, front door half-open. The shoes had hit the door, not the wall.
“You almost killed me with those,” she said.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I leaned back on my heels and let out a disheartened sigh. “I didn’t mean to throw shit at you.”
“Is there a reason why the front closet looks like a war zone?” she asked, closing the door firmly behind her.
“I’m looking for my red stilettos,” I said, annoyed. “I haven’t seen them in months.”
“So you needed to toss everything from the closet into the hallway?” she asked doubtfully.
I rubbed a hand against my forehead, trying to smooth the creases. The beginnings of a headache pounded at my temples.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m in a bad mood.”
“What happened?” she asked, concerned. She set her school bag on the sofa and came over to where I was kneeling in front of the closet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she said gently. “You’re making that face. Something’s bothering you.”
“I don’t really feel like getting into it right now.”
“Does it have to do with Julian?” she asked.
I whipped my head up to gape at her. She rubbed my back.
“I know you, Ev,” she said. “You don’t let much get to you. The only time I’ve seen you this upset was when Julian left the band, and when all that stuff was going down with Keith.” Her eyes went wide. “You haven’t heard from Keith again, have you?”
I frowned, hating to hear that asshole’s name.
“No,” I said, then amended so it wasn’t a lie. “Not recently.”
I shifted my gaze back to the closet. Nearly everything had been tossed on the floor. I really had destroyed it.
“Sorry about the mess,” I said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Forget about the mess,” Abby replied. “Let’s go get a cup of tea, okay?”
I followed Abby to the kitchen where she turned on the kettle. She took out my favorite calming chamomile and vanilla. I slumped into a chair. I couldn’t stop my toe from jiggling nervously under the table.
Abby side-eyed me but didn’t mention my nervous tick. She poured the both of us a cup and sat mine down in front of me, then pulled up her chair and dragged it until our knees could almost touch. She waited until I’d taken a few careful sips, trying not to burn my tongue, before speaking again.
“So what’s up?” she asked.
“It’s nothing,” I murmured, blowing on the tea to cool it down.
“It’s something,” she countered. “Talk to me.”
Her request was so similar to what I’d asked of Julian. I knew how it felt to watch someone clam up and refuse to talk about something important. I knew how it hurt to feel like you weren’t trusted enough.
“Julian and I had a fight,” I said.
