I laugh.
“Love you, Bells.”
I nod, my face pinching together as another round of tears disregard my orders and flow down my face.
She shuts the door behind her.
I sit on the edge of the couch and feel my world turn upside down again.
If only things could be different. If only …
Don’t give up on love, sweetheart.
“I’m sorry, Siggy. I think love gave up on me.”
Twenty-Four
Coy
Every light in the house is on. It’s kind of like noon in the middle of the night.
My bag sits unpacked on my bed in the other room. My sweatshirt that still smells of Bellamy is thrown over a chair in the living room—the exact place I decided I couldn’t take it anymore.
I walk to the thermostat and turn the heat up. It’ll be a fucking sauna in here in an hour. But I bet it will still feel cold.
An unopened pizza box sits on the kitchen counter. I was an asshole for ordering a pizza so late—especially one I didn’t really want. So, I tipped the delivery driver fifty bucks. At least I made someone smile today.
It’s so quiet that I swear I can hear a buzzing sound coming from my light bulbs.
Is that even possible?
I scratch my head and contemplate how I’m going to spend the night. There will be no sleep happening. I don’t even want to consider lying down and giving myself the mental space to remember Bellamy’s tears.
I can’t quit thinking of it now. How terrible will it be if I close my eyes and try to sleep?
My phone rings, and I grab it before the first burst even stops. I almost throw it at the wall when I see that it’s not Bellamy.
But of course, it’s not her, you asshole.
“Yeah?” I say, holding the phone to my ear.
“Yeah. You sound just like I thought you would.” Holt laughs. “I’d ask how you are but answer received.”
I run a hand over my face. “Did you just call to piss me off?”
“No. I called to talk some sense into my little brother.”
“Holt,” I growl, “I’m not in the fucking mood.”
“Good. Because, if you were, this conversation wouldn’t be necessary, and your ass would be back in Savannah where it fucking belongs.”
His irritation, bordering on anger, surprises me. He’s angry at me?
“You know, it’s usually Wade that I fantasize about punching in the face. But, tonight, it’s you.”
“If you think you’re big enough, little boy, try it.”
I roll my eyes and, when I do, my fight response flees.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m just … pissed.”
“As you should be.” He sighs. “Do you want to rehash it? Or do we want to accept that Mom told Boone who told me? I know that a few details will be wrong, but I think I get the gist of what happened.”
I walk into the living room and feel the exhaustion of the day settling over me.
“I’m not rehashing shit,” I tell him.
“Good. I’ll get right to it then. You are fucking up.”
“Fuck off, Holt,” I groan as I sit on the couch. “
“Why? So you can go mope around and think about how sad it is that you let the best thing that ever happened to you get away? What kind of brother would I be if I did that?”
I half-smile. “The kind that wants an album dedicated to him.”
He snorts. “Spare me the dramatics.”
I sigh loudly in hopes that he reads the message: I don’t want to do this.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask him. “I have to be here in the morning. And then, if I’m honest with myself, I’m going to have to be here to get started on an album that they want by June. Which is impossible if you don’t already know that.”
“I agree. You had to go.”
“So?” I lean my head against the cushions. “So, what are my choices? Bellamy isn’t going to come here. I can’t even ask her to do that. And she’s like freaking out right now and saying that our lives won’t mesh and this isn’t the right time for our relationship, and … She doesn’t want this now. And I can’t blame her.”
“No, you can’t. But what you can blame yourself for is the fact that you didn’t really try.”
My head springs off of the pillow. “What?”
“Shocking to hear the truth, isn’t it?”
“What the fuck do you even know about what I tried, and I didn’t try?”
“Well, first, you didn’t reach out to me to help you. You come to me for everything, Coy. Who did you call when you needed a new attorney over that fast food bullshit? Me. Who did you call when you couldn’t decide what house to buy? Me. Who did you fucking call when you thought you had ankle cancer—which isn’t a fucking thing, by the way—and you didn’t know whether to tell Mom?”
“I actually called Oliver for that. You just happened to be in the same room. And,” I add, “I was very, very drunk with Boone and in Vegas when that happened. Not sure you can use that here.”
“The point is that you didn’t try if you didn’t ask me for help.”
Slowly, I lean my head back on the couch.
He’s right. As usual, I do hate that he’s right, but it’s true. Every damn thing that I’ve been unsure about, when I’ve needed more council or just a sounding board I trust, it’s Holt that I call. He’s never bullshitted me—which is why I don’t call Boone—he’s never been unnecessarily condescending toward me—which is why I don’t call Wade—and he’s never laughed at me sense of defeat. Thank you, Oliver.
I trust Holt with my life. Fuck.
Holt exhales into the phone.
I can hear the exasperation in his tone. But I’m tired too.
“You are the most creative person I know,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Why don’t you take some of those skills and apply them to your current situation?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t hold the keys to my future.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
I groan as my head starts to pound. “It is not.”
“Hell if it’s not. Look, get outside the box, Coy. Think. You know how this industry works. Figure out a way around it and tell me what to do.”
“What do you know about the music business?” I snort.
“Not a damn thing. But I know people that do, and I know other people that will figure shit out if I pay them enough.”
My shoulders soften as a small smile slips across my lips.
Why can’t the music industry feel like this? Why does it have to feel like I’m going from this supportive place to a lion’s den?
It doesn’t have to be this way. There has to be a way to make music designed to make people happy—and me money—without sacrificing yourself. Or your life. Or your soul.
I sit up and balance my elbows on my knees. My head throbs, and I expect that it will for days.
“Did you know that Blaire left me?” he asks.
“When?”
“Last year. Not long after we first got together. A bunch of shit went down, and Blaire took off to Chicago.”