Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“The door to my room. What’s up, Alex? You’re not even jet-lagged.”
I placed the card of our shared room in her hand and curled her fingers around it.
She said, “No.”
To which I replied, “Did you know the world is suffering from overpopulation and vast waste of natural resources? We’re going to save a lot of water and electricity sharing a room for a week.”
“We’ll be saving a lot of oxygen, too, because one of us ought to strangle the other.” She walked over to the opposite door. She thought I was joking. Clearly, we needed to be doing more talking and a lot less fingering, because this woman didn’t understand me. At all. I watched as Indie’s smile evaporated gradually from her face each time she slid her key card into the slot and the red dot blinked back at her, spitting out the card. By the fourth attempt, she turned around, stomped her foot, and released a feral growl. “Alex.”
For the record, I spared her my shit-eating grin when I leaned against our already-open door, arms crossed over my chest.
“Alex,” she said again, her tone warning this time, indigo eyes begging me to put her out of her misery.
I didn’t get it. The only difference between the entire tour and London was that she’d be spending the night next to me. Even that wasn’t much of a big deal. I wasn’t a spooner.
I crooked my finger and motioned for her to come in. She stayed rooted to the floor.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because we’re going to write music together. And get drunk on words. And bone against the glass door. Because we make sense. Because I’m tired of your fears. This is our tour. Our album. Our soul.”
The thing about being a compulsive liar is at some point, you don’t stop and think whether what you said is true or not. But at this point, I knew, we shared a soul. It was inside her, and I borrowed it. And I needed it. Losing Tania was a game-changer. I needed Stardust much more—maybe even after Paris—and I was beginning to accept that the way one accepted a deadly disease. With a healthy dose of disinclination.
She peeked behind my shoulder to the empty room, then back at me, her fingers clutching her duffel bag, knuckles bone-white.
“On one condition.”
God, if you exist, please make her not ask for Louboutins or a Porsche.
“I’m listening.”
“If we do this, I want you to see your family.”
Now, here’s the thing. Stardust and I had talked. A lot. About The Little Prince and about music and, yes, about our families. We talked like our life depended on it when we were writing every midnight. So she knew everything about my gambling mother and drunk father and slag of a sister. She knew I’d never been hugged as a wee boy and that I wrote about love in the same way people write about sci-fi: solely from my overworked imagination. Which prompted me to believe she thought my relationship with my family was salvageable. Look, I got it. She didn’t have any parents. But living vicariously through me was not the way around it.
“No.” I glued my forehead to the still-open door, acutely aware of the fact she was still in the hallway. What was it about us and hallways? Why were we always so reluctant to let the other person in? Note to self: write a song about it. Foyers. Relationships. Metaphors. Blue-haired girls.
“Well, then, you better get me a room.” She spun on her heels, advancing toward the lifts.
I needed to let her go, and deep down, I knew it. But my soul couldn’t, so I ended up grabbing her wrist and jerking her back to me.
“First of all, you don’t know my family.”
A hint of a triumphant smile decorated her lips when she looked up at me. “I know enough. I know you have one. You, Alex, have a family. Everyone needs a family.”
“That’s bullshit. Do you honestly need Craig? Need this wanker’s drinking problem, hot and cold behavior, and stupid violent spurts?” I couldn’t believe we were spending our time fighting instead of fucking. I also couldn’t believe how similar Craig and I were. How could she be attracted to a guy who represented every vice that had made her life a quiet hell for the last few years?
She thought about it—actually thought about my question, not just spat out an answer—before answering.
“Yes, I need Craig. A big part of loving people and feeling loved is taking care of them, even when they infuriate you. You build confidence and security not only in being taken care of, but also by taking care of your loved ones. I want to help Craig. Hell, I want to change Craig. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need him. He’s my brother.”