Page 38 of Rock the Chardonnay

“I’m coming, too.” Alex disappears before I can stop him. “I’ve already packed your bag, Dad!” He calls down the hallway.

Perfect. Now I understand what it feels like to be ganged up on. “This is not some zany road trip comedy, Mom.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Yes, it is. By the way, Ciaran is driving you to the airport. You two need to talk.”

Since I have absolutely no say in the matter, fifteen minutes later Alex and I are in Ciaran’s car with plane tickets my mom purchased.

“So, you have a layover?” Ciaran asks, focused on traveling the roads through our little peninsula.

“Yeah. Due to the vagaries of air travel, it’s in Atlanta. So we fly past Nashville, and then back.” I shake my head in bewilderment. “I have no idea how this does not negatively impact my carbon footprint.”

“It totally does. You can’t get off the hook for that. But then again, you’re doing it for love. Go you, man.” He punches me in the arm, a little harder than he has to.

I rub the muscle. “You’re not upset?”

“About Daughtry? No. We had our time. Honestly, I think even back then I knew how you two felt about each other. But since I was eighteen and a hormonal idiot, I didn’t know how to deal so I just ignored it.” He shrugs. “I’ve grown since then.”

“Sure you have.” I punch him back, for the sake of retribution.

Ciaran glances into the rearview mirror, and I follow his gaze. Alex stares out the window with his headphones in place, no eye makeup today but he wears teal and neon pink nail polish. It looks awesome.

“Look, Declan,” Ciaran says, not making eye contact with me. As his older brother, I know none of this can be good. The last time I saw Ciaran’s confession face, he told me he’d “accidentally” stolen my car and then “accidentally” drove it into the lake. “About Josie.”

Oh. Right. “What about her?”

“I promise you, I never flirted with her or anything. She reached out to me after your divorce, but I told her I didn’t feel that way about her. I tried to let her down easy. I’m sorry.” He turns to look at me, but there’s a tractor driving ten miles an hour down the road, so I smack his hands and he pays attention to the road again. “I really am. I don’t ever want to be in the middle of your relationships. You’re the greatest, and you deserve someone who sees that. Like Daughtry.”

Hmm. I don’t like forgiving Ciaran. I never quite forgave him for the Car Meets Lake incident, either. But maybe in this one instance, I can yield a little. My marriage ending wasn’t really his fault. Ciaran was a metaphor for Josie, a possibility that something could be better. I feel bad for her, that he didn’t reciprocate her feelings, but I’m also really proud of her. She went after happiness, even though it was difficult. Even though she didn’t know it would work out.

And it has. Josie is still in our lives. Alex is a great kid, and he has an entire network of people who love him.

He’ll have one more if I can do this and get Daughtry back. Josie was right. We can both have something more, but only if I’m brave enough to fight for it.

“Do you need me to pull over?” Ciaran asks. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m not going to throw up,” I snap. “I was just thinking. About Josie and Daughtry.”

Ciaran snorts. “Those two are going to get on like gangbusters. You have a type, man.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Yeah. Smart, cool women who are way hotter than you will ever be. Or than you deserve.” His eyes twinkle, the way they always do when he’s being a jackass. Still, he’s my brother, and I suppose some part of me—deep, deep, deep down—loves that about him.

It doesn’t fix everything that’s broken in our relationship, but it’s an opening salvo.

I sniff twice. This is the most honest conversation I’ve ever had with my brother, and it makes me hella uncomfortable. “Thanks. Now can we please talk about something else? My ovaries are starting to ache.”

CHAPTER 20

Daughtry—two weeks later

“For the love of the gods, stop playing that song and have a drink with me.” Louise sinks into the armchair across from me and sighs loudly. “What are you even calling that song?”

I set down my guitar. We sit in the artist’s area of the recording studio in Nashville. First of all, this place is ten thousand leagues nicer than the place where I recorded my first single. Second of all, yes, the song I’m working on is not an upbeat, toe-tappy hit. Some might say maudlin or moody or Morrissey-inspired.

I don’t give a shit what people might say.

“I thought I might call it ‘Fall Out,’” I reply.

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