The quiet, public place we went to talk turned out to be a complete dive that had probably never seen anyone under fifty...who’d taken a shower in the last two weeks.

“Think we’ll see any of your friends in here?” Declan asked, holding the door open for me.

“Doubt it.” When it came to men, Carissa’s standards were pretty low, but her credit card maximum expectations were high. “You?”

“Nah. The place is too clean for my boys.”

I groaned. “I just kissed one of your boys’ cheeks, so I hope you’re kidding.”

At least the pub was quieter and the floor less sticky than the club we’d just left. Most of the patrons sat on stools around the bar. They all must have felt the sweep of colder air from outside at the exact same moment. Everyone turned to look at us in unison as if all of their necks were on the same track. Twenty seconds later, they all turned back to their drinks.

No one spoke and, aside from the twenty seconds of interest they showed Declan and me, no one looked at anybody else. Maybe they were too busy staring into their drinks, almost all of which were pint glasses of beer at varying degrees of empty. Or full, I guess.

“Go get us a table before they’re all gone,” Declan joked, nudging me forward with the hand on my lower back. It had felt so normal I hadn’t noticed it was there until it wasn’t. Shit. Everything about Declan confused me. Over the past year, I’d been hyperaware of every touch instigated by a man, accidental or deliberate. But somehow, my subconscious knew Declan could be trusted.

A small group of men were playing pool in the back of the bar, near a dark hallway only slightly lit by the restroom sign hanging from the ceiling above it. These guys were nothing like those of my generation who yelled and danced around as if they’d just hit the final home run in the World Series versus managing to sink a two-inch ball into a pocket.

These men were serious players with serious drinking problems who probably didn’t have much to celebrate. And now they were all staring at me. There was nothing that could stop a girl from needing to pee faster than the realization a trip to the bathroom would entail going into a dark hallway, right after walking past a group of depressed-looking, middle-aged alcoholics.

I glanced toward the bar, trying to decide how long it would take Declan to run back after I yelled, “Help.”

Declan ordered drinks while I grabbed a booth. I slid into one side and used an old napkin to wipe away the condensation circles left by whomever had been here last. Tons of empty tables, and someone else had chosen the same spot I did. I wonder if they were this uncomfortable, too.

As soon as Declan turned around, a bottle in each hand and a grin on his face, my shoulders came down. How could someone who looked so much like a stereotypical bad boy onstage make me feel so safe? More often than not, men who looked that good were jerks because they could get away with it. And I doubt musicians even had to look that good to get away with being assholes. Declan was both damn good-looking and a musician, but I’d never seen kinder eyes or understated confidence.

“Good choice,” he said, motioning to the booth. He set one of the bottles down in front of me and slid into the other bench seat. “I wasn’t sure you were a beer drinker, but it was the safest way to go. If you’d seen the glasses anything else would’ve come in, you’d be kissing me for getting you beer in a bottle.”

I climbed onto my knees and leaned over the table to give him the kiss he’d mentioned, melting into him despite the atmosphere and the sounds around us. Every time we kissed, things got explosive really quickly, and neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves.

But not this time. At some point, we’d silently agreed he was in control tonight. He gently pushed me away, the look on his face still screaming for more.

“You promised me a conversation, and you’re not allowed to kiss your way out of it.” He paused, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my mouth. “You have the most amazing lips, did you know that? I'm pretty partial to your tongue, too.” He blinked. “Damn. I haven’t been this distracted by a woman since I was fifteen.”

“Who was she?” No one in the place could’ve missed my full-body cringe. Why the hell did I ask that? As if I could be jealous of someone he’d known almost a decade ago. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”

“Are you wondering if I have a type?” He smiled. “I can honestly say that you have next to nothing in common with her, or any woman I’ve dated. That’s a good thing, by the way.”

“Man, did you blow that one,” I teased. “Now you have to tell me about her, so I know what you don’t think I’m like.”

“In the spirit of open and honest conversation—”

“Wait, let me guess. She was the head cheerleader.” I raised my hand to stop him. “No, she was the mother of one of your friends. Am I close?”

“To explaining the plot to every teenage movie from the 80s?” He shook his head and took a sip of his beer. “You forgot the tomboyish best friend who’s been right in front of him the whole time but still invisible. Then there’s the science experiment that gets out of hand, or the love potion gone wrong.”

“Darn it! How could I have forgotten the best one?” I dropped the volume of my voice as soon as I realized everyone had heard me. “I loved the tomboy best friend. In fact, I was the tomboy best friend.”

“No way.” He grimaced. “That can’t possibly be true.”

“What?” I asked, mildly offended. “There’s nothing wrong with being a tomboy.”

“I completely agree. But the premise of those films is that the guy knows how great his best friend is, but it takes the whole movie for him to see how incredible inside and out. And I have a hard time believing anyone who’s ever known you could miss that for more than a day. Two max.”

“Nobody wanted me back then. I was a late bloomer.” I took a sip of my beer, hoping it would cool the blush off my cheeks. “But enough about me.”

“I can’t imagine ever getting enough of you.”

“Stop doing that!”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Being…so nice.”

“Huh.” He cocked his head to the side. “I guess you really were the best friend. Because if you’d always been the way you are now, you’d be better at taking a compliment.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. “Now you have to tell me about this woman you found so distracting. She wasn’t a cheerleader or your best friend, so she was…?”

“Señora Martinez, obviously.”

“Your teacher! Of course. Damn, I wasn’t even close.”

“I’m a sucker for the traditional clichés, I guess. Fifteen-year-old guy enamored with his thirty-something-year-old teacher who was very cute, very married, and very not interested in him in the slightest.”

“Poor Declan,” I teased. “How long did it take to get over the rejection?”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.” His dimples became deeper as he fought to hold in his smile. “I had to take Spanish II a second time...in summer school. I gave up an entire summer vacation for that woman, and I still barely passed. I was too busy imagining her talking dirty to me in Spanish to pay attention. I don’t think I—”

“Dices algo provocativo para me, mi estudiante caliente.”

He groaned. “If we can get through an honest conversation without either of us walking out, I would love to play teacher with you sometime. If you’re interested.”

Very. But... “Un paso a la vez.”

“You’re right—one step at a time. So, let’s start stepping.” He nodded and took a drink. “Okay, completely honest conversation.” He sat up straighter. “I said I would start, didn’t I? Unfortunately, I can’t think of a single thing that’s ever been wrong in my life. Other than my failed relationship with Señora Martinez, of course.” He laughed. “Okay. Here goes.”

I loved the length of his pause. It let me know that this wasn’t something easy for him either. It also showed me how much he was willing to go through to hear what I would say. If I could say it.

“I’ve never told anyone this because...I don’t know if I’ve ever had anyone to tell. Anyone I could tell without creating bad feelings or messing up someone else’s life. So…um…” He set the bottle onto the table and leaned in. “The band. Self Defense has ruined every relationship I’ve ever had—my father, Trevor, every woman I’ve liked. I lied to you about it because I didn’t want it to ruin the one I hoped we could have. Sorry. I know you don’t want to hear me say stuff like that, but—”

“It doesn’t matter.” I motioned for him to continue, not wanting him to censor himself. That was what the point of this was, right? “Keep going.”

He nodded. “I hate it. Every time a music producer or promoter comes to see a show, I pray they stop us in the middle of a song and tell us we should give up right now because we’ll never go anywhere. Or that the crowd will turn on us, and we’ll have to run away from a screaming mob.”

“Why don’t you just stop doing it, then?”

“Because this is what the guys have always dreamed of, and I don’t want to be the reason their dream dies. Our piece-of-shit manager took us on because of me and made it clear that, if I ever quit he’ll drop Self Defense, and they’d never stand a chance of getting a contract without me.”

“How does he know? Maybe he’s wrong.”

“Fuck.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “I would love to see them prove that asshole wrong. To be clear—it isn’t me specifically. They could do it with any jackass up front. I’m just not sure any other jackass would be able to keep them from self-destructing.”

“What do you mean, self-destruct?”

“It’s happened before. When we were just starting out, we landed another manager, a bigger one actually. He found a great label that wanted to sign us. Except it turned out the label only wanted to sign me. They wanted to take me out of Self Defense and shove me and my songs into one of their other bands who’d just lost their lead singer. When I said no, the contract, the label, and the manager all disappeared. And Trevor, he...”

He wiped a hand over his mouth and stared at the table for a minute. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but it obviously wasn’t a good memory. Just as I was trying to come up with something to say to distract him, pull him out of wherever he was, he sighed and looked up at me.

“Trevor had a hard time dealing with it,” he said finally. “Then about six months ago, I talked a new manager into taking all of us…on one condition.”

“That you didn’t quit.”

He nodded. “That I didn’t quit. Unfortunately, he never gets tired of telling me how easy it would be to get me a solo contract, no matter how many times I’ve said no.”

“You said no,” I muttered without thinking. Or maybe I was thinking too much, but not about him or his manager.

“I said no,” he said, thankfully not knowing what was happening inside my mind, “multiple times.”

Three ordinary words, and the fear of having to share my secret had tossed me right back into that moment. I winced at the pain just the memory caused me. The memory and everything that had happened afterwards.

“Sara? Is everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh yeah.” I hadn’t planned on taking such a long swig of my beer, but I needed a chance to recover. “So…um…what does the rest of the band think?”

He studied me for a minute, unsure he should continue after my silent freak-out probably.

“The other guys…” I prompted. “What’s their take on all of it?”

“I can’t tell them. What could they do about it besides be hurt?”

“Even if you’re miserable? That’s not fair. And don’t you dare say ‘Life’s not fair.’”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” he said, shrugging. “Yeah, it’s not fair, but it’s still life. A life my best friend has been dreaming about since we were in sixth grade. At first, I did it because it was fun. Then I did it because girls liked the bad boy musician thing.”

I laughed. “That’s true. We do like the bad boy thing, and you’re really good at it onstage.”

He wiped his hands over his face. “It was fun at first, and I never imagined we’d stay together past sophomore year. Then shit started snowballing, and I got caught in the middle of it. Now, I can’t leave without hurting the one guy who’s more like a brother than a friend. At least not until I know he and the other guys will be okay.

“And unfortunately, things keep getting derailed before that happens. So, whenever we have a show or do an interview, I can’t stop feeling like I’m in a cage. Even sometimes when we’re just sitting around playing guitar. That’s what sucks the most, you know? I used to fucking love hanging out with Trevor and playing him something new I came up with. Now, I kind of dread it.”

He paused, taking another swig of his beer. “This must be how Catholics feel after confession. I actually feel really great, lighter or something. You should try it sometime. Like, say, now.” He smiled.

“It’s my turn already?”

“If you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

I stared at him, knowing I should speak. I owed him, and I’d said I would. Plus, I wanted to tell someone. No, not someone. Him. I wanted to tell Declan because I knew he would believe me. So, why couldn't I get my mouth to work?

He waited patiently. Gave me a little time and space by leaning back against the bench seat. He was on his third lift-sip-and-glance by the time I was ready.

“When…um…When someone you love tells you that something bad happened to her, you should believe her.” I wasn’t exactly sure how much I’d end up saying but, for only the second time, I let the words come in whatever order they wanted to. “You shouldn’t tell her to stop being dramatic or lying. And you shouldn’t pretend she never said anything just because you like your life the way it is, and you know that if you did believe her, everything would change. And whatever you do, please, please, please”—I looked up at the ceiling to make sure no tears would fall—“don’t force her to sit across from the person who—”

That was the moment the words ran out. Right before the one I was still too afraid to say, even to myself. But I’d already said more than I’d thought I would be able to. Even though I hadn’t really said anything at all.

My eyes never lifting, I apologized.

“Come here.” He scooted farther into the bench, patting the spot next to him.

I hesitated until I realized how much I wanted to be close to him. I trusted him not to hurt me. And when he touched me, it didn’t sting, it didn’t feel like a punishment. I didn’t cry and close my eyes and beg him to stop.

He didn’t try to touch me or say anything inadequate. Somehow, he knew I wasn’t ready yet. And that I’d tell him when I was.

“You were the first,” I said quietly.

“The first what?”

“The first guy I’d been with in the last year who didn’t make me feel used.” I hadn’t cried at all on my way home from Declan’s place, not one single tear. Of course, now was a totally different story, but my tears weren’t his fault. “I didn’t realize it until I got home, but…” I shrugged, unable to keep talking, not knowing what he was thinking or how pathetic I looked. I laughed nervously. “I promised you a conversation, and I don’t think I've said a complete sentence yet.”

“That one was,” he said, his smile reassuring. “I think you were doing pretty good before that one, too.”

“You were honest with me, and I want to be honest with you, but I can’t seem to...” I’d said it out loud once, to my mother, and maybe my words had been broken, but all the important ones had been there. Unfortunately, none of them had meant enough for her to care.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he said after another minute of my awkward silence. “We don’t have to go back to my place. Maybe we just walk around for a while.”

“That sounds good.”

“But just to warn you, I may try to hold your hand.” He scooted out of the booth after me. “And at some point, I might want to put my arm around your shoulder. But in a badass way.”

“That sounds good, too.”

He held out his hand as soon as he stood. “Don't get any weird ideas about what this means, though.”

I slipped my fingers through his gratefully and let him lead me outside. “I wasn’t going to, but now that you said that…”