Page 2 of Over the Edge

“Just like they will when you finally release the next one. Any progress?” she asks in a voice loud enough to cut through the music, but low enough no one else can eavesdrop.

The feeling in my chest curdles, warping into the low-grade anxiety that has been my constant companion these last few months. “No.”

“It’ll come to you. It always does,” she says with a confidence I wish I had.

“You’re right,” I say, not wanting to admit this album doesn’t feel the same as my last three. I moved to Manhattan seven months ago to dedicate myself to working on it and ever since then I’ve barely managed to write more than a chorus before scrapping it. My manager, Vincent, is patient and has been so great with how I’ve wanted to manage my career, but I can tell he's getting anxious about my rapidly approaching deadline. “Having a good time tonight?”

“Enough. This is my funeral, and I intend to regret being alive in the morning.” she says.

“Interesting sentiment from the hostess.”

“Like you would want to take my place. I wore black for a reason.”

“Different reason than every other day?”

“This particular shade is for Wesley,” she says. Her voice is heavy with the years’ long resentment she’s carried for her ex-best friend turned co-headliner. I don’t blame her; Wesley Hart's ego is reason enough to hate him, even if it weren’t for Avery or the fact that he slept with my brother’s girlfriends on multiple occasions. I like people, but Wesley? I make a special exception for him.

“Good to know it was made custom for the occasion,” I play along.

Avery’s face morphs into a plastic expression and I turn to find a man dressed in an overpriced white T-shirt and slacks comingour way. I offer to get drinks and leave them to talk. At the bar I grab our usual. Filthy martini for Avery and Aperol Spritz for me. The olives in the martini swish along the inside of the glass as I dodge elbows and party goers who have lost their spatial awareness. When I get back two more people have joined the conversation. Avery flashes me athank God, I need alcohol to get through this conversationlook as I hand over her glass. I don’t have a chance to shoulder my way into the circle because my phone lights up in my purse. My brows pinch as I check the incoming call.

“Sorry, I should really get this,” I yell in Avery’s direction then falter. I blink, startled as I reexamine the caller ID.

There’s not exactly a quiet corner in the bar, but I manage to put some distance between me and the loudest party goers before picking up.

“Hello?”

The silver beading of my dress digs into my arms as I hug myself to fight the chill of the hospital room. Even if I wasn’t having the time of my life at Avery’s party, I’d prefer it to the stark, unlit hospital room. Particularly because the man lying unconscious in the bed hooked up to an IV and heart monitor is the one who’s been avoiding me since I moved from Nashville to Manhattan.

If he were awake, I would ask him about it. But I guess the whole reason I’m here is because he’s out cold.

I’m halfway through what must be my hundredth time cycling between Instagram and my messages when there’s a metallic clink. I look up to find a bleary-eyed Garrett examining the IV in his arm, yanking it toward him as he squints, which makes the IV stand bump the edge of his hospital bed.

Garrett has these classic features that would make him a believable lead in period dramas. A sweep of blond hair that’s usually diligently styled but is currently disheveled, sticking up at odd angles, yet manages to look roguishly intentional. Sharp cheekbones and a long, narrow nose with a flat tip, like whatever master sculptor was diligently chiseling him accidentally chipped off the end. Maybe I’d be lured in by his looks, that is if I didn’t know him.

“Good morning, or maybe night? I’m not sure since it’s three a.m. and I’m supposed to be at home in bed.” I uncross my legs and stand up from the chair shoved in the corner.

“Eve?” His voice cracks on the nickname. He’s the only one who shortens my name that way, like he’s making some point by doing it. Like I’m still his bandmate’s little sister who hovered around with childish hopes of being included.

“Did you think you put someone else down to be called in a case like this? What a weird typo to make, but I guess that would make more sense than choosing me. You know, since you haven’t talked to me in months,” I say through a forced smile. I won’t let him get to me. He does, usually, but I know I get to him, too. I get a certain pleasure in cracking his stony exterior.

I’ve known him for nineteen years, back when he wasn’t a household name, and he was just one of the boys practicing music in my parents’ garage every afternoon after school. Well, every afternoon until the world became obsessed with Fool’s Gambit. No one could get enough of them. Even after the band broke up ten years ago, people have kept the boys tucked in the part of their hearts designed to store nostalgia.

But to me, they were just the guys in the garage. People who weren’t mine, but a part of my life, nonetheless. Always have been, no matter how many sold out stadiums they had with tens of thousands of fans screaming their names.

We’ve grown up, grown complicated. My brother barely plays anymore. Wes has his solo career, but still makes sure his ego is everyone’s problem. Jared has a family. And Garrett went and got his law degree.

“Nice dress.” He nods. Somehow, he manages to look in control of the situation, like the hospital is exactly where he wanted to end up tonight.

“Thanks, I thought I’d dress up for the occasion. It’s not like I was at a party or anything,” I say.

“You didn’t have to go through all that effort,” he says dryly.

“It’s not like you gave me much of a choice. You see, when a hospital calls asking you to come in for an emergency, it’s kind of a dick move to not show up. Kinda like if you tell someone you’re going to help them move but then stop talking to them.”

Fine. I’m bitter and it’s three in the morning. I’m supposed to be buried in my overpriced comforter right now, excuse me for being a bit annoyed.

“You can leave now that you’ve upheld social norms.” He cocks his head toward the door, effectively dismissing me.

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