The Art of Taking Chances Page 20

  “Was there yelling?” Bea asks.

  “No.” Although part of me wishes there had been.

  In some ways, it would’ve been easier than the tense confirmation that Sam really thinks I held him back. The ridiculousness of it. I mean, really. He’s the one who made the decision to throw away everything he’d worked for so he could bop around a stage singing three chord pop tunes instead of making real music. I was being a true friend by telling him he was making a dreadful decision.

  Wasn’t I?

  I toy with the corner of the cafe menu. “Bea?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say you decided to ditch your dream of playing soccer for Australia because you were offered a synchronized swimming scholarship. Would you expect me to support your decision?”

  Bea screws up her face like she’s sucked on a lime, then leans in to sniff me. “Have you been smoking illegal substances?”

  I swat at her. “I’m being serious. Would you?”

  She’s still looking at me all dubious, but she’s also got her thinking face on. “Well, yeah. I would.”

  It’s my turn to suck a lime. “But it’s the wrong decision!”

  She shrugs. “But it’s my decision, not yours. So if you’re really my friend, you’d take me nose plug shopping no matter how much you hated the idea.”

  I suck the inside of my cheek so hard I’m pretty sure I’ve given myself a reverse hickey. Is Sam right? Was I the one who let down our friendship?

  The café door opens again. I hold my breath. Then release it on a groan—more women in active wear, followed by some school kids. My phone says it's just past three. I don't know why, but Jeremy strikes me as an on-time kind of guy, so I keep my eyes glued to the door. Sure enough, it opens again and—

  “You've got to be kidding me!"

  “What? Is he here?” Bea turns.

  “If you mean Jeremy, then no. But he is.” I point at a guy slinking to the booth seats at the back of the café.

  He's wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face, and a dark pair of sunglasses hides his eyes, but even without the tell-tale too-long blond hair escaping the cap, I’d know the shape of Sam Stokes anywhere.

  I push my chair back with a little too much force and stomp across the room toward him. “Are you following me?”

  He backs up into the booth. “No.”

  “So the great Sam Stokes just happens to wander into the same café as me?”

  His eyes shoot left, then right, but I don’t care if anyone overhears. Let him get mobbed by screaming fans. After all, that’s the life he’s chosen.

  “Ally”—he reaches out a hand, but thinks better of it and tips his head at the booth behind him instead—“can we please talk?”

  I cross my arms. “Why? So you can tell me again how much I held you back?”

  I can’t see Sam’s eyes, but the rest of his features tighten, then cave, like they’re tired of playing games. “You have no idea how much I wish I could take back some of the things I’ve said.”

  My brows furrow together. Those words… Where have I heard them before?

  Sam takes off his sunglasses. For a moment I’m distracted by the gray-green plea in his eyes. “Everyone makes mistakes, Al.”

  My mouth drops open. No. No! It can’t be. He can’t be—I whip my cell out and, fingers fumbling, text Jeremy two words: I’m here.

  And wait.

  Three seconds later, there’s a chime in Sam’s back pocket.

  I suck in a breath. Maybe I suck time right along with it, because everything around us slows to a muted crawl while I watch Sam pull out his phone and hold it up for me to see.

  I’m here.

  Jeremy’s here.

  Jeremy’s Sam.

  Sam is Jeremy!

  “You lied to me!” It comes out half hiss half whisper. I can’t decide what I’m feeling—disbelief or outrage. “Here I thought I’d finally made a real connection with someone, and you…you”—I gasp for air, fighting the rising tears that threaten to tsunami my anger. “And the whole time you were laughing behind my back.” I turn for the café door.

  “Al, no!” Sam’s voice is right behind me. “It was never like that. It’s just—Ally, please!” He slips around me, eyes pleading as he walks backwards to avoid me bowling him over. “I wanted to fix things, but you wouldn’t talk to me, and the few times we did talk…” He cringes. “You know how that ended, so when I saw an opportunity to be me without you knowing it was actually me, I just…” His face crumbles under the cap that’s slipped back to reveal his familiar features. “I shouldn’t have pretended to be someone else, but I just wanted… I want us to go back or start over or do whatever it takes, as long as there’s an us again, Al. Please, here—” He pulls something out of his jeans pocket and holds it out to me. “This explains it much better.”

  I frown at the folded square of paper. My pride pins my hands to my sides while the pathetic part of me that still misses Sam urges me to take what he’s offering.

  But our charged exchange has drawn attention.

  “It’s Sam Stokes!” some girl yells from the front of the café. That’s all it takes. Suddenly, he’s surrounded by screaming tweens, thirty-something women in exercise gear as well as The Black Bean’s barista staff.

  That’s my cue to slip out the door where Bea is waiting for me.

  Five

  “So, that went well,” Bea says, opening her front door.

  I head straight for her bedroom. What I really want is to go home, bury myself under my pillow and hide. But since there’s a good chance Sam might go back to my place once he’s ditched his mob of fans, Bea’s pillow will have to do. Actually, Bea’s pillow—or rather pillows—will do a much better job anyway, since Bea’s bedroom is as girly and pillow-filled as she is mud-streaked and goal-hungry on the soccer field. My best friend is a beautiful study in contradictions.

  I clutch her “Don’t Annoy My Unicorn” pillow to my chest and collapse onto her bed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. I mean, the whole love of music thing, and Pearl Strickland, and the fact he was out of town until just before the concert. He played me like one of his stupid pop songs. I’m such an idiot!”

  “You’re not an idiot.” Bea sits next to me. “You’ve been looking to fill the void Sam left since the day he boarded a plane for his first big gig, and Jeremy fit the bill.”

  “But Jeremy is Sam!” I say into pink fluff.

  “Right. So what does that tell you?”

  Confused, I search Bea’s face.

  “Ally, in the last three years Jeremy is the only person who’s managed to put excitement back in your voice when you talk about your music.”

  “That’s because he’s Sam!”

  “Exactly!”

  I frown.

  She sighs, like I’m meant to know what the heck she’s talking about. “Isn’t it about time you admitted to yourself that no one will ever replace Sam and let the guy make amends?”

  I scramble backward on my elbows until I’m sitting up. “If he wanted to make amends, he should’ve talked to me, not pretended to be someone else.”

  Bea raises a brow. “When’s the last time you answered one of his calls?”

  I don’t need to say it. Bea knows it was a long time ago.

  “Right. So there’s no way you would’ve let him show you this.” She pulls a piece of paper from under her stack of sports biographies and hands it to me.

  I skim the page. Song lyrics. “When did he give you this?” It couldn’t have been just now. Bea never went anywhere near Sam at the café.

  “Two weeks ago. He wanted me to give it to you on your birthday, but when I saw your reaction to the tickets your nanna gave you, I figured you’d chuck it in the garbage without ever reading it.”

  She was wrong. I would have set it on fire or flushed it down the toilet. All the things I should have done to the blasted tickets instead of selling them online like Bea suggested I—

  �
�Wait a minute!” I pin her with a narrow-eyed glare. “Exactly how did Sam even know about me selling the tickets?”

  She gives me a sheepish look.

  My mouth falls open. “Why?”

  Bea throws her hands in the air. “Because this has gone on long enough, and I’m sick of watching you love-hate him from a distance. The two of you are meant to be friends! You’re like two halves of a freaky Pearl-what’s-her-name loving whole. Don’t you get it? You’ll be lucky to find someone as good a fit as Sam.” She grabs the paper from my hand and shoves it in my face. “And everyone deserves a second chance, Ally.”

  Lips pursed, I snatch the page back from her and take a proper look at the lyrics. By the third line my throat is thick, and the words start to blur.

  And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let Sam back into my life.

  The atmosphere in the Sydney Entertainment Center is electric. The place is packed, completely sold out. All six of his shows this month are. The faces that greet me when I look around range from young to old, both male and female, and everyone is infected by Sam’s endless energy, dancing in their seats, singing along to their favorite songs. Even I find myself moving to the rhythm next to a hopping Bea. I’m surprisingly disappointed along with the crowd when he announces he's about to play his last number.

  “I've got something special for you, Sydney.”

  The crowd goes off at his announcement like New Year’s Eve firecrackers over the Harbor Bridge.

  “This last song is my about-to-be-released single called Missing Me and You,” he says over the roar. He looks in our direction even though I know he can’t see us with the lights down. “It was written for a very special friend…a friend I owe an apology.”

  He plucks the opening bars on his guitar. Immediately, everyone pipes down to listen.

  “You were right there from the start,” he begins. “And we made music that touched hearts…we wrote songs that opened minds…then I said words that were unkind…it was my words that left you behind…words I wish I could rewind…” My throat goes thick like it did when I first read the lyrics, but his voice is a rich, dark dessert of soulful notes, and I can’t help but eat it all up.

  “You see, I’m missing you and me…” The song builds. “I want us back to the way we used to be…I want us to be more than we used to be…together we can be more, oh so much more, than we used to be.”

  By the end of the chorus, the whole band has come in. Drums and bass and big power chords on the electric guitar turn the ballad into a soulful rock song and the crowd into an adoring, teary mess.

  Me included.

  He’s good. I’ve always known his voice was good—it had been three years ago, so it’s no surprise it’s gotten better—but the song itself…it’s complex and melodically thoughtful and just…bloody good!

  I swipe at my eyes, trying not to be too obvious about it, but Bea hands me a Kleenex without so much as looking my way. I shrug and take the tissue. She’s seen through me for the past three years. It’s not like she was going to miss my pathetic blubber fest.

  The song ends, and the auditorium explodes in deafening applause. Sam waves his goodbyes before disappearing side stage.

  Bea turns to me, face flushed, eyes sparkling with challenge. “You ready for this?”

  I fill my lungs with courage. “No,” I say, “but I’m going to do it anyway.”

  We’re in the line of people with backstage meet-and-greet passes when a lanky guy with an earpiece and clipboard approaches. “Beatrice Hughes and Alison Brinski?”

  Bea and I nod.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  We do. Down several narrow passageways until we’re ushered into a room with plush couches and a massive TV playing clips from the concert.

  “Sam will be with you shortly,” clipboard guy says. “Complimentary drinks and a cheese platter are in the fridge.” He points and disappears out the door.

  Bea doesn’t waste time heading for the food. “Might as well eat something. If that line of people out there is anything to go by, we’ll be here for a while.”

  “I’ll just have a bottle of water,” I say.

  An hour later, the door opens again, and I’m thankful I stuck to water. The sight of Sam, after he sang those words earlier, has my stomach churning with raw emotion. The way his T-shirt molds to his broad chest and shoulders isn’t helping my equilibrium either.

  “I’m really sorry you’ve had to wait,” he says, stopping in front of the couch. “I have to do the whole photo thing with every VIP, and some of them get real chatty and…yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, his smile apologetic as much as it’s shaky. “So, the show…what did you think?”

  He’s putting the question to both of us, but it’s me he’s pinning with his eyes, eyes that flicker with uncertainty. He’s nervous! Sam Stokes is nervous about my opinion.

  The silence stretches a little too long, and Bea jumps in. “It was great! Really good vibe out there. Everyone was feeling it, Sam.” When I still don’t say anything, she shakes her head and traipses off in the direction of the fridge.

  He gives her a smile. “Thanks, Bea.” Then he swings his gaze back to me. “And you Al? What did you think?”

  I stand and circle to the back of the couch. “It was…okay.”

  Sam’s eyes never leave me. “Just okay?”

  I shrug. “Maybe a little better than okay.”

  Bea snorts. I throw her a dirty look, but her head is buried in the fridge.

  “Your music has…changed,” I offer.

  He edges around to where I’m standing and reaches for my hand. “Enough for you to come to another one of my concerts?”

  I look up and find a completely different question in his eyes, one that’s more about us and less about his music.

  “You know, I think I might. Although, I’ll need to sit somewhere I don’t have to see any of those stupid ‘Sam Stokes My Fire’ fan posters.”

  His lips fight a smile as he slowly—cautiously—tugs me into a hug. “There are no fans or posters side stage. You can watch the shows from there.”

  Shows. Plural. As in, several, in the future.

  I relax into his embrace, both familiar and new, and tip my head back to search his face. I find what I’m looking for. The same apology he sang about onstage shines a bright gray-green in his eyes.

  “Well, in that case I’ll brave another concert,” I say.

  “Yeah?” Sam leans closer and the end of the word feathers my cheeks.

  “Yeah,” I want to whisper, but I can’t.

  Because my lips are busy learning the taste and shape of Sam Stokes.

  Connect with Kat

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  Unstoppable Love

  Michele Mathews

  One

  The rush of the morning had died down. I finally had time to wipe off the counter from the remnants of donuts, cinnamon rolls, coffee, and other fancy drinks people used to get their caffeine fix.

  The bell hanging over the entrance, and a young man about my age walked through the full glass door.

  “Hello.” I dropped the towel in my hand to a bucket under the counter. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, is the manager around?” He came to stand at the counter in front of me, practically towering over me he was so tall.

  I had no idea why this guy was asking for her, but this weird feeling crept into my body. “Ava’s in the back. I can get her for you.”

  Ava wasn’t old enough to have a child his age. She didn’t have a younger brother either, so that could only mean one thing—she had hired him to work here. I didn’t like the thought of that one bit.

  Why me? Why my last summer at home? Why did I have to work with a member of the opposite sex?

  I turned to head back to the office and almost collided with Ava. “Sorry. Hey, this guy’s asking f
or you.”

  “I heard you mention my name.” Ava turned toward him. “Hi, Jace. I’m so glad to see you.” She shook hands with him.

  “Great to be here. You told me I could start today, but I wasn’t sure what time I was supposed to be here,” Jace said.

  Ava paused. “I guess I didn’t, did I? I’m sorry about that.”

  He gave her an easy smile. “No problem.”

  “It’s probably best you came now anyway. Our rush hour is over. Mornings can get a bit crazy around here. Right, Peyton?”

  “Oh, yes.” My cheeks burned under his gaze.

  Why was this guy making me blush? I couldn’t stand boys, or young men, or whatever you called them at this age. To me, they really didn’t deserve to be called men when they didn’t act mature at all. They were just selfish jerks.

  Ava waved for him to follow, and I watched as they walked together to the back room. The bell ringing at the front door made me jump, and I swiveled to see who came in.

  An older woman approached the counter, and I smiled, trying not to show how bothered I was by the new employee.

  “Hello, what can I get for you today?” I asked.

  “I would like one of those delicious cinnamon rolls, please,” she said.

  “Your total is $2.84.”

  She passed me three dollar bills, and I handed her the change and a small paper bag with her cinnamon roll.

  After she left, I continued wiping off the counter and the few tables we had in the bakery’s dining area. Just as I finished, Sadie came from the back. She was not only the assistant manager, but the older sister of my best friend, Courtney. She’d helped me get this job.

  I jerked my head toward the back room. “What’s up with the new guy?”

  “Ava hired him to help us with baking and doing the dishes. Why?” Sadie opened the cash drawer and grabbed some of the cash and credit card receipts. Neither Ava nor Sadie liked to keep much money in the drawer once the rush was over.