Famous in a Small Town

Garrett sighed.

Smith turned to me with a shrug. “They really were all great. I just wasn’t ready to settle down yet. And it’s very hard to keep a long-term relationship going when you’re on the road all the time. You know what it’s like.”

“Um,” I said with much wisdom. “Not really.”

He gave me a wink.

“The answer is no.” Garrett shook his head. “All of them are probably located in L.A. and they’re tied to the industry in one way or another. I already told you, I’m finished with all that. I’m not going back. And I’m sure as hell not dating anyone.”

“But music is your life,” said Smith, voice thick with emotion. “Ever since we met at the back of that truly horrible show where the bar watered down the beer and the band broke up mid-set. What a clusterfuck that was. Though we did get a drummer out of it, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“I mean it, Smith,” said Garrett, expression set in concrete. “I’m done. I’m sick of all the bullshit. The band’s finished. It’s over.”

“I know things went bad there for a while, but we’re still your family.”

A muscle ticked in the side of Garrett’s jaw.

Smith sighed. “What about the house in West Hollywood? I get you selling the place in Georgia. But you’re keeping the pad in L.A., right?”

“It’s going up for sale.”

A deep sort of sadness filled Smith’s gaze. “All right. You’re done with music and Los Angeles. But you’ve got to date someone. I promised Grace, and you know how she was about someone giving their word and not following through.”

Garrett hung his head.

“It meant a lot to her . . . that you wouldn’t be alone.”

The only sound in the room was Joni singing “A Case of You” with heartbreaking beauty. That song I knew. And while this conversation was highly interesting, it was also still highly personal. I finished the second glass of wine and set the glass aside. Time to make my exit.

“You’re ready for your third,” said Smith, reaching out to refill my glass once more. “Good work, Ani. Nice to know that someone here has enough taste to appreciate a thirty-year-old Italian red.”

“This single malt is fifty years old and probably cost more than your damn wine.” Garrett raised the glass, examining the remaining contents. “I don’t understand why you’re saying I have no taste.”

Smith just grunted.

Third glass waiting or not, I really was ready to go. Right up until I saw how miserable Smith was. The slumped shoulders and dejected expression on his handsome face. And his eyes were suspiciously liquid. This visit with his friend and former bandmate was not going well.

My ass stayed put in the chair. Even though my feet had gone numb with the weight of a sleeping dog on top of them.

“Are we really going to argue about who spent the most money on a disposable luxury item?” I asked. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Smith paused. “I feel so judged.”

“Right?” Garrett raised a brow. “And she accused me of being judgy the other day. She’s just as bad.”

“Hmm,” said Smith, rubbing at his eyes surreptitiously.

I took a sip of wine. “That was different.”

“How was it different?” asked Garrett.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “This is my third glass of wine and I had a couple of beers earlier. Let me get back to you about it when I can think straight, because I am definitely right about this.”

One side of his gorgeous mouth curled up, and oh wow. It was almost a smile and it was sublime. All I could do was stare.

Smith’s gaze jumped between me and his friend. “Back to the dating thing.”

“Man, no. I can’t.” Garrett curled his hands into fists. “I’m not ready.”

Smith nodded. “That’s understandable. If I sat around all day isolating myself from my friends and family and dwelling on my dead wife, I probably wouldn’t be ready to move on either.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Yeah. I am.” Smith raised his chin. “If Grace could see what a miserable little sack of shit you’ve turned into, she’d be ashamed. And what’s worse is you fucking know it.”

Garrett glared at Smith and Smith glared straight back at him. Talk about tension. Apparently, Smith had finally lost his patience. When his fingers started curling into fists as well, I could stand it no longer.

“Please don’t fight,” I said in an almighty rush. “Physical violence makes me nauseous and this looks like a seriously expensive rug.”

It might not have been pretty, but it worked. Garrett turned to me with one of his patented what-the-fuck looks. Like he couldn’t quite tell if I was being serious or not. And I wasn’t, but he didn’t know that.

“It is,” confirmed Garrett. “I don’t think Gene would appreciate you vomiting on him either.”

“Probably not.”

“Pity.” Smith downed some of his wine. “We haven’t had a decent brawl in years. Could have been fun.”