Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (46 page)

“You guessed it,” Caine responds, bubbly voice feeling like shards of glass against my skin.

God, this is about to be the longest, most painful few minutes of my life.

Two of Caine’s interns hand us guitars. I strum my fingers over the chords, getting used to the feel. Instead of being nervous, my mind is fixated on what the other song choice might have been. I get a profound feeling in my gut that I might be crushed if I see it.

But I want to know. No, I
need
to know.

With my free hand, I reach out and flip over the card sitting in front of Dylan.

Baby Says
by The Kills

My mind flashes to Paris. I remember wearing his shirt. I recall our conversation on his terrace. I told him it was favorite song by The Kills. I told him I love that song because it made me feel like the lyrics were saying,
“I know I’ve made a mess of things, but I’m going to make something positive out of this.”

I sang my favorite lyrics from that song and he smiled. He smiled and flashed those lively eyes of his.
Bright Eyes
. The look I’ve come to know as mine. And in that moment, while we were sitting on his terrace, smiling and laughing, I started to fall in love with him. Or maybe I was already in love with him by that point.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He knows what that song means to me, to us. And he didn’t choose that song. He chose a different song.

I’m on auto-pilot—too numb to really be present.

“You ready, Brooke?” Dylan asks.

I nod.

He stares at me, green eyes dim. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he offers once last fleeting glance, and then focuses on the guitar in his lap.

Dylan leads, playing the opening chords, and I follow suit. His voice starts out soft, building as he finishes the first verse. When he reaches the chorus, I join him, my sound harmonizing with his.

Our eyes lock. I search his gaze.
Sorrow. Regret.

The sharp edge of awareness slices open my chest.

He’s giving up on me.

That’s why he chose this song. That’s why he’s singing these words and holding my gaze. That’s why his face looks torn, his eyes look sad. And that’s why this moment feels like goodbye.

My voice wobbles as we sing the chorus again.

Tears flood the back of my eyes, and I have to avert my gaze from his to hold back a sob. My vision is blurred as I stare at my fingers moving across the chords of the borrowed guitar.

While Dylan’s voice fills my ears, whispering the words I never wanted to hear, my heart falls out of my chest. It breaks. Shatters. Then it’s gone.

And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for losing him.

“Careless Cockups have Platinum potential”

TheInfluence.com

Careless Cockups debuted
Blur
on “Caine In The Morning” last week, and the reception to this song has been nothing short of open arms and enthusiastic appreciation.

Since the song first hit airwaves, it found instant success across the nation. Radio stations everywhere are receiving listener requests to play
Blur
.

We asked Caine Matthews for his take on the English rock band, and without hesitation, he responded, “Careless Cockups have platinum potential. This is just the beginning for these guys. I have a feeling ten, fifteen, even twenty years down the road, they’ll still be gracing our speakers.”

That’s a huge compliment coming from the notorious radio host whose known for being short on praise and harsh in his opinions.

And he’s not the only one with good things to say about this band. It seems the majority of the music world is welcoming them with opened arms.

We can imagine Alistair Wallace is feeling pretty proud of himself. He said from the very start that Careless Cockups is the next big band in rock.

They will spend the duration of December, January, and February hitting a few stops in Europe. And they plan to celebrate the release of their debut album on February 1
st
in their hometown, London, England.

Rumors are also swirling that the Cockups will make an appearance at this year’s MTV’s EMAs.

Brooke

I flew back to LA a day early. I was supposed to stay in Seattle another night and sit for a few promotional interviews with the band at the Four Seasons, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The radio interview was too painful. My heart was too broken. And I knew if I had to sit in a room with Dylan for several hours, fielding questions about our relationship, I’d lose it.

The second we finished
Say Something
, Caine brought the rest of the band in and debuted
Blur
. While the band sat in the studio for another fifteen minutes, hearing fans call in and expressing their love for the song, I slipped out of the studio doors and headed straight for the hotel.

Dean started to follow me out, but I came up with some crazy (and awkward) lie about having to change my tampon. I’ve never seen a man turn for the other direction quicker. Disgusting excuse, but genius tactic, if you ask me.

Luckily, Jamie had already flown back to LA earlier that morning. It was definitely for the best. I wasn’t in the mood for company, and there was no way I could have put on a happy face and pretended everything was okay.

I packed my shit and hopped on the first flight home. I snagged a first class seat, hidden away from everyone, and spent the short plane ride drowning my sorrows in cheap wine.

I haven’t seen or heard from Dylan since leaving Seattle. We haven’t called, spoken, or texted. Nothing. All forms of communication are empty.

I’m finding that Dylan had become my reason for waking up with a smile on my face. While I was on tour with the band, he was my something to look forward to. But now, he’s gone, and he’s taken my happiness with him.

The holidays have come and gone. They were mostly a haze of faking smiles and pretending to be okay.

Jamie and I spent the majority of Christmas with Ember and Teddy. He had a blast opening presents from Santa and doing our pancake tradition downtown. Those are two of the rare moments I did enjoy, where I actually felt a sliver of happiness.

The majority of my days and nights are spent in this purgatory of heartbreak.

Heartbreak. God, it’s the worst.

I understand it now. Hell, I’m on a first name basis with it. If you’ve never experienced it, let me give you some insight into what it means to me.

Heartbreak is lying on my bathroom floor, trying my hardest to breathe while wondering where it all went wrong; and how in the hell am I going to get up and pretend like everything is all right? And what about this hole in my chest? How am I going to hide it?

Yeah, that’s heartbreak.

And it’s turned me into a pathetic mess. I have made it a morning ritual to check Dylan’s Instagram and Google search his name. Okay, who am I kidding? It’s become a several times a day ritual.

I’m grasping at straws for some tiny shred of him.

It’s bittersweet seeing the pictures he’s posting on his Instagram account. I may have started it as a form of payback, but my motives had nothing to do with revenge. I know how much he loves photography, and ever since he signed with Wallace & Wright, his midnight photo sessions had become nonexistent. And I had hoped Instagram would be one way for him to channel his second love.

Through his photos, I’ve followed the band through Europe. He’s posted images of interesting architecture, late-night drinks with the guys, and amazing views of the audiences at their shows. But all of those photos are missing one important thing—him. He’s never in any of them, and its equal parts torture and relief.

I can’t stop my mind from wondering if he’s as miserable I am. Or what he’s doing? Who he’s with?
Who
is he
doing
? Just the idea of that question brings up images of Chrissy and him on the dance floor.

And my brain always takes that scenario, twisting it into something else.
Him kissing her, touching her, his hands moving along her curves while she moans his name…

I’m a stupid, stupid woman who used to think time was the only thing someone needed to get over a broken heart.

Boy, was I wrong.

Time won’t heal this. Time will only serve as a reminder of what I’m missing. It will make me remember all of the seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years that pass by without
him
by my side. Time has become my nemesis.

After Dylan gave up on me, I understand true heartbreak. I know what it feels like, sounds like, tastes like, and the unbearable pain that accompanies its hearty appetite for misery.

And no matter how hard I try to put myself back together, there is still this ache.

Always this ache, right underneath my lungs in the pit of my stomach. The ache of knowing what the empty future holds. No more signature smirks. No more green gazes. No more odd compliments. No more late night chats. No more silly texts. No more teasing smiles. No more acoustic jam sessions. No more Bright Eyes.

No words have been said since Dylan asked me if I was ready, right before we sang
Say Something
on air. But we didn’t need words in that moment. Without any words and only the lyrics guiding us, his soul touched mine and told me everything he needed to say but couldn’t.

He gave up on waiting. He gave up on me. And I only have myself to blame.

Before meeting Dylan, the secrets, the lies, they were manageable, even though they had become a monster under my bed. When he stepped into my life, those secrets started slowly eating away at me. I could have ended my silent misery. If I had told him, there wouldn't have be any more lies, at least with him.

But those secrets, the sole reasons why Jamie and I are faking a relationship, are not mine to tell. And now, those secrets are the only reason I’m in this much pain.

Sitting in the kitchen, I down a bowl of cereal, while reading through a few work emails. My phone rings, Ember’s face lighting up my screen.

“Hey, where are you?” she asks.

“Home. Where are you?”

“You’re at home?” Her voice sounds irritated. “I was just there an hour ago. Did you go somewhere?”

“No, I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Seriously? I knocked on the door like a thousand times. Why didn’t you answer?”

“I guess I didn’t hear it.”

“Brooke, what in the hell is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Her voice booms from the speaker. “Don’t bullshit me. You haven’t been yourself since you finished the tour. Seriously, are you okay?”

“If you stop asking me if I’m okay, I’ll be okay.”

“Well, maybe if you’d stop acting like a fucking zombie, I wouldn’t be so worried.” She sounds genuinely concerned.

I wish I could muster the strength to feel bad for making her upset.

“What were you doing here anyway?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Because I forgot to give you a package that came while you were gone. I left it on the porch.”

I get up from my chair, walking towards the front door. “Oh. Well, thanks for dropping it off.”

“No problem.” I hear shuffling in the background, and then an engine turning on.

“What are you doing?” I ask, hand gripping the doorknob.

“Just leaving Costco and getting ready to pick Teddy up from school. Hey, before I let you go, are we still on for wedding dress shopping this weekend?”

My head hits the front door with quiet thud.
Ugh.
That’s the last fucking thing I feel like doing. “Sure,” I force a cheery tone. “Sounds great.”

“Fantastic. I’ll call you later.”

Opening the door, I pick up the brown package and make my way back to the kitchen. The return address is Florence, Italy. That’s odd. I don’t know anyone from Italy. My fingers make quick work of the tape and grip something that feels like books, sliding it out.

I drop both of them the second I spot the covers. They hit the floor with a loud thump, forcing a small white envelope to slip out onto the hardwood floor.

Memories of Suffocation.

I gasp, my hand covering my mouth in shock. Only one person could be responsible for this.