Page 16 of For One Night Only

I take a sip from my mug to keep myself from doing something entirely too stupid, like launching at him and getting sweaty myself…as if he’d even be receptive to that. I stare down at the coffee, hoping my hair hides my flushing cheeks.

“Well, I just hope you’re both planning to shower before we rehearse all day,” Riker says.

“No, I’m going to stay really stinky and sit next to you,” Keeley says, reaching over him for a bagel. “Of course I’m going to fucking shower.”

“You can go first. I’ll caffeinate,” Caleb says. He steps over to the sink and pulls a mug out of the cabinet.

“You don’t want to join me?” Keeley says with a wink.

Caleb rolls his eyes. “I know I’m irresistible, but keep your pants on, Cunningham,” he says, and she disappears upstairs with a cackle.

I make an effort to laugh, but it sounds hollow.

Keeley has always been a flirt, and this is obviously a joke, but something about it bothers me now. Logically, I know nothing is going on between Keeley and Caleb. They were instantly like siblings at camp, teasing each other and starting the prank war that nearly got us all kicked out. But even if their relationship has changed, it’s not like I have any claim to Caleb. Our love is long gone.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. After all this time, it still feels wrong to think about him with anyone else. Desperate to do something with my hands, I reach for a bagel and begin slathering it with the open cream cheese on the counter. God, I need to sort out these old feelings before I ruin this for everyone. If I dragged Caleb out here just to revive all of our old drama, I will never forgive myself.

I will be nothing but a goddamn professional, because nothingcan ruin this. If I want to save my show (and by extension, my career), I need good press, not bad memories.

I shove a bite into my mouth.

“Would you like some coffee?” Jane asks Caleb, who is still hovering by the counter, empty mug in hand.

“No, thank you—actually, do you have tea?” Caleb says.

“Of course! In the basket next to the fridge.”

Caleb rummages around, and Riker snorts around his bagel. “Things really have changed if the king of energy drinks and quadruple espresso switched to tea.”

Caleb grins, but there’s self-deprecation there. “Yeah, I found out caffeine was bad for my anxiety, so my therapist suggested I cut back.”

“Dude, you’re in therapy too? I love therapy!” Riker says, and there’s not a shred of sarcasm in his voice. He genuinely loves things without reservation, like a six-foot-four puppy.

I set down my own mug. “We all got famous as teenagers. Pretty sure we’re all in therapy,” I say. Everyone turns to where I’ve perched at the counter, and instantly, I regret opening my mouth. Do they think I’m making light of mental health?

The four bandmates in this house used to be the only people in the world I could be myself with. Now, I don’t know what’s safe to joke about and what I need to keep to myself. My cheeks warm.

Caleb breaks the tension, chuckling as he puts the kettle on the stove. “You’re absolutely right. Label Records should be paying for it too.”

I snort. Their questionable business practices and mind games certainly caused enough damage to all of us.

We finish our breakfast in relative silence, Caleb preparing his tea and leaning against the pantry to savor it, Jane passing out bananas and orange juice, and Riker shooing Jane away so he can start the dishes. Keeley joins us after her shower twenty minutes later, and then Caleb disappears up the stairs.

When we’re ready to practice, we head to the basement studio, plug ourselves in, and spend some time tuning and warming up. We start the day with “Ghosts,” jumping right in to something complicated and challenging. Today, it’s less tight, we’re out of sync, and Keeley stops drumming after I miss an entrance. Everyone else crashes to a stop.

“What’s going on with the timing?” she demands, gesturing at me with an accusing drumstick. “You’re supposed to come in on theone.”

“I know that,” I snap, ears ringing. “I was distracted by Riker messing up the lick—I always use that as my cue.” I turn on him. “Dude, you helped uswritethis song! What gives?”

Riker raises his hands placatingly, his Gibson swaying on his favorite studded strap. “I played one wrong note. It’s similar to one of the Lime Velvet songs, and I missed it. It’ll be right next time.”

With our tight rehearsal schedule,next timeisn’t going to cut it. “It better,” I hiss, straightening out my cord with a flip of my mic hand. “We have to get this right.”

Caleb sighs beside me, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, you aren’t perfect either! You were a little flat on the verse, babe,” Keeley drawls.

“As if you played it perfectly,” I say. Arguing with Keeley like this puts a bad taste in my mouth, but I can’t stop myself. We’re a disaster, and we don’t have the luxury of starting from scratch on every song.

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