Blame It on the Tequila

“We should probably get going. We don’t want to push our luck.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Thanks for this. It was fun, but also it was good to look at the art and analyze the emotions with our stories.”

“Good. I had no idea if it would work. I’m totally winging it.”

I tossed my head back and laughed. Nova always looked so unassuming but held more depth and ability than almost anyone I knew.

I loved it.

If I was honest, I loved a lot about her.

Even after all these years.

Always.

Sixteen

Parker

Two days later, and we were back on the road again. We’d managed to write a whole verse and chorus. It wasn’t much, but mainly because time held us back over our inability to create together.

It wasn’t great, but it was a move in the right direction.

Which was why, when Nova had me pick a movie I’d never seen and demanded time at the back of the bus, I didn’t question it. I grabbed popcorn and shoved down all the crazy, hopeful ideas that said she was inviting me back there to spend time alone together—to rekindle what we lost.

In a way, she was. Just not the love and caring I wanted. Instead, she was trying to rekindle our writing mojo. But thirty minutes in and it kind of felt like the same thing, because if we were honest, our writing mojo came from a lot of our emotional connection, and it was that emotional connection that had us pushing the limits of right and wrong.

“Parker,” she cried just before a popcorn kernel hit my head. “You have to take this seriously.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to take deep, calming breaths to get myself under control.

“I’m trying, but your British accent is horrible.”

“It’s the best,” she argued, throwing another popcorn kernel my way. This time I caught it with my mouth.

Her idea had us watching a movie neither of us had watched before on mute while we made up our own script for them. It took a while to get going, but once we did, I fed off her as much as she fed off me. Until she broke out the accent, and I died laughing.

She glared with pursed lips, and the movie was forgotten. I forced myself to keep my eyes on the screen and not her, but now that I’d taken her in, there was no looking away. Her red hair defied gravity in the way it balanced on her head in a mass of tangles. She lay stretched out on one side of the U-shaped couch, her long legs bare beneath gray sweat shorts. All that lean muscle on full display. Creamy skin with almost imperceptible freckles that you had to know where to look to see them. I’d made it a point to map each and every one when we were teens.

My phone buzzed beside me, and I begrudgingly pulled my gaze away from her to find a message from Sonia.

Sonia: I’m in Charlotte. Do you want to have dinner when you get here? It would be good promo for your show tonight.

And leave Nova? I didn’t think so.

As if on cue, Aspen’s voice cut through my thoughts from years of always drilling me. You should do it for the job. Sales, sales, sales and promo, promo, promo. But right now, the job didn’t matter. Even sitting here trying to build a rapport to write music with Nova didn’t matter. It was the relaxing and just…being that mattered. I eyed Nova and smiled because maybe having her around was what it took to remind me that I could still be me—just me—and that was okay.

Me: Not this time. Thanks for the offer.

Sonia: You sure? Does Aspen agree?

Me: She’s not the one that matters. I do.

With that, I pushed my phone aside, irritated that these two women seemed like they were conspiring to corner me. It pissed me off.

“Who’s that?” Nova asked.

“No one important.” I decided to be vague over lying because I didn’t want to say Sonia’s name when we were having a good time.

“Not your mom?” she asked.

I flinched at the mention of my mom. “Why would you say that?”

“You just usually get that line between your brows when you hear from her. It’s grown deeper over the years.”

“I’ll be sure to botox it,” I joked.

She laughed but quickly sobered. “Does she still message you a lot?”

“Not really. Just when she wants to brag about her other family.”

“Do they come to your shows at all?”

“God, no,” I laughed. “Although, I did leave some tickets for my younger stepbrother, but they were never claimed. He said Mom wouldn’t let him come.”

“What a bitch,” she hissed.

“That about sums it up.”

“So, if it wasn’t your mom, who else puts that line there?”

I quickly weighed the pros and cons of lying, and the cons outweighed the two-second reprieve it’d buy me. So, with a deep breath, I answered honestly. “Sonia.”