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That gets the reaction it deserves, and after a round of laughter and a few comments I ignore, we start the song again.
This time I make it through the entire song without screwing anything up, but it takes more effort than it should. My head keeps wandering back to last night at the worst possible moments. Ruby against her front door. Ruby arguing with me while pulling my shirt off. Ruby insisting it couldn’t happen again while looking about as convinced as I felt.
I dig into the next song harder than necessary and let the guitar drown her out.
For a while, it works, and we spend the next two hours running through new material and tightening songs we haven’t played since Europe. The set sounds good, better than it did before the tour. Six months of playing together almost every night changed us in ways that are hard to hear until we come back to the rehearsal room where we started.
By the time we stop, my shirt is sticking to my back, and my fingers have finally burned off enough restless energy that I feel mostly normal again.
I’m putting my guitar away when the side door opens.
Chelsea steps inside carrying two iced coffees and wearing the smile she used to give me before the European tour.
We hooked up a few times last year. Nothing serious, nothing messy. She knew exactly what it was, and so did I. If she showed up six months ago looking at me like this, I would’ve known exactly how the rest of my day was going to go.
“Welcome home,” she says, holding out one of the cups. “Figured you’d be here.”
I take it. “You remembered.”
“Vanilla cold brew isn’t exactly classified information.”
“Still appreciate it.”
She leans against the edge of the equipment case while the other guys keep packing up behind me. “I haven’t seen you since you got back.”
“I’ve only been home a couple of weeks.”
“That’s plenty of time to call.”
Her fingers brush my forearm as she says it, casual enough that I could pretend it doesn’t mean anything if I wanted to, but I know exactly what it means.
Usually, I’d enjoy this part. Chelsea is attractive, funny, easy to be around, and we’ve already established that neither of us expects breakfast or a relationship talk afterward.
Today, though, I feel nothing. There’s no spark, no instinct to flirt back, not even much curiosity about where she’s trying to take this.
Instead, my brain hands me green eyes, red hair, and Ruby accusing me of having women constantly showing up at my house. I almost laugh, which would be a terrible response to the woman currently touching my arm.
Chelsea studies me for a second. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
She keeps watching me, then tips her head toward the door. “You want company later?”
Normally, that would be an easy yes, but today I barely have to think about it. “I’m probably staying in tonight.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You’re turning me down?”
“When you say it like that, you make it sound personal.”
“I’m trying to decide if it is.” She searches my face for another second. “Is there somebody else?”
The question catches me off guard. “No.”
Not exactly, and Chelsea notices the hesitation because, of course, she does.
“That sounded convincing.”
“I’m tired. That’s all.”
