Page 10 of For One Night Only

“Me too,” I admit. Caleb looks over at me, and I expect to share a smile, a laugh, something, but he just looks confused.

And oh, it’s too much, being here with everyone, feeling the few feet between me and Caleb like a chasm. Sighing, I head back into the living room to unpack my acoustic.

It’s been a while since I used this particular guitar, so I kneel on the hardwood floor next to the cracked imitation-leather case, open the buckles carefully, and begin to run a soft cloth over the lacquered wood body to eliminate any dust and fingerprints. Once I’m satisfied, I try to tune by ear, but the strings are too old to use. So I pull a new pack out of my bag and begin the obnoxious process of replacing them one by one. The familiar routine is therapeutic.

After a couple of minutes, Riker joins me on the nearby couch with two glasses of rosé. He hands one to me, but I just set it on the coffee table.

“Aren’t you going to try it?” he asks.

I grimace dramatically and take a small sip. “It tastes like I’m drinking a Malibu Barbie.” But then I take another drink. It’s notterrible, but it definitely doesn’t taste like actual wine. Theo had taken me wine tasting in Paso Robles over the spring, and that was the real stuff…and damn it, the bastard turned me into a wine snob.

Riker laughs. “Oh my god, you still have that thing?” he asks, gesturing to the guitar. “I’ve replaced most of my gear.” It’s no surprise—Riker was always enamored by a new guitar every few months, especially once he could afford to shop on Sunset Boulevard.

I’d joined him to shop for different models more than once, but I never got rid of my first acoustic—it’s the cheap Mitchell I bought at a Guitar Center with my crochet money freshman year of high school. It’s not totally useless, but it’s scratched, and the neck is just a tiny bit warped from before I knew how to take care of it. I’d never perform with it now, but bringing it along felt right. Like including an old friend in the reunion.

Maybe I need to stop being so sentimental. This summer is just about business.

“Sure do,” I say. “How many guitars did you bring?”

“None.” He laughs again, so warm it fills the room. “Plus five.”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, almost comically. “Youknowit depends on what we’re playing. Sometimes you need an extra electric, sometimes acoustic, sometimes I’ll play a bass while Caleb jumps on a guitar—and I have different setups based on which songs we’re playing.”

I do know. I remember arguing about how many guitars we could fit in the Vanagon that Keeley found on Craigslist for our first local “tour.” The thing broke down so often it was hardly worth the $1,200 we’d scraped together.

It feels nice, chatting with Riker like everything is normal. At first glance, Riker could be intimidating at a hulking six foot four, but he’s always been like this—so natural to talk to, easygoing nomatter what’s going on. But I can tell he’s nervous too. He’s chugging the rosé instead of sipping it, and he takes off his beanie, runs a hand through his hair, and shoves it back on his head with too-busy hands.

I wish I knew how to steady them. Riker has always been so unflappable, and I caused this painful rift between us.

I missed him. I missed all of them. Why did I wait so long to make this happen?

“Pizza is an hour out,” Keeley says as everyone joins us in the living room.

“My ride is waiting, so I’m going to head back,” Wade says.

“You’re not going to hang here, Wadie-poo?” Keeley asks.

Wade chuckles but stares at each of us in turn with a mock-sternness that we probably deserve. “I’ll leave you with one reminder: your contract with Label Records just happens to expire right after the concert. I guarantee that’s why they were so eager to make this happen. Be extremely careful what you say this summer, because they could use any perceived intent to make more music to bind you to a third album.”

My jaw clenches. Label Records is footing the bill this summer, and it’s obviously because they hope we’ll make more music with them. They were so disappointed when the band broke up four years into our ten-year contract.

“That won’t be a problem,” Caleb says quickly, crossing his arms. My stomach drops. We’re not here for a new album, and even if that was remotely a possibility, I didn’t need Caleb’s protest to know he’d never agree. I’m lucky he’s here at all.

“Just try to get to Monday without killing each other. I’m a text away if you need anything,” Wade says.

“Right, but we’re not going to bother you unless it’s an emergency, because you’re taking your family to Disney and you shouldget to enjoy it!” Riker says, glancing around the room pointedly at the rest of us. Keeley raises a brow, but no one argues.

We exchange a quick round of goodbyes with Wade, and then it’s just the Glitter Bats. Without a buffer. The sudden awkwardness of our reunion hits me like a bad review, and I’m desperate to fill the silence.

“Well, since we’re waiting on the pizza, I think we should start talking set list.” I sit on the couch and reach into my bag, pulling out my trusty black Moleskine. “Opening with ‘Midnight Road Trip’ is the obvious pick for the nostalgia factor. I made a preliminary list.”

“Welcome to the Valerie Quinn show, everybody,” Keeley says, crossing her arms. “You might be the one who called this little Council of Elrond together, but this is not your decision.”

I stiffen. “I never said it was. I was just trying to get us started.”

“I think we should all go around and share ideas,” Jane says, settling on the love seat adjacent to the couch. At her reasonable tone, everyone else takes places around the living room. Riker joins me again on the couch. Keeley sinks onto the floor next to Jane, leaning against a pile of cushions with one leg propped up, the other stretched out across the rug. Caleb hesitates, staring at the spot in the love seat that would place him right next to me…before sinking into the pink beanbag chair across the room.

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