***
I drop the case on my bed and stick the Mason jar on my nightstand with my phone and keys. The case is covered in Pearl Jam stickers, some faded to the point of being almost unrecognizable, while others are peeling and frayed at the ends. I was obsessed with them when I started playing, learning almost all of their songs and idolizing Eddie Vedder. I could play them pretty good, but I always sang for shit. That used to be my dad’s role.
A familiar nudge against the back of my leg nearly knocks me over as I’m pulling my shirt off.
I turn and reach down, brushing my hand through the fur. “Where you been, huh? You fall asleep in the bathroom again?”
Max, my Golden Retriever, sits and lifts one paw, thudding it against me and scratching down my leg with it.
I knock his paw away, rubbing my knee. “Stop, that shit hurts. You need to go out or something?”
He runs out of the room, answering my question with his abrupt exit. I walk down the hallway, descend the stairs, and open the back door, letting him dart outside into the yard. After smelling every goddamned blade of grass out there, he finishes up and runs back in, brushing past me.
I walk back into my bedroom and find him sniffing my guitar case.
“Watch out, Max.” I pop the four locks and open it up, dropping the lid back and causing him to startle. He moves to the edge of the bed and lies down, the hair on his back standing straight up. I can’t help but laugh. “Christ, is there anything that doesn’t scare you?” I rub his head, as his big eyes stay glued to the case.
I doubt there is anything he isn’t afraid of. I ended up with the biggest chicken shit of a dog when I rescued him four years ago. He’s scared of everything—lawnmowers, garbage trucks, basically any noise. Thunder sends him running for the bathroom and hiding in my tub until the storm passes. If someone ever had the balls to break in here, he’d be no help. I’d put money on him hiding under my bed until I handled things. Which I would. If anyone makes that mistake, it’ll be the last thing they ever do.
I stare down at the guitar, a gift from my parents on my fifteenth birthday. The last thing either one of them ever gave me. I lived and breathed this thing, playing it every day for seven months until my fingertips calloused over to the point of being numb. My dad taught me how to play on his old Gibson several months before I was gifted this. We’d spend hours in the basement together, going over chords and listening to music that inspired him. He’d tell me stories about playing on the road with his band and some of the crazy shit they’d get into. It was always a hobby for him, but he talked about it like he was born to do it. And his passion for it fascinated me. He told me about the time my mom came to watch him play and he saw her in the crowd, and how he’d been staring at her ever since. He treated that guitar like it was a part of his soul, and I wanted that. And when I finally got mine, it absorbed me completely, quickly becoming my entire world.
Then it was always us playing together, no longer just me watching him in complete awe. He taught me things I didn’t know, and I showed him a few things I picked up on my own. For those seven months, we were closer than we ever were. He wasn’t just my dad. He was my best friend.
I haven’t touched this thing in twelve years. I couldn’t even look at it right after she died. It stayed locked up, hidden in my closest or under my bed. A couple of months later, I got it out and asked my dad if he wanted to play like we always used to. I was suffering just as much as he was, and I needed him. I needed a fucking parent to help me deal, and he always told me music could heal a person. I thought we could get through it together. So I stood there, shaking—I was so fucking nervous to hear his voice. The voice that hadn’t said one word to me since before the funeral. And he looked up at me like I was the guy who shot my mom, and not the son he shared with her. Like I was the reason for his sadness. It was the first time he had acknowledged my existence in two months, and the first time I wished it were me who died instead of her. There was nothing but hatred in his stare, pure revulsion directed solely at me before he grabbed his old Gibson from where it was perched against the chair, swung it behind him, and smashed it against the wall.
That was the last time I asked my dad for anything, and the last time I held this guitar.
I had no desire to play it again after that day. I don’t really know if I’ll ever play it again, but if I’m leaving Ruxton, I want to take it with me. Because once I’m gone, I’m fucking gone. I’m not coming back here. I know what coming back here will do to me. Being in the same town as Tessa Kelly is slowly killing me, and I won’t be my father. I won’t let the memory of someone consume me.
At least not any more than it already has.
“No. No. No. Oh, God. What in the hell is this?”
I hold up the strange-looking top I must’ve purchased drunk off my ass. That’s the only reasonable explanation for owning such a hideous looking piece of fabric. It’s suede, with a very unfortunate amount of beading work. Who the fuck buys suede? Tossing it behind me, I continue rummaging through my closet for the hottest bonfire-appropriate outfit I can put together.
I need to look slamming tonight, rendering Tyler and every other man at this thing speechless. Because let’s be real; if he turns out to be a gerbil-loving freak like SteveMD, I’m dropping all standards, grabbing the nearest willing male, and fucking out my frustrations. Especially since I’m going to have to endure the Luke and Leah show, which has me on serious edge right now. My stomach is twisted in knots, and I know my nervousness will only amplify the closer it gets to 6:00 p.m. I really want to like this guy, and I’m praying his weird phone behavior yesterday was just some testosterone-driven I have a penis, so therefore, I’m a dumbass moment.
I swear. Men can be such idiots sometimes. If they weren’t so stellar in the pussy-loving department, I’d take up celibacy and worship something else besides cock.
Other than his desire to push me toward other men, there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t like him. We have great phone chemistry, he seems to know exactly how to make me come, and he’s got everything going for him in the looks department. So, I’m trying to be optimistic about tonight, even though I’m one strike away from deleting my Ignite account.
First show me your titties guy, then gerbil lover. Seriously? There should be a disclaimer on that website.
My phone alerts me of a text as I hold a floral tank top against my body. I lay it on the bed next to the jean skirt I picked out and grab my phone from my nightstand, rolling my eyes at the name of the sender.
Tyler: How was the date last night?
I sit down on the edge of the bed and type my snarky response.
Me: Fan-fucking-tastic. We’re moving in together and I’m already picking out wedding venues. Thanks for suggesting I date other men.
My phone immediately starts ringing, which I half expected. I wait until it almost goes to voicemail before I answer.
“Yeah?” I ask, lying back on my bed and trying to sound as uninterested as possible.
He laughs. “You’re mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad? You tell me to go out with another guy, as if I need your permission, when I’m clearly interested in you. It was fucking weird.”
“The date? Or the fact that I suggested it to help ease your anxiety over meeting up with a stranger you met online?”