“What is this?” I furrow my brow.
“Open it up in two months or more,” he says. “Until then, don’t touch it.”
“Okay.” I tilt my head a little, giving him a weird look.
“I’m serious. It’s bad luck if you do.”
“Can I—”
“And don’t hold it up to the light to read it. I know how you girls bend the rules.”
“Damn,” I snap.
“Good night, Harmony.”
“’Night, Zach,” I echo.
I linger for a few extra beats. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s got something to do with the way my body’s heating up in spite of the cool temperature.
“And, Harmony,” he adds. “You’re welcome for the ride.”
He kicks his bike into gear just as he speeds off and into the night.
I clench the note tight, a burning desire to open it and see what Zach wrote down.
I hear his bike in the distance, sounding through the quiet of the early-morning hours.
Thanks for the ride, I mumble to myself.
Chapter 3
Harmony
The next morning, I wake from a dream with a jolt.
In my dream, I kept asking Zach what was in the note, but he wouldn’t tell me. “Nah-ah-ah,” he’d say with the same confident look he had plastered on his face last night at Firehouse. He’d pull the note just out of my reach.
For some reason, I have the feeling that whatever message is in that note is the key to everything. I’m dying to know what it says. But I don’t know that for sure. It could honestly be nothing more than him saying, “My name’s not really Zach and I am a serial killer…you dodged a bullet.”
I roll over in bed, viewing the folded-up piece of paper on top of my nightstand, and then I put it away in a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
I grab my iPhone to check the time.
Almost eleven.
Damn. How late were we out last night?
And seriously, who the hell is this Zach guy? In my head, I repeat the line he said to me about being a sociopath.
What kind of guy says that, even as a joke?
And what kind of guy tries to tell me I’m too talented to be playing at The Hungry Burger?
What is he, a professional music scout?
But he sure hit the nail on the head when he said he hadn’t heard music as good as mine since he’d been to Nashville.
I hover my thumb over the Instagram app on my phone before pulling it up.
Part of me doesn’t even want to know what they’re up to.
But ever since Zach mentioned Nashville, I can’t stop wondering.
I type in my ex’s name to look at his profile.
My skin tingles with anxiety. Why do I torture myself like this? I want to throw my phone out the window.
But I can’t. I have to see what he’s up to.
I swallow as I pull up the first picture. It’s Roddy and Francine. Singing side by side into the same microphone.
My blood boils.
Well, aren’t you two just a regular Johnny Cash and June Carter?
My fingers tense, and I accidentally like the picture, so I have to unlike it immediately.
Uh-oh. Does that show up on his notifications?
I take a deep breath to try to steady myself as I scroll through more of their pictures, but when I see the third picture, I want to scream and chuck my phone again.
Just playing our new hit single, “Flowers in June.” Love this girl more than anything.
My head throbs, and I feel so angry that I’m pretty sure I could pick up a car.
But the feeling passes, and seconds later I’m weak. Pathetic. Pale.
It’s been well over two years since things went south in Nashville. Why can’t I just let it go and start anew?
Zach’s gritty voice rings in my ear.
“You’re too good for a place like The Hungry Burger. Honestly, what are you doing there?”
Summoning all the willpower I can, I text my friend Rose, throw on shorts and a tank top, and head downstairs.
To my surprise, I smell eggs and bacon as I walk down the steps. My stepmom flashes me a plastered-on smile as I step into the kitchen.
“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty. Glad you got up before noon today.”
“Good morning . . . you’re making breakfast?” I ask, and I’m sure she can hear the surprise in my voice. This isn’t a regular thing.
“Yeah. Janie had soccer practice this morning, so she needs a good meal after that physical activity,” she says as she loads bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast onto two plates.
“Oh.” I swallow a lump in the back of my throat as my stepmom heads from the kitchen into the dining room with a plate of food and sits down across from Janie. Part of me wants to point out that she wasn’t able to drive me home yesterday, and here Janie is getting the full treatment, but at this point that seems pointless. “Morning, Janie! How was soccer?” I say instead with a grin as I pour the last cup of coffee.
“It was sooo good,” she says. “I got a goal and everyone high-fived me.”
“Aw, that’s awesome.”
“You got back late last night,” Janie continues as she takes a bite of her eggs. “I heard you when I got up to go to the bathroom.”
My stepmom’s jaw drops a little. “Just how late did you get home?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Two thirty, maybe?”
My stepmom scrunches up her face. “I thought your father and I made it very clear that while you’re under our roof, your curfew is one a.m.”
I look at her from my vantage point at the stove as I crack an egg. It makes a searing sound as it hits the already-hot pan. Grinding my teeth, I have a hard time holding my smile. No ride, and no eggs for your stepdaughter. And now you’re giving me shit about getting home late?
I take a deep breath. I don’t want to be confrontational.
“I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation to be having for the morning,” I say, but what I really mean is I don’t think it’s appropriate to have in front of Janie.
My stepmom sits back and crosses her arms. “I’m not going to just allow this. When your father gets back from his trucking route tonight, he’s going to hear about this.”
All right. Fine. She wants to do this right now?
“Well, Lisa, maybe if you would have given me a ride, I wouldn’t have gotten home so late.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. I angrily crack the second egg and stir it around the pan, adding salt and pepper.
“Don’t give me excuses,” she adds. “You’re resourceful. I know you have friends and you can get rides. I mean, if you really want to do this music thing—”
“I did get a ride, eventually. But I felt like staying out late. What’s the big deal? I’m twenty-three. This is a ridiculous conversation to have right now.”
She raises an eyebrow and holds a piece of toast with eggs on it in front of her face. “While you’re under my roof, honey, you’ve got to deal with my rules. Understand?”
Oh no she didn’t. Not the my house, my rules BS.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Looking back at the eggs, I lose myself in them and sort of unfocus my eyes. I listen to her and Janie go back to chatting.