Page 60 of Concerted Chaos

“Baking skills and mixing skills? Prove it.” I perch on a stool and let Tanner mix me a drink.

“Challenge accepted,” Tanner says as he starts measuring out the tonic water. “Why Deedee?”

“Don’t call me that. And why what? Why should you prove it? You’re the one standing on that side of the bar.”

“No, I meant, why do they call you Deedee? How’d you acquire your nickname?” He acts genuinely interested.

“It’s short for Cassidy-dee,” I admit, though I hate sharing snippets of my life. But if I don’t tell him, my brother probably will—he’s chatty when he’s drinking. “When I was little, my father used to tell me made-up stories of the adventures of Chickadee-dee and Cassidy-dee.”

“Ah, that’s why you have a stuffed chickadee wearing your dad’s wedding ring.” Tanner snaps his fingers and nods as if he’s just figured something out. “That’s kind of sweet. Tell me one of the stories.”

“Absolutely not.” But I am impressed he remembered my scruffy old chickadee. Tanner saw it for a minute almost four months ago. It’s the only toy I’ve retained from my childhood, though I’m certain there’s a box or two of memorabilia in my mother’s storage shed.

“Please, Deedee?”

“No. And you aren’t allowed to call me that. Family only.”

“Fair enough, Ms. Blaine-Corbitt, ma’am. I presume this is your bar, so I’ll be respectful of your wishes.” He does an absurd little bow.

“Ummm ... this is my bar,” Powell corrects him. I raise an angry eyebrow and he backpedals. “I mean our bar. We share it.”

“Oh. I just thought .. .” Tanner trails off, eyes fixed on the neon blue DD sign hanging on the wall.

Powell follows his gaze and his eyes widen. “Downstairs Drinkery? Damnit, Deedee!”

“We don’t need to discuss how or why I came up with the name,” I inform him loftily. “Sometimes I can be creative too.”

“The initials are a coincidence? Maybe we should rename this. I’m thinking . . . Primary Cantina. I’ll order a new sign.”

“Forget it. Your accountant said we’ve already surpassed the neon sign budget this year.”

“You have a neon sign budget?” Tanner interrupts. The next words out of his mouth are probably going to be part of his continuing anti-rich people diatribe.

“Apparently,” Powell mutters, giving me a sullen glare.

“If he thinks we’re going to replace my DD with his own initials, then yeah, we have a line item for that, and it’s maxed out. Did you two get the pictures you needed?” My swift subject change elicits an equally swift mood change in my brother.

“Yeah, they’re gonna look awesome. He got the shots the label wanted, and then he took a bunch I can use on my SwiftaPic later.”

“He changed his shirt six times,” Tanner offers his camera so I can look through the images, but I decline. I already know what Powell looks like with every possible shirt/hairstyle/facial expression combination. We’ve lived together since I was twelve; I’ve seen it all.

“Of course he did.” I admire his foresight. He hates dealing with social media. Half the time I’m the one who reminds him to post and I’m usually the person who crafts the responses to his fans. It’s all part of the job. And it certainly is easier when there’s an array of pre-shot images to choose from.

“What’s wrong with that? My hair looks fabulous today. I might as well memorialize it. And now I have things to post while I’m traveling.”

Foolish Powell, announcing his schedule in front of a paparazzo. I guess it doesn’t matter though, since we’re both flying out to California tomorrow. Tanner can’t afford to follow. Unless some sleazy blog covers his costs, but why would they when LA is literally teeming with photographers?

“You’re leaving for the reunion concert already? It’s not for another week.” Tanner proves once again that he is a stalker who tracks our schedules, and that he has no understanding of how this industry works. What, we’re supposed to fly out day of?

“We’re going out early for rehearsals and media,” I explain. “We need to make sure Xander can follow all of the steps.” My brother snickers at that. Xander can dance just as well as the rest of them. Devon is the real concern: how can he perform without Jace at his side?

“It’s going to be fun, right Cass? Getting the old crowd back together again?” Powell’s happy smile fades as he realizes what he just said. “Except for Jace. It really hits hard sometimes, doesn’t it? Like you think everything is fine and life is moving on and then bam! You’re remindedagain.”

“It’s never going to not hurt, but the pain will fade with time.” I gently rub his forearm and try not to think about my dad. I’ve never forgotten that loss, but it’s no longer a punch in the guts when I remember him. Same for Powell and his mom, I’m sure.

“It must be harder for you,” Tanner says. He is watching my face with sympathy. Then he holds up his glass. “To Jace.”

I don’t think it’s entirely appropriate that someone who never met Jace is doing a toast to him, but I won’t reject the gesture. We clink our glasses and sip slowly.

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