“I’m the one who stopped it!” he barks.
“After you started it!”
“I wasn’t driving the fucking car.”
I shake my head in disgust as I turn around and grab my purse off the top of my car. I’m shaking with rage as I pull my keys out of the purse and deactivate my car alarm. I look over my shoulder at Chris before I get inside.
“Don’t ever bring that asshole around me again.”
I take a few deep breaths as I drive down Wilmington. My phone rings as soon as I turn the corner.
“Adam? Where are you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine and I’m really fucking sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
Adam’s temper has always been simmering just below the surface. I’ve known this almost from the moment I met him. I’ve seen him trying so hard to keep it under control since all this stuff started happening with Chris. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t scare me.
“Claire?”
“You really scared me.”
The silence that follows is charged with all the implications behind these words. Is it what Adam did that scared me? Or is it him that had me so frightened I felt as if my heart was going to leap out of my chest? I’ve never seen him like that.
Yes, it was him that scared me.
“Man, I fucked up. I messed up our last day together.”
“Just call me when you get home tonight,” I say as I pull my car onto the highway.
“I will. And I am really, really fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Chapter Eleven
Chris
THE HARSH SOUND OF THE hotel phone ringing startles me awake. My hand fumbles over the cool surface of the beside table until I find the phone and pick up the receiver.
“Housekeeping. When can we come to clean your room?”
A crack of sunlight shining through the curtains hits my face as I open my eyes sending a sharp pain slicing through the left side of my head. I blink a few times until the spots disappear and glance at the alarm clock on the table: 1:17 p.m.
“Never,” I mutter into the phone and hang up.
I turn over in the bed and my arm hits someone next to me. Fuck. I almost don’t want to look.
I haven’t gotten drunk enough to have a hangover in months, but all this shit with Claire and Abigail is bringing up feelings I thought I’d long since buried. It seems all the women in my life are determined to make my life more difficult.
Claire hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts since the incident in Raleigh. I even sent her an arrangement of her favorite flowers, daisies, with an apology note, but she’s still ignoring me. I texted her last night before the show to tell her I have some news on the adoption, certain that this would elicit a response, but she still hasn’t responded.
I turn my head to glimpse my bed buddy and find Tristan Pollock, my bass guitarist and best friend since seventh grade, knocked out with his hair covering most of his face. Tristan and I had a falling out when I took the solo deal last year, but we quickly made up when I insisted to have him play bass on the West Coast tour we did in the Spring. Now, all the old resentments are gone and I’m relieved to be waking up next to him.
I turn my head again to get a look at the other bed in the hotel room and I glimpse the back of Rachel’s head. Rachel and Jake, my drummer, have been together longer than Claire and I have known each other. She goes to every show with Jake. If I didn’t know her I would think it was because she was possessive as fuck. But the truth is that after seven years together, they still can’t get enough of each other. They’re inseparable—the way Claire and I used to be.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and check to see if there are any new messages. I scroll through the nine new texts I’ve received, but none of them are from Claire. I stare at the text I sent her last night and shake my head.
Me: Tasha gave me some new info. Come to my jam session on Saturday, I’ll fill you in. I want to apologize for being the world’s biggest douchebag.
I sit up in bed and my head immediately starts pounding to the beat of my heart. It’s the same beat I’ve used to write a million songs about Claire, and this is where it’s gotten me. I should just fucking quit already. I could get used to playing local clubs to pay the bills. I’d even get a regular job if that’s what it took to get Claire back.
I sling my legs over the side of the bed and the first thing I want to do is text her. I went more than twelve months without sending her a single text and now it’s the first and last thing I want to do every day. It’s funny that when the one person you live for is ripped out of your life you can still find a way to convince yourself it’s for the best and that you will eventually get over it.