Page 39 of Cadence
“It’s not what it looks like. It wasn’t…” Frustration seeps through my pores, the explanation behind all of this on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to get the words out. “Fuck, it wasn’t planned.”
Beau’s eyes bug out, a look of incredulity near apoplectic as he glares at me. “Nothing you do is unplanned, Maddox.”
“Cool it, okay?” Eli wedges himself between us, pressing both palms into our chests. “Safe to assume that impromptu change had something to do with Paige?”
“What do you think?” Beau mutters, turning his back on us and yanking out his earpiece.
“Beau, listen, I’m…” I try to apologize and make this right with the guy I should never have tried to outshine on stage, even if that wasn’t my intention, but he shakes his head, holding his hand up.
“Just…go find her, Maddox.”
I’m already moving, not just because he told me to, but because the moment I saw her leave unexpectedly split something inside me in two. I told myself it was guilt from staying on that stage, basking in the glow of being surrounded by fans, instead of doing immediate damage control. But it wasn’t that at all. It was the look on her face as she stared at me from across the drum kit like I’d broken something she’ll never let me fix.
And the idea of her walking away from all of this—from the band—makes a dark tightness coil around my lungs, squeezing hard enough that it feels dangerously close to panic.
Taking off through the crew, I shove my guitar at some poor stagehand who barely has time to catch it.
I don’t even know what I’m going to say when I see Paige. All I know is I need her to understand I didn’t do this on purpose. That it might seem like a dick move, but I’m not the asshole I’ve somehow managed to paint myself as.
Reaching the dressing room at the end of the corridor, I pause at the door. Light spills across the concrete floor, bleeding out from the gap where she’s not quite closed it. Inside, shadows flicker, moving just as frantically as the sounds of her packing. I step forward, squinting between the crack, watching her shove things into her duffle, her hands trembling so hard a brush slips from her grip and clatters loudly to the floor.
“Fuck’s sake,” she grumbles.
I move inside, bending to grab it before she can even turn around. Straightening, her eyes land on me, bouncing between my face and hand, going colder than ever before, the bright bluelike ice cutting straight through skin and bone. I wordlessly hold out the brush, and she snatches it from me, shoving it deep into her bag.
My jaw clenches, throat locking as I watch her pace around, the veins running up her delicate neck popping like it’s taking every ounce of strength she has not to fall apart.
All because of me.
And even knowing that should be enough for me to keep my distance, give her the space I know she desperately needs, but I don’t. I can feel myself leaning toward her, my feet moving forward like gravity has a mind of its own whenever she’s near. I’m supposed to be apologizing, telling her why I did what I did. But the closer I get to her, the more my thoughts derail, and all I can think about is how badly I want to reach out and touch her.
To remind her that she’s not alone.
“Listen, Paige. I know you’re mad…” The ice shatters, replaced with a fire that engulfs her entire gaze, her fingers strangling a can of hairspray.
That might’ve been the wrong thing to say.
I hold up both my hands, trying to disarm her as I continue. “But did you not hear them out there? The crowd loved it.”
Her eyes don’t soften. If anything, they penetrate harder, and I feel it splinter behind my ribs. She’s not just mad; she’s disappointed. In me. And that’s even worse.
She edges forward to jab a finger in my face. “Don’t you dare come in here and try to justify you ambushing us.”
“Ambush…? That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, really?” She laughs, the sound incredulous as she folds her arms over her chest, staring me down. “So, what was that then?”
She’s fire and fury, wrath and grace, and I’m caught somewhere between wanting to fix this and wanting to drag her closer just to feel the burn. She waits, eyebrows slightly raised,and I should be ashamed of how much I’m focusing on her mouth pulling into a tight line, her chest rising with each breath.
“Clearly, I’m not doing a good job of apologizing here, but…”
“Oh, that’s what you’re trying to do?” she deadpans. “I must’ve missed the part where you actually said the words.”
Spinning back around, she shoves the hairspray away and zips up her duffle in a long, jerking pull, the high-pitched rasp ringing loudly in the small dressing room.
“I’m sorry, okay? But you have to admit, the lyrics were good. The crowd went absolutely wild for them.”
I’m grasping, thinking of something to make this better and to stop her from walking out that door and never coming back. Praise, logic, anything but the truth that I did it because I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About her words, her voice, how she made the song better.
