Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
No. Of course not. That's not what I mean.
But he knows that. He must.
"The grunge songs about addiction are always the best," I say. "Besides your dad's."
He doesn't reply.
"But some of these new ones… I think people expect love to feel that way, like an addiction."
"Is it accurate?" he asks.
"It is." Is that why this feels so heavy? Why there's a pit in my stomach? Because I don't just want Damon. I don't just like him. Because I love him.
Do I love him?
A part of me has loved him for a long time. Since we were young.
But that other part—
I can't do it.
I can't connect with someone who lies to me again.
I switch the album again. I focus on the music. I wait until we're at home, parked in the driveway, car off, world quiet.
I can't lie to myself anymore. I need to be straight with him. I need to actually talk about this.
So I swallow my fear, and I push through my anger, and I say the one thing I really don't want to say, "Why didn't you tell me you're an alcoholic?"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Damon
This is what it comes to with everyone I know. This is what it comes to with anyone who cares about me.
Damon Webb, fuck up.
Damon Webb, alcoholic.
Damon Webb, ticking time bomb.
The weight of it fills the car. It sucks up all the oxygen.
Cassie sits there, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on me, her hopes fading with every second.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. I know it's not this.
"It's none of your business." I slide out of the car, I move into the house, I lock myself in my room.
I stay there until she goes home.
In my head, in my room, in my fucking prison.
For the next three days, I avoid Cassie, and she avoids me. Finally, I get back to my routine. The thing that keeps me sane. A morning at the gym. Breakfast at the place next door. Painful small talk with someone I know from way back when.
Then a shower, another drive, coffee, the sand, the ocean.
The days feel long again.
The nights are agony.
The routine doesn't keep me sane.
The project does.
Cassie emails lyrics, along with instructions for the song. This one is slow and cynical. This is fast and hopeful. This is agonizing.
Finally, Thursday, after a long session at the gym, a shower, a lunch by the pool, I find her waiting in the living room.
She's sitting on the couch, arms crossed against her chest, looking fierce in a black sundress and thick eyeliner.
She speaks without a hint of emotion in her voice. "We're due to go over these together."
"My guitar is upstairs."
"Sure." She follows me up the stairs without a word. She opens the door without a smile. She sits at the desk, lays her notebook on the surface, stares at her scribbled words. "Where do you want to start?"
"A Different Sort of Love Song." The one about hate.
She nods. "Can you sing while you play?"
"Sure." I pick up my guitar, I sit on the bed, and I play the song from memory. It's a simple chord progression with a catchy melody.
Cassie listens carefully. She waits until I'm finished, then suggests changes. We go through it a few times.
Then, to the next, a cynical breakup song.
The third and final, a song about addiction. It's not obvious from the outside, but I know the way she writes. I know what she gets at.
She asks me to sing.
I oblige. Only, this time, I don't keep it professional. I don't focus on the pitch. I stop fighting the ugly thoughts in my head. I put them in the song instead.
Damon Webb, alcoholic fuckup.
Damon Webb, terrible fake boyfriend.
Damon Webb, pushing away the only person who didn't look at him like he's going to break.
No. Who doesn't.
She doesn't look at me like she's going to break. Not the way everyone else does.
She looks at me like I've already broken her heart.
I finish the song and set my guitar on the floor. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes stay glued to mine.
"I should have told you," I say. "But I couldn't face it yet. I still can't."
She presses her lips together. "We don't have to talk about it."
"We do," I say. "We don't have to be lovers. We don't have to be enemies. But I need you as a friend, Cass. I always will."
Her brow furrows and softens as she takes in the confession. She looks me in the eyes, the same tough, in-control Cassie I know, but with a new softness, the vulnerability that comes out when we're here, working together. "I can't be your friend if you treat me like your enemy."
"I know."
She brushes a wavy hair behind her ear. "I'm here. I'm listening. I'll try not to judge. But only if you talk to me like we are friends."