But I take a deep breath and I knock anyway, because if last night taught me anything, it's that inaction is never rewarded. Results are the consequence of being an active participant in life. Because I've never felt more alive than I did last night.
When he answers, he looks tired. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the shorts he's wearing are riding low on his hips. God, he's so beautiful. His mouth spreads into a small smile, but it doesn't look happy like it did only hours ago. "Hi," I whisper.
He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "Hi," he whispers back. I see his lips move more than I hear him. His grip on my fingers is gentle and he's rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. "Nice shirt." With that he does smile slightly. A real smile.
I smile, too. "Yeah, I saw them play live once. They're all right." I wink to let him know I'm teasing and his smile widens. "You want something to eat?" I ask. "I can make you some eggs."
He shakes his head and pulls me into a hug. He's squeezing me so tight. Something is wrong. Because I don't hear well, I've always paid closer attention to the other ways in which people communicate. And this hug? It's full of dread.
"What's wrong?" I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer. My heart is breaking at the possibilities, none of which involve me. I can handle getting hurt; I've done it my whole life. He doesn't need any more.
He turns us until I'm looking at a bag on his bed packed with clothes. I know that bag. It's the bag he had on the tour bus. It's the bag he travels with. The one he takes with him when he's not home.
Not.
Home.
"You're leaving." It wasn't a question. I feel like I'm stating the obvious.
He's still hugging me tight.
"Another tour?" It can't be another tour.
"Going to L.A. for a month to record the new album."
And now my heart's racing in good way. This is what he needs. Their fans need to hear the new Rook songs. "That's great."
He huffs at the excitement in my voice and it verges on amused. "What? You make me your sex slave for a night and now you're ready for me to exit?"
I laugh, because I'm so relieved that he's broken the ice on last night's events. "No, that's not what I was getting at at all. I just mean I'm excited that you're recording your new songs. They shouldn't be confined to this house, to this room. The world needs to hear them." He doesn't look excited like he should. "What's wrong?"
He shrugs. "I'm stoked about the music. I just don't want to leave again." Just then the cat walks through the door meowing. "Besides, who's gonna feed Spare Ribs?"
"You go create magic and I'll feed Spare Ribs."
"Thanks. Which reminds me, I need to go to the store and stock up on her food. She eats morning and night and only a half a can at each feeding. She doesn't know her limits. Put any more than that out and her inner hobo comes out from her time on the street and she gorges and chucks it. And she only likes that stinky ass seafood medley."
I nod. "I know." It is stinky. Every morning and night, when I watch Gus feed her, he pulls the collar of his T-shirt up over his nose before he opens the can. And if he's shirtless, he's screwed—he gags every time.
"Oh, and she gets irate if you don't clean her shit house every day. She'll track you down and berate and belittle you like the servant you are with her bossy-ass, cursing meows."
I'm holding in a smile because he's so serious about this cat. "She rules you, you know." I tease.
He smiles. "Hell yes, she does. She's Napoleonic, like a tiny, little dictator. I love that damn cat."
He truly does.
We spend the afternoon stocking up on cat and human essentials, followed by pizza with Audrey and Paxton. By the time we return home, it's nine o'clock. Audrey and Paxton disappear to their rooms and we're left standing in the living room.
Gus is standing a few feet from me and he's just looking at me. He doesn't look sad anymore, he looks determined. I love his newfound determination. "You look tired," he says.
I am tired. "I'm not tired."
He smiles at the lie and follows it with one of his own. "Me neither." When he gets really tired dark circles form under his eyes. They give him away. He extends his hand toward me—it's an invitation.
I take it and follow him down the hall in the dark. I swear I would follow him anywhere. When we step inside his room, he lets go of my hand and shuts the door behind me. There's no moon out tonight and the room is so dark I can't see him. And it's so quiet, all I can hear is my own breathing.
When his fingertips brush against my wrists my first inclination is to reach out for him but I stand still and wait. They glide lightly up the length of each arm simultaneously, disappear under my sleeves, and then skim back down to my hands. He's standing behind me. I can't feel his body but the heat coming off him is palpable.
"I like you, Scout. I really like you." He laces his fingers through mine. "I don't know what that means, but I feel like I can't leave in the morning without saying it. And I don't want to fall asleep alone. Stay with me?" His voice, everything about his voice, finds its way inside me and once inside, it smolders.
"There's no place I'd rather be than here with you tonight." I mean it. God, do I mean it.