She stands too and throws her arms around me again. This time I return her hug like a normal person. “Let me know what happens,” she whispers before letting me go.
“I will,” I promise, then gather my suitcase and head down the hall to Blaire’s condo.
A steady stream of knocking on the door pulls me out of the movie I’m watching—Late Night. I’ve seen it already, but I was in the mood for comfort and laughs without a lot of romantic drama. The story of a woman pursuing her dreams despite not having the background for it resonates with me, though she became a comedy writer and I’m a glorified gopher for a band.
Still. They care about me. I’m part of the family. And when I actually figure out the thing I really want to do with my life, I know they’ll support me, even if they’ll be sad to see me go.
And for the first time in twenty-three years, I feel like maybe I can just sit with myself and listen to my own internal voice telling me what I should do instead of worrying about what my parents will think.
I’ve stifled that voice for so long that it’ll probably take it a while to fully come out of hiding. But for now, I’m happy to stay on with Cataclysm.
Well, mostly. I still haven’t worked up the courage to confront Mason, even though I’ve been in Blaire’s condo for twenty-four hours. Some part of me is still hoping he’ll make the first move, despite all evidence to the contrary.
I open the door without bothering to check the peephole, because I know whoever it is will be someone I know. Only Blaire and the Cataclysm members know I’m here, after all.
Blaire brushes past me as soon as the door is open, and I stand back in surprise.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Vancouver?” I ask, shutting the door behind her and following her into the kitchen where she’s pulling out glasses, then opening the freezer for the bottle of vodka I noticed in there last night.
She glances up at me as she fills each glass halfway full. “Nice to see you too.” After screwing the lid back on the vodka, she heads for the pantry, where she pulls out a bottle of cranberry juice. She fills the glasses the rest of the way, plunks in some ice cubes, gives the whole thing a stir, and hands a glass to me. After clinking our glasses together, she takes a healthy sip and heads for the couch. “Yes,” she calls over her shoulder as I trail behind her. “I am supposed to be in Vancouver. But Beckett and I both decided that I needed to come here and clean up this mess.”
I sip my vodka cranberry and sink onto the couch before turning off the TV. I have a feeling I won’t be getting back to my movie anytime soon. “You’re in charge of cleaning up messes?”
Shrugging, she kicks off her shoes and reclines against the arm of the couch, curling her legs beneath her. “Apparently so. I thought I’d retired from that job, but here I am.” She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s nice to be needed, but sometimes I wish all of you would handle your own love lives.”
I can’t help but snort out a laugh. “I seem to recall your love life being in shambles not too long ago. And who helped with that?” I tap my finger on my chin like I’m deep in thought.
She flicks her fingers dismissively. “That’s not the point. That was just Marcus returning the favor.”
My eyebrows climb my forehead. “Just Marcus? He’s the only one who got involved?”
“Fine,” she grumbles. “You and everyone else got involved too. And it was annoying as hell. Which is why I thought I’d given it up. But here you are, sad and alone in my condo. And Mason’s being broody and lonely in his. When it’s clear as day to anyone with eyeballs that the two of you belong together.”
I fidget with the hem of my shirt and take another sip of my drink, enjoying the tart sweetness of the cranberry juice and the bite of the alcohol as it slides over my tongue.
She sighs. “What are you doing, Viola? Why are you just sitting here alone and hurt when he’s so close?”
“Why is he? Why can’t he call me first?” The questions sound stupid and belligerent. But I can’t help it.
Another sigh. “You know what happened with his parents, right?”
I shrug. “Not the details. I know they’re estranged.”
“The disowned him,” she says baldly. “They’re crazy religious, super judgy, his dad’s a preacher or whatever, and here’s little Mason, growing up loving to play the drums. He played for their church for a long time, but he wanted more. Different stuff.” She holds up her fingers and makes air quotes. “‘Devil music.’ He got in trouble for listening to non-Christian music. Like spanked on his bare ass with a belt at age twelve for it. After that he got better at hiding it. He didn’t even tell his parents he was accepted to Berklee on scholarship until it was time to go. They pestered him for a while the first year, begging him to come back and threatening him with shunning and hell if he didn’t all in the same breath.”
She looks away and shakes her head. “I wasn’t there when it was happening, but I saw what he was like after. He still feels like he’s not really good enough, y’know?” She raises her eyes to mine, and they’re shiny with tears. “That’s what he was always told as a kid. That he’s not good enough. For anything or anyone.” She waves a hand. “Supposedly god
