Reckless Abandon (November Blue, #2)(41)

“Listen. I need to tell you something.” Just say it. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” I take a deep breath, swallow a

three-ton boulder, and continue, “I just, um, it was a lot all at once. You, me, the music, the perfection of it all. I felt like

someone shot me from a catapult, and I was flying through the air with flailing arms and legs.”

“Were you looking for an out?” Bo doesn’t remove his eyes from the road. His jaw punches the skin on his cheek.

“What?”

“Were you looking for an out? Did what happened at McCarthy’s give you the excuse to run from our intensity that you were looking

for?”

I stare at Bo, waiting for him to exhale, to tell me he was kidding, that he understands why I ran. Do you understand why you ran?

He doesn’t say a word. We pull into the parking lot of the concert hall with the heavy, unanswered question leaving me to wonder

if my fight-or-flight mechanism is faulty. Bo puts the car in park and gets out without a word, slamming the door behind him. When

I walk up to the group, it seems Bo’s face has spoken for both of us. No one says anything, except Monica; but she at least waits

until she can pull me aside.

“What the hell happened in the car?” She whispers with all the concern she’s been lacking over the past few weeks.

“I was honest. I told him I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me; that everything with us moved really fast. He asked if I used Bill

and Tristan as an excuse to bail.” I hand my ticket to the person at the gate.

“Christ, what’d you tell him?”

“I didn’t answer.”

Monica stops in her tracks, shakes her head, and links arms with Josh. As promised, when we reach our seats, Bo and I take the last

two. I opt for the very end, so I don’t have to deal with people I know on both sides of me.



*



Coldplay has me completely hypnotized. My eyes haven’t moved from the stage throughout the entire concert. My mind, body, and soul

are more than thankful for the musical reprieve, prompting a momentary cease-fire between them. I peek at my cell phone and realize

they probably only have two songs left in their set, when they start playing “Trouble.”

I listened to this song on repeat, all girl-like, for a week after Bo and I broke up. I don’t know if I pretended it was for me or

him; either way, the notes lean me back in my seat and sink my shoulders. I cast my gaze to the floor as the opening line suggests

I may have “lost my head.” Or was it Bo who lost his? Bo shifts in his seat and his arm presses into my shoulder; he doesn’t

move it. Biting my lip, I glance up at him, only to find him staring at me with a furrowed brow.

“Come with me.” He nods his head and crosses in front of me, exiting to the aisle.

Rae is sitting in the seat next to his and shrugs before mouthinggo. I oblige. When I get into the mezzanine, Bo is a good distance

ahead of me.

“Hey wait up!” I shout, slowing his pace. “What the hell?” I ask as I shoulder up next to him.

“I want to show you something. I know you’re slammed with more meetings tomorrow and we won’t have time . . .”

“You’re taking me out of a Coldplay concert to show me something?” I stop and put my hands on my hips.

“Stop standing there and follow me.” He rakes his hand through his hair, as he always does when he’s nervous, and opens the door

for me.

Silence mocks us on the walk to the car and on the drive to wherever we’re going, despite the dings of incoming text messages

sounding through both of our phones. Within a few minutes, we’re parked in front of the DROP community center, still under

construction for the studio they’re putting in.

“I want you to be the first to see the studio. It’ll be finished tomorrow.” While he should be smiling, he’s not. He exits the

car and waits for me at the center’s door.

Bo unlocks the door and flicks on the lights. My eyes widen in praise as I take in my surroundings.

“Oh my God, Bo, this is gorgeous!” My loud whisper bounces off the walls, and all the tension I’ve been holding onto melts into

a smile.

The center has undergone a major upgrade in the wake of putting in the studio. It’s modern: computers line one wall, large work

tables are pressed up against another, and plenty of tables and couches are scattered around for reading and hanging out. I look

back at Bo, who has clearly let go of his tension as well. His face is proud, as it should be.

“You like it?” He holds out his hands, showcasing his dream. I’ve missed the playful smile dancing across his face.

“Are you shitting me? This is amazing!” I head toward the studio addition, and he follows.

“Watch your step here—they’ve got to fix them tomorrow.” Bo holds out his hand and leads me down the narrow stairs.

I can feel his eyes measure each careful step I take without looking up. If I look at him in this studio, his studio, his dream...I

don’t think my heart could take it. I spot a gorgeous piano in the corner of the room with what looks to be a Shure Series chrome