Page 203 of Becoming Us
Paxton looked up, mumbling something.
I stepped closer. “What?”
“They want to sign us,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“What? Who?”
Paxton stood, gripping my shoulders. “A scout from a record label. Someone told them about us. He came, he watched, and now they want a meeting. They’re interested in signing us.”
My brain stalled. “What does that mean?”
“What do you mean,what does that mean?”
“I don’t know, man. Nobody from a record label has ever offered to sign me. I don’t know what the fuck that means.” I was starting to catch his panic.
“Haven’t you ever seen a movie?” Brice asked.
Jaden shot a defensive look at Brice on my behalf. “That’s not fair. I bet Noah’s seen a bunch of movies—but not a record-label-signing one.”
“It’s big!” Paxton said, giving me a little shake. “A label heard about us. They saw us live. And they liked it, Noah. They liked it enough to set up a meeting. This could mean a deal. An album. Concerts. The works.”
My head spun trying to catch up. For half a second, I wasn’t in the room anymore. I was fifteen, releasing all of my anger on my kit.What in the actual fuck?
“Tours!” Brice added.
Wait.
“I’m going to school full-time,” I said quickly. “I can’t go on a tour.”
“This is once in a lifetime, man. School can wait,” Brice argued.
Paxton’s face fell, excitement melting into panic. Probably mirroring my own. Because yeah, this sounded amazing, and I knew this kind of thing didn’t just happen, and I fucking loved it here…but tours also meant?—
The door creaked open.
We all turned as Atty walked in.
His gorgeous, shy smile was firmly in place. “What’d I miss?”
Fuck.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
BEFORE
Things were going okay.
Atty and I were right on track to being friends. We’d started hanging out again. I’d kept my distance, did my best to stay on good behavior around him.
As the days passed, I found myself reaching for my pocket less and less. Just enough to wake up in the morning, or maybe if I went out at night. But otherwise? It was mostly under control.
He kept looking at me. And it wasn’t just those unreadable, stony stares—I knew how to interpret them now. His eyes would drift to my neck, my shoulders, linger for a beat too long. Sometimes it was my mouth. Those were the hardest ones. I’d have to clench my fists, bite down on my tongue, force myself not to lean in and kiss him.
But the days kept stacking up, and every morning when I woke up, there was a text from him waiting. And before I went to bed—well, before he did—there was another.
We were becoming part of each other’s routines.
