Chapter Two
Ryan Thomas looked out the window and sucked in his breath at the fiery streaks of red climbing up the mountainside. He’d forgotten how beautiful Washington was. There was nothing like the Cascade Mountains in October, the trees so bright it looked like the whole place was lit up in flames.
He tapped the bassist, Zeek, who was leaning against the window next to him and snoring. “Where’d you say we’re going again?”
Zeek muttered something about fucking assholes not letting him sleep and went back to sawing logs. Throughout the cross-country tour, they’d done everything to him while he was sleeping—shaving cream, inked fingers, Sharpie mustaches, the works. Once they duct taped him to the seat and woke him up with sirens. The Instagram feed for Square One went nuts.
But now that the tour was finally winding down, even Ryan was so tired he wished he could sleep like Zeek, conked out no matter where they were.
The problem was Seattle. The whole Pacific Northwest. As soon as he’d crossed into this freaking time zone, he’d been restless. Every venue, every chord, every spotlight made him think about Claire.
He was a different man than when he’d been here last. This time, he could perform each night and still remember the show the next morning. But he spent the whole week in the city wondering whether he was going to see her. Maybe he’d bump into her getting coffee. Maybe she’d come to one of his shows. She could have seen the flyers or heard him on the radio. Starting over had meant playing with a new band, creating a brand new image. But if she ever Googled him, she’d know.
But not one of the tall girls with wispy brown hair cheering in the front row was her. Something settled in his chest as they drove into the mountains, leaving the city behind. Relief. Or maybe it was more like regret.
For all he knew, she didn’t even live in Seattle. It was just a guess. She’d run out on him so fast all those years ago, all he could assume was that she’d left their New York apartment and gone home. Back to her parents, the ones who’d never liked him anyway. Back to the life she should have been leading all along.
She’d left him a note folded on the coffee pot, the one place she knew he’d look once he finally peeled himself off the futon. All it said was good-bye.
She’d disconnected her cell phone, and her emails bounced back. He called around to her friends, but it wasn’t like the other times, where he’d find her on someone’s couch and convince her to come home, knowing he was an asshole for doing it but unable to make himself stop.
Finally, he sucked it up and tried her parents. They said they didn’t know where she was, but he didn’t believe them. They didn’t sound frantic—the way they’d always been when it came to their little girl. If anything, they were probably popping champagne. She could go back to school, get her degree, become the lawyer they’d always wanted.
He used to Google her sometimes. Claire Collins. Claire Collins + Seattle. Claire Collins + University of Washington. But it was a common name, and nothing useful came up. He knew whatever she was doing, though, she was successful. Her clients would be lucky to have her. And she’d be foxy as hell in a suit.
He exhaled, then realized it was more like a sigh when Alex, the drummer and the one driving this shift, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “It’s Gold Mountain,” he said.
Ryan leaned forward. He’d almost forgotten he’d asked. “Where?”
“Gold Mountain. Ski town, but I’ve heard it’s awesome any time of year.”
“Kind of off the beaten path,” Ryan commented as he looked around at trees, trees, and more trees.
“Our last show. Man, it’s going to be good to get off the road.”
“They have a concert venue up here?” He didn’t mind the view, but it wasn’t exactly where he’d expected his booking agent to stick them.
“A bar, I think,” Alex said. “Somebody’s name. Mackenzie’s?”
Ryan sat back in his seat. He thought they’d graduated beyond these dinky little spots. Whatever—it might have been scheduled early on, before they knew the tour would do so well. And he was in no position to complain. He still couldn’t believe a single person would pay to hear him sing, not after he’d flamed out so spectacularly with Little White Lie.
Square One wasn’t his dream band, and this hadn’t been his dream tour. But the fact that he still got to wake up every day, let alone make music, felt like a gift he couldn’t turn down.
“We have any time to kill up there?” he asked Alex.
“Nah. We play tonight, drive right back to Seattle, then fly out first thing,” Alex said.
“That’s too bad.”
“Too bad to be on a plane heading home? No more of this cramped little shitbox?”
Ryan laughed. “They’re supposed to have good climbing routes out here.”
He gazed out the window, feeling that familiar itch across his fingers. His one condition for going on tour was that they build a few off days into the schedule so he’d have time to go rock climbing if they were in a good area, or hit a gym whenever they could stop. The exertion helped keep him steady and focused when he felt himself starting to slip.
But countless hours on the road, plus climbing on stiff muscles, had just about wrecked him. He reached across his body and pressed the fingers of his left hand hard into the meat behind his right shoulder. Not like he’d be able to get out and enjoy this place, even if he had time. His arm hurt like hell.
“We’ll be back in Chicago soon,” Alex said, seeing Ryan massaging his shoulder. “You can get back to your crazy stunts then.”
And get to work on his next album. His manager, Eddie, had finally been able to set up the meeting of a lifetime. According to him, Square One had done well enough—and Ryan had finally proven himself together enough—that his old bandmates had come calling. For the first time, Ryan had an actual chance to get Little White Lie back together—and get himself back on top.
He looked down and realized he was rubbing his forearm, touching the armbands he’d gotten inked as soon as he’d left rehab. Two lines, one for him and one for Claire. A ring for the one he never got her, and another for the one he’d never wear. Parallel, not intersecting, because that was how their lives were going to have to be.
The last night he ever saw her was a blur. It was the same day Little White Lie finally signed with a major label, and he’d gone out celebrating with the guys. He knew she was waiting for him—he remembered her saying she had something important to tell him. But no matter how much he racked his brain, he never recalled what it was.
All he knew was that after coming home way too late, for whatever fucking reason, he stupidly went out again. When he came to, he was lying on the futon in his clothes and shoes, puke spattered on the rug, and Claire was gone.
If he was ever tempted to drink again, the ink was a reminder. He just had to look down at his arm and see all he’d once had…and all he had lost. His band, his girl—everything he was.
He told himself it was better that he hadn’t seen her in Seattle. He wouldn’t have known what to say if he had. The past was better off behind him. He was going to play this last show in Gold Mountain, go home to Chicago, and kick ass at Eddie’s big meeting.
Nothing—not his memories, not his drinking, and certainly not a woman—would ever distract him again.