“The tour is three months long, and we’ll be on the road for all of it,” Cal says, searching my face for my thoughts.
“I knew that. I’ve been planning with Jo on what to do with Cora the whole time. She got us our own bus so she can sleep without her noisy aunts and uncles bothering her. Oh, and I found a bunch of children’s activities I can take her to in each city. Since her first birthday is going to be on the road, I was thinking we could rent out this water park I found and have a party for her there.” I was excited to show Cal the whole schedule Jo and I have inked out so that Cora has fun on the tour. I know that was a big hangup for him.
Cal smiles and kisses me. “Cora is so lucky to have you, Firecracker.”
“What about Cora’s dad?” I ask him, wiggling closer.
“Oh, her dad is the luckiest bastard there ever was,” Cal says, nuzzling into my neck.
“Stop being in love. We don’t have time for that right now.”
I yelp and practically fly out of Cal’s lap. He laughs and shakes his head at me.
“What the hell, Jo?” I stand, putting my hands on my hips and glare at my best friend.
“We need to get to work on the podcast and rework the tour schedule we have for you to add in time for it. You can make out with your unfairly pretty boyfriend later,” she says, grabbing my hand. Cal is grinning, and I know it’s because she called him pretty.
“It really is annoying how attractive he is,” I say, letting Jo tug me into the kitchen.
“No one compares to you, baby!” he yells after us.
I’m smiling like an idiot as I watch Jo pull out her notebook and iPad.
twenty-four
CAL
My fingers are sore.They’re not used to playing the guitar anymore. Ever since Harlow dragged me down here, I’ve been playing on my own. It feels good to play again, but I won’t do it on stage. I’m not that good, and honestly, I don’t want to.
But here in my own home? Here I can sit and play and write songs that no one will ever hear. If I even mentioned I wrote I song, I would be laughed at. Which I guess is my own fault. I started cultivating this jokester personality almost by instinct when I was a kid. Now I play into it. Everything around us is so heavy, it has been for years. So I let them laugh at me, call me dumb, think of me as the nice guy with only air in his head. If they need to laugh at me, let them. I can handle it.
Harlow noticed, though. My firecracker. She doesn’t miss anything. And she hates it. She might be the only person who really knows me inside and out. But she stays quiet while everyone laughs. Because I asked her to. Because she knows why I asked her to.
I close my eyes and bring my tired fingers to the strings, playing the notes to the song I wrote that day. That first day, Harlow brought me here and fell asleep on the couch.
I sing about the fire that’s just out of my reach. The fire I want to consume and burn with. The one I know will incinerate me and help me rise from the ashes.
I let the last note fade and see Harlow standing in the doorway with tears in her eyes. “What’s that song called?” she asks.
I swallow the lump in my throat. No one was supposed to hear that. I know I’m not a good songwriter, but I don’t think I can handle Harlow telling me that. And she’s not the type to sugarcoat her opinions.
“Firecracker,” I admit.
She walks into the small studio and takes a seat on the couch. “Play it again.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “It’s late. We should probably go to bed.”
“Play it again, Callahan,” she demands. “Please,” she adds softly.
I nod and take a deep breath. I close my eyes and play the song again. Even as the last notes fade, I keep my eyes closed. The vulnerable part of me that I keep pushed down is terrified of her reaction.
I smell her sweet perfume, and I know she’s right there. Gently, she removes the guitar from my hands and replaces it with her own body. Her lips trace a line along my jaw and up to my lips.
“Did you write that about me?” she asks before kissing each one of my closed eyelids.
“Yes,” I admit in a whisper.
“Why did you say you were bad at writing songs? I’d bet my left boob that would be a Top 40.”