Page 110 of Fractured Rhythm

Ten days later,I’d given a lot of thought to seeing my dad again, but I hadn’t reached out. I also still hadn’t heard from Bash. I knew that they were all back in New York as of six days ago, and that the album was done for the most part, but there’d been no communication between me and Bash. The ball was technically in my court, and even after hashing everything out with Holly multiple times and once with Tristan, I didn’t know what to do.

I did know that I wasn’t going to avoid Jax and Tristan. In fact, I’d grabbed a quick lunch with Tristan three days ago, and Jax had invited himself over for dinner the other night. That man was always looking for a home-cooked meal, and spending time with him always put a smile on my face, so it’d taken zero convincing to get me to invite him over.

Bash had barely come up in the conversation. We’d kept it fun, talking about the next possible tour. He almost convinced me to come out to LA and crash at his place for a mini-vacation.

But the elephant had been in the room. I ached to ask, but he didn’t bring up a certain lead guitarist, so neither did I. I was both grateful and irritated.

Then two mornings later, a box of my favorite raspberry bars was delivered to my desk. I must’ve read the card a dozen times.

I’m working on being the man I should be for you. For us. Never forget that I have always and will always love you.

~Bash

The following afternoon, a box of pistachio macarons from my favorite French bakery showed up. The perfect cookies were filled with melt-in-your-mouth white chocolate ganache. I shoved one in my mouth, moaning at the smooth texture, before I opened the card. It wasn’t the standard typed message that you’d give over the phone. Bash’s bold scribble filled the small piece of cardstock.

Remember when I made you listen to Believe In over and over again? I had to get it right because it was the first love song I’d ever written. It was always for you. After it was done, we made cookies together. You distracted me and I added salt instead of sugar. A full cup! Good thing we tasted the dough before cooking them. Sometimes I think I can still taste the salt.

I laughed, remembering how much water we’d needed to cleanse our mouths. Maybe I had distracted him with a few too many kisses, but he’d just written me a love song. It’d been his own damn fault.

I kept smiling as I polished off the rest of the macarons, which were dusted with a few sprinkles of kosher salt.

Then, on my doorstep that night, I found a journal propped against my door. I scanned the hallway to see if he was lurking nearby, but there was no sign of him. I opened the book as soon as I was in my apartment. It was filled with song lyrics. Some finished. Some partials.

Every song has a piece of you in it. The first song I wrote after we ended was Pieces. Did you know that? I miss you, Cas. I’m fixing this, and I need you to know.

He ended the note with the chorus of that song. I’d always wondered. The song was filled with frustration and pain and the shattered pieces of a bottle.

It broke my heart all over again. I went to bed, clutching that journal and wishing I knew what to do. I wanted to call him, but still, I hesitated.

At work thenext week, while I was finishing up a video series we were launching the next day for twenty-five meals you can’t screw up, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bash. I’d pitched this idea with his culinary tragedies in mind. Every time we filmed some pretend mishap, I wanted to call him and joke about one time or another when he’d done the same thing. I mean, who forgets to put water in a pot and just turns it on and throws in dry pasta? Yes, he’d done that when we were helping his mom make dinner in high school. The aroma of scorched pasta was not pleasant.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, swiping it on when I saw Holly’s name.

Holly:Did you see this? Is he okay?

I clicked on the link, and it showed Bash walking out of a building. At least it looked like him. His baseball cap was pulled low, and he had sunglasses on, but I’d recognize him anywhere.

Sebastian Clark, lead guitarist for Steelwolf, walked out of a medical building this morning in New York. Is he sick? Was it rehab? Rumors about a new album and upcoming tour have been floating around. An anonymous source is saying rehab. We all saw the pictures a few weeks ago in LA. Is he heading down the same slope as their late drummer, Jamie Steel?

Was he in rehab? Had it gotten to that point? I paused that train of thought. I’m sure there were a million different offices in that building, and I’d learned over the years that believing trash magazines was a waste of time. They rarely had the facts.

I opened up my text chain with Tristan.

Cassie:Is Bash okay? Is he in rehab?

I included the link.

Tristan:What? No. Stupid media. You know you can’t believe them. He’s fine, but he needs to fill you in, not me.

Cassie:Well, that’s unhelpful and cryptic.

Tristan:This is what he wants.

Cassie:To keep me in the dark? What the hell.

Tristan:I’m sorry, Cas. Talk to him.

Cassie:Is he at the apartment?

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