“Cut! Cut.”

I sigh as Francesca’s terse command blasts through the overhead speakers for the third time in the past half hour. Aiden and Lincoln groan behind me in unison — the most they’ve spoken since we started rehearsing, with the exception of the rather lukewarm greeting they gave me when I arrived. I don’t look over at Ryder, but I sense him bracing for the storm along with me as Francesca blows through the door with hurricane force, a displeased expression marring her porcelain features.

“What is going on in here?” She plants her hands on her hips, gaze whipping from one face to the next. “Need I remind you that this rehearsal space, along with these instruments and the sound technicians assisting you today, are costing Route 66 several thousand dollars per hour?”

We’re all silent, staring at her like children chastised by their teacher. There’s nothing we can say to defend ourselves. The last three takes have been abysmal. Lincoln’s beat is so off, we’re playing at twice our normal tempo. Aiden’s stumbled over three separate chord changes. Ryder’s growling the lyrics with such anger, Faded sounds almost unrecognizable coming from his mouth. And, shameful as it is to admit, I’ve also been operating at half-effort, slugging through the song like a loathsome task on a list of chores.

No one in their right mind would pay money to hear this.

Musical failings aside, our stage presence is in sore need of an adjustment as well, seeing as not one of us has made eye contact or exchanged more than the most basic of pleasantries since we stepped through the door an hour ago — a fact that has not escaped Francesca’s notice, judging by the cold disapproval radiating off her in waves.

“Look,” she says flatly, folding her toned arms across her chest. “I realize things didn’t exactly go as planned last time you tried this—”

Lincoln snorts.

Francesca proceeds as though she hasn’t heard him. “And I know it’s been a while since you last rehearsed together. However, I expect more effort than this rather poor showing. The tour leaves in three weeks. Or, it’s supposed to — right now, sounding the way you do, I’d rather cancel and refund every ticket we’ve sold than send you out on stage together.”

The air goes still.

Despite their sulking, both Linc and Aiden both want this tour to happen far more than they want to punish me for walking out two years ago, or Ryder for… well, I’m not actually sure what they’re mad at Ryder for, but it’s clear the three of them are not getting along. The climate in this room is practically arctic, and only half that chill is directed my way.

“We’re going to break for the day and try again tomorrow. I expect to see vastly different results when I next hear you play.” Her eyes move to mine. “Ryder, Felicity — you’re appearing on The Eileen Show at the end of the week. Need I remind you how important it is that you act like a convincing duo when you’re on camera?”

I glower. Thoughts of the interview have been plaguing me since I heard about it. The last thing I want to do is play pretend with Ryder on a talk show set, in front of a live studio audience.

“You know how crucial that interview is, if we want to sell out all your venues. We’ve got the ball rolling with a marketing campaign, but that only goes so far. Your fans want assurances that they’re going to see the musical couple they fell in love with before they buy those tickets. They want the magic they witnessed when you first went viral, at the Fourth of July concert in Nashville. They want the chemistry they felt when you two initially appeared on Eileen’s show, the day your first single dropped. Anything short of that…” She trials off.

“You don’t have to worry, Francesca,” I say, my throat feeling thicker than the memories suddenly crowding into my head. “After all the interviews I did on our last tour, I’m an expert at smiling pretty and sticking to my script. We’ll fake a friendship for the cameras. Tell them all is hunky-dory in the land of Wildwood. Sound good?”

Ryder lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Sounds like bullshit.”

Francesca pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sniping at each other isn’t going to help your image issues. I’m telling you right now, Eileen won’t find it very thrilling if you sit there like stuffy mannequins while she fires questions at you. And, neither will your fans when you’re up onstage. The tension between you is palpable — and not in a good way.” She glances around. “That goes for all four of you, not just Ryder and Felicity.”

“What do you expect us to do, exactly?” Lincoln asks gruffly. “Hug it out? Sing campfire songs and pretend we’re still best friends?”

Francesca turns to examine him, her expression reminiscent of a housewife confronting a cockroach crawling across her immaculate, imported shower tiles. “Frankly, Mr. Travers, I don’t care how you reestablish your group dynamic — just do it. Or don’t bother coming back. My time is far too valuable to be wasted on musicians who don’t take their craft seriously. Do I make myself clear?”

The boys grumble various agreements under their breath.

“Excellent. Then I will see you all tomorrow.”

She whirls around in a blur of black stilettos and leaves the four of us alone, thoroughly scolded. Silence hangs thick in the air as we avoid each other’s eyes. No one seems to want to speak first. Unsurprisingly, it’s Aiden — the backbone of the band, ever-steady as the bass he plays — who finally steps up to the task.

“Listen. I think we can all agree that things are strained right now…”

Lincoln snorts again.

“But Francesca is right. This tour is never going to work if we’re at each other’s throats or shoving our shit under the rug, pretending it’s not there. So let’s clear the fucking air, all right?” His dark eyes slide to mine first, soft and appealing. “Felicity. I’m sorry if I was cold when you got here, earlier. I’ve been pissed off in general and taking it out on you. That wasn’t right or fair. I’m not looking to rehash the shit that went down two years ago; I’m looking to move forward. We were always friends. I’d like it if we could be again.”

My heart clenches and I give a careful nod. “I’d like that, too.”

“Good.” His eyes slide to my left. “Linc, anything you’d like to add?”

Lincoln is sitting at his drum set with a scowl affixed on his handsome face. He’s gone full-on California since I last saw him — his blond hair is longer, his clothes trendier, his skin tanner. He absently twirls a drumstick between his fingers as he glares my direction.

“Only that this let’s-be-friends bullshit is just that: bullshit. Felicity thinks she can waltz back in after two years, pretending she didn’t bend us over and fuck us raw last time? That we’ll smile and say bygones, babe, as though she didn’t totally dick us around, walking out the way she did?”

My spine stiffens.

Ryder snaps a warning. “Watch it, Linc.”

“No — y’all want to clear the air? Let’s clear it.” The drummer leans forward, eyes still affixed to mine. “You left. I know you had your reasons. Hell, I’m even sorry for my part in everything that happened that night, for being the one who—”

“Linc.” Ryder’s voice is a growl. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

My eyebrows lift. I’m clearly missing something here — something that happened the night they were arrested. Despite my attempts to convince myself I don’t care — that I don’t need to know the details — there’s a big part of me that’s dying to ask him to elaborate.

Lincoln is looking at Ryder now, engaged in a wordless discussion that goes straight over my head. Whatever passes between them, whatever battle they’re fighting, seems to result in Linc’s surrender, because his eyes flash with frustration and a defeated sigh rattles his chest.

“Fine. I won’t dredge up the past,” he mutters. “All I’ll say is, while you two were off finding yourselves or whatever the fuck you’ve been up to, Aiden and I have been here trying to make a damn living as musicians — something we were all supposed to do together. Instead, we’ve been forced to take gigs wherever we could get them. Do you want to know who we’ve been playing backup for, the past few months?” His gaze swings to Ryder, full of accusation.

Ryder shrugs. “Not particularly, but clearly you’re going to tell us anyway.”

“Lacey,” Lincoln seethes.

“Lacey Briggs?” I can’t help asking. “As in… the—” Booty-short wearing, borderline psychotic, peroxide-blonde bimbo. “—the girl you used to play with, back in Nashville?”

“The very same,” Aiden confirms. “Though you’d be hard pressed to find a trace of country left in her, these days. She ditched her cowgirl boots for stiletto heels the minute she arrived in this town.”

“I thought she got a record deal with Red Machine.”

“Oh, she did. It’s such confectionary crap, even pre-teen girls change the channel when they hear her on the radio, but she’s already put out two auto-tuned pop albums with enough post-production edits to make your ears bleed.” Lincoln laughs harshly. “A fact I can attest to, after listening to her caterwaul up close and personal.”

I grimace at the thought. Even Ryder, who was ready to throttle the drummer less than a minute ago, looks somewhat sympathetic. There’s a heavy beat of silence that drags on until, quite unexpectedly, a giggle pops out of my mouth. I clap my hand over my lips to contain the sound, just as surprised to hear it as the boys, whose heads fly in my direction like puppets on the same string.

“What on earth could possibly be funny about this?” Linc snaps at me.

I shake my head rapidly, hands still over my mouth.

“Then why the fuck are you laughing?”

My lips press into a line, trying to smother another burst of amusement. “I’m not laughing at you! I swear. I was just… picturing Lacey’s reaction when Francesca got you yanked off her tour. If memory serves, Lacey doesn’t take rejection all that well…”

“You mean like the time she tried to claw Ryder’s eyes out of their sockets at Tootsie’s?” Aiden asks, grinning flat-out.

“Ah, yes.” Lincoln cracks a small grin. “A fond memory I cherish to this day.”

“I’ll never forget those rhinestone cowgirl boots windmilling the air as you carried her off the dance floor, Linc.” Aiden shakes his head. “Frothing at the damn mouth the whole way… thought we were gonna have to bring Ryder to the ER for rabies shots.”

Another irrepressible giggle pops out and, after a moment, both of them join in with me. Our laughter swells to a crescendo, filling every corner of the rehearsal space.

“Yuck it up, clowns,” Ryder mutters, feigning anger as his eyes sweep across the three of us, cackling at his expense. There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Next time, it’ll be your eyes she comes for, and I won’t be there to save you.”

When the laughter finally tapers off, the air in the room is marginally warmer. Things aren’t totally fixed — not by a long shot — but at least we aren’t biting each other’s heads off, anymore. We’ve made a start on the road toward civility.

I know we might never get back to the way things used to be, when we first got to LA: those nights we’d sit around for hours, joking and laughing between initial takes of our first album. So enamored by our lucky break, we never could’ve imagined how fast it would all fall apart.

Not just friends. A family.

Wildwood.

Before the lure of LA’s party scene grew stronger than the love of the music. Before I was left holding the ends of all their strings while they drifted into an atmosphere beyond my reach. Before they started bailing on every interview, flaking on our commitments, leaving me to juggle every responsibility alone…

My smile falters at the memory. It’s a chilling reminder of why I can’t let things backslide to the way they used to be, no matter how much I’d like to restore the easy friendship we once shared. That familiar territory might feel good here and now, but I know better than anyone it’s a recipe for acute heartbreak in the long run.

And there is no long run, I remind myself jarringly. This is not permanent.

In four months, I’m going back to my cottage on Cape Cod and this will all be a distant memory.

They’ll be a distant memory.

Ryder is watching me carefully from across the room, his eyes scanning my face as though he can tell exactly what path my thoughts have just ventured down. I tear my gaze from his and turn toward the door, striving for a casual tone as I toss the words back over my shoulder.

“I have some things to take care of, so I’m heading out. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”

I don’t look at their faces or wait for a response as I push through the door and cross to the elevator. I jam my finger rapidly into the call button, hoping it arrives before one of them can follow me upstairs. When it opens with a low chime, I think I’m home free…

Until Ryder slips inside with me at the last moment.

Mother fudger.

I stop breathing as the doors slide shut, sealing us in the enclosed space together. He punches the button for the seventh floor — one below mine — before leaning back against the opposite wall. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he examines me. His eyes are crystal clear, no sign of the drugs that clouded his gaze in the weeks before I left him.

Maybe he’s finally clean, my highest hopes suggest.

Or maybe he’s just gotten better at hiding it, my bitterest memories remind me.

I can’t read him at all. Not the thoughts in his head or the intentions that accompany them. His gaze lingers on my hair and, after a moment, his head shakes as he glances away.

“What?” I snap, unable to stand his silence another instant.

“Your hair.”

I don’t respond.

“I hate it,” he says bluntly.

A scoff of disbelief flies from my mouth. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You don’t look like you anymore.”

“Well, you don’t know me anymore.”

“And whose fault is that, Felicity?” he snaps back in frustration.

Except for a slight flinch I can’t quite contain, I don’t react. My eyes, though — they blaze with anger, broadcasting my thoughts at him like a flashing neon sign.

Whose fault is this? It’s yours, Ryder, and you know it.

I may’ve walked away… But you’re the one who made me go.

His face falls so fast, it’s hard to track the instant it shifts from rage to remorse. Glancing away, I focus on the number panel overhead. We’re almost to his floor.

I can feel his eyes lingering on my face for the remainder of the ride. And I can still hear his words from last night, echoing in the air between us.

We aren’t over. We weren’t over two years ago. We aren’t over now.

We’ll never be over, no matter how much time passes or how much distance gets between us.

When the doors spring open on his floor, he steps through them in stony silence. I think he’s going to walk away without another word to me, but at the last second, he turns back.

His corded muscles flex as he braces the doors open. There’s a challenge in the depths of his eyes as they lock on mine — just the sight of it makes my knees weak. And when he finally speaks, his tone is a meld of such passion and frustration it makes the breath catch in my throat.

“I know this is my fault, okay? I know. I’m the bad guy. I fucked this up, I broke us into pieces. I know you’re pissed at me. Guess what? I’m pretty fucking pissed at me, too.” His jaw ticks with barely-leashed emotion. “If you have to blame me, if you need to hate me — get in fucking line. You can scream and cry and curse me, you can rage and loathe and scorn me… but none of that is going to change this reality.”

I’m wide-eyed, barely breathing.

“You’re stuck with me for the next four months, whether you like it or not. Rehearsing, touring, traveling. Sharing your mic and your bus and your personal space. You can try to keep those walls up, baby, but you should know—” His head bows down and his voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna tear them down. One by one, brick by brick, with my bare hands if necessary. Might take me a week, might take me a month, might take me the rest of my damn life… but I’m not giving up. I’m not stopping. So, go ahead. Avoid eye contact, pretend I don’t exist in front of the guys, act like there’s nothing left between us… I’m not going anywhere. Get used to it.”

His hands drop to his sides and he steps back to let the doors slide closed, cutting off my view of him.

I swear I don’t let out the breath I’ve been holding until I’m safely upstairs, locked in the penthouse, out of his reach and away from the clutches of that magnetic, two-tone stare.