Once Upon a Sure Thing (Page 30)

“Then I’ll hang out longer with Campbell. We’re having lunch.”

A kernel of worry digs into me. “Are you talking this way in front of him?”

“He’s in the little boys’ room. Don’t worry. I’d never say words like I want to fuck you till you come hard, scream my name, and beg me for another in front of him.” Miller pauses. “Oh, hey, Cam.”

I blush at his antics. “Miller,” I chide. “Does he know you’re talking to me?”

“Hi, Ally,” I hear Campbell say.

I sigh, then whisper, “Does he know?”

“That I always talk to you like this? Yes.”

Since I’m not going to get a straight answer out of a most-festive Miller, I switch gears. “I won’t be back at the studio to rehearse for another hour, hour and a half. Can we push our rehearsal back? I checked, and the studio is open.” But before he can answer, an idea hits me. “Unless you want to go start with Campbell? Rehearse it with him till I get there, and do any final fine-tuning?”

“Brains, beauty, and a plan. If I’m ever trapped on a desert island, I want it to be with you.”

“Let’s hope we’re only trapped for a day or two, because I’m terrible at fishing.”

“Me too. I’m excellent, however, at using UberEats.”

As the car slogs uptown, something occurs to me. Tonight’s a desert-island kind of night, and I want Miller to know how much I want to be stuck with him on that island.

Since I’m quite skilled at using UberEats too, I order him a surprise at the studio.

Chapter 25

Miller

When I hang up with Ally, Campbell shoots me a look across the table at Willy G’s, his favorite diner. “So you need me to save the day?”

“Yes. Can you ride in on your white horse, please?”

“But of course. I save my loyal steed for occasions like this.”

“Seriously though. You want to help me for an hour or so? Unless you have a lesson.”

He shakes his head. “My schedule is your schedule.” He glances around to make sure no one is listening. “Don’t repeat what I’m about to say.”

I press a finger to my lips. “Your secret will be safe with me.”

He whispers conspiratorially, “I don’t hate playing with you.”

I toss a french fry at him. “Thank you. Thank you very much for the not-hate.”

“You’re welcome. And the truth is, it’s the opposite of not-hate.”

“Thanks. I not-hate playing with you too.”

He grabs his Diet Coke and downs some, then clears his throat. “Also, what’s the deal with you and Ally?”

I do my best confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Gee, I wonder?”

“Spit it out, bro.”

He scratches his jaw. “Call me crazy, but I picked up on this vibe from the two of you at my house, and from the way you were just talking to her. Is there anything more?”

I take a breath and debate whether to tell him, but in my hesitation, he finds the answer.

He smacks a palm on the Formica. “I always knew the two of you could be something. Glad to see it took me for it to happen.”

“First off, nothing is really happening. We don’t want to mess with our friendship. Second, you’re taking credit?”

“Hell, yeah. I love credit. Also, how exactly is the not-really-happening part working out for you?”

“It’s going . . .” My voice trails off as I debate how much to say, then I decide to err on the side of he’s-already-figured-it-out. “It’s going as well as a friendship can go with a woman you’ve wanted for six years.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“That sounds like I need to pay.” He plunks down some cash for the bill, and I can’t argue with that.

We skedaddle from the diner, heading for the studio.

When we arrive, the receptionist smiles at me with her wide eyes. “Mr. Hart, there’s a delivery for you.”

She hands me two cups from Dr. Insomnia’s. One is marked C and one is marked M. I lift the plastic top on M and my mouth waters when I see hot chocolate, topped with extra whipped cream. There’s a note on the cup too.

From A . . . No dongles were harmed in the making of these titular beverages.

I laugh, my heart flipping around in my chest as I take a drink, then once more as I hand the coffee to my brother, loving that she sent a drink for him.

He takes a sip then lets out a low whistle as we walk down the hall. “You have it bad, Miller.”

I consider denying it, but what’s the point? I kind of do, and that’s both awesome and awful at the same time. I shrug, take another hearty gulp, and say hi to Jackson, who’s waiting in the studio.

Then we get to work on making music.

Music is where I don’t have to think, don’t have to figure out too-complicated-even-for-the-SAT problems. Music comes naturally to me, and it fulfills me in a way nothing else can or will.

I show my brother the music and the lyrics for “Coming Together,” and it takes him all of a minute to get a feel for the song. Campbell grabs a guitar that’s resting against the wall, slings it on, and strums the first few notes.

I sing, and something is just easy about playing with him. Even though I wrote the song to sing with Ally, even though it doesn’t suit two male voices, I still feel the rush I experienced when I was ten and we formed our first band in the treehouse in our backyard.

Campbell smiles too, nodding his head as we make melodies, and it’s better than instinct. It’s a beautiful summer breeze.

It’s only when I look up later in the session that I see we have an audience. Ally, Kristy, Jackson, and the receptionist are watching us from the other side of the glass, clapping and cheering.

“Oh, stop,” Campbell says into the mic, but his smile says keep it up.

“It’s not often we get to see the Heartbreakers jamming,” Ally says from the other side.

“It’s not often it happens.” I used to try valiantly to get him to start up again with me, but he’s always said no. I’ve accepted that Campbell doesn’t want to play again in the band. But a song or two now and then seems to suit him.

“Want to play it again?” he asks.

“Hell, yeah.”

When we jam through it one more time, Jackson’s camera on us, Ally’s eyes watching thoughtfully, I savor every second, content to enjoy each moment and make the most of it.

After Campbell says goodbye, Ally joins me in the studio. “You know it’ll never sound the same with me as it does with him,” she warns me.

“It’s not supposed to sound the same. It’s supposed to have our mark on it,” I whisper in her ear.

She trembles, and I take that as my cue to tell her something else. “This is going to be the hardest rehearsal of my life, because I can’t wait to get out of here.”

When she smiles at me, I know.

I fucking know.

I’ve fallen for my best friend.

Too bad I have no clue how to get off the desert island with our friendship intact.

Chapter 26

Miller

It’s not just the hot chocolate. Or the fact that she leaves Bananagrams out on the coffee table and gives me a cute, flirty look, like we’re really going to play it tonight.

It’s not even the new bottle of wine she left on the kitchen counter.