Chapter Thirty-Seven
Colt
“Hi, you’ve reached Alexis. Please leave your me—“
I smash my thumb on the screen, hitting the end call button, wishing it were still the days where everyone used corded phones so I could slam down the handset.
I guess turnabout’s fair play, though, right? I spent the last two days with my phone off, so I wouldn’t see Alexis’s calls and texts—though, to be fair, she didn’t call or text yesterday. It was all the day before.
That Day™.
That’s how I think about it now—the day when everything fell apart. The day I signed my divorce papers. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.
The day I packed up and left without a word, turning off my phone. The day I drank myself into oblivion, only to wake up the next day with a splitting headache and a belly full of regret. About everything that had led me to this point.
But we have a show in three days. And I need to know how she wants me to handle things. So I need to talk to her.
And now she’s not answering her phone.
I’ve called at least five times, and each time I get her voicemail. Her phone’s not off. And it’s ringing long enough that she’s not actively declining my calls.
Does that mean she doesn’t have her phone, wherever she is?
Or is she unable to get to her phone?
A thousand thoughts of her in danger flash through my head, and the urge to get up and go back to our apartment—her apartment—drives me to my feet. But I stop when I reach the door.
She didn’t try to contact me yesterday.
That’s a sign of acceptance.
Maybe she’s sleeping off her own hangover from drinking herself into oblivion too.
That’s what I tell myself as I make my way to the kitchen, where Brendan is way too fucking cheerful for my tastes. “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.”
I raise one hand and flip him off as I flomp onto a barstool.
Lauren’s at least more sympathetic. “Be nice,” she admonishes Brendan.
“Yeah, Brendan,” I parrot. “Be nice.”
He crosses his arms and looks me up and down. But before he gets out whatever obnoxious thing he’s about to say, Lauren steps in front of him and pulls his mouth to hers.
While I appreciate the deflection, I could do without watching my brother and his wife play tonsil hockey in their kitchen. Especially with my own breakup so raw and fresh, the wound feeling like a gaping hole in my chest. Looking away, I slide out of my seat and make my way to the coffee pot, which is thankfully on the other side of the kitchen from where my brother now has her pinned against the breakfast bar.
Barf.
“Sorry, Colt,” Lauren says, her voice full of laughter. I glance at her over my shoulder, and she offers me a smile past Brendan’s arm that’s still wrapped around her. He doesn’t look even the slightest bit sorry. No, that look is all smug satisfaction.
Yippee for him.
I turn back to the coffee, filling the oversized ivory mug I pulled off a hook under the cabinets.
“No problem,” I mumble, because it’s not Lauren’s fault I’m this pathetic asshole who can’t bear to see anyone’s happiness right now.
“Any luck reaching Alexis?” she asks.
I shake my head, drinking my coffee, ignoring the way it scalds my tongue. “Nope. She’s not answering her phone.”
Lauren’s face pulls into a frown. “That seems … odd.”
I shrug, dismissing the issue. For now. “Maybe she’s just getting back at me.”
“Maybe,” Lauren says, but her tone suggests she’s doubtful.
“I’m going to go for a run,” I announce to the room, hoping that’ll put an end to any further conversation.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite have the desired effect. “I’ll come with you,” Brendan says. “Let me get changed.”
He kisses Lauren once more and smacks her lightly on the ass before striding in the direction of his bedroom.
Sighing, I consider trying to get out before he finishes changing. But I know it’s not possible. I need to change into my workout clothes, too, and I really want to finish my coffee first.
Resigned to jogging with my shithead brother, I grab a protein bar out of the pantry and settle back onto my bar stool. Lauren fills her own mug and sits next to me. I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t, just drinking coffee with me in companionable silence, and I appreciate that more than she probably realizes.
Because I don’t have the faintest idea what the fuck to do with myself right now. But I don’t really want to be alone.
Brendan ends up jogging with me each of the three days leading up to the show, and much to my pleasant surprise, he doesn’t rag on me about Alexis or push me for answers that I don’t have. Not even on our first jog. No, he just says, “You set the pace,” and gestures for me to go, occasionally directing our path with a jerk of his head in one direction or another.
It’s … a balm, of sorts. The physical activity. The undemanding company. The time spent outdoors.
It doesn’t make anything better or clearer, but it gives me something to do. Some way to process. To work through. To start envisioning ways to move forward.
Brendan meets me at the front door in his workout clothes the morning of my next performance, same as the last couple of days. We’re starting off earlier today, since I have to drive a few hours to get to the venue. Tom was disappointed when I told him it’d be just me without Alexis, but he hadn’t pressed for details, and hadn’t balked at all at having only me. Of course, I’ve had to scramble for new songs, but Brendan’s been surprisingly helpful on that
