But who I see isn’t quite the Austin I know. He’s tensed. He’s at the foot of the stage pointing here, pointing there, giving a few instructions with surprising authority. And people listen, obeying at once. Carrying this thing here. Putting this thing there. Camera at this angle. Camera above. Play the bass again. Something’s up in the left speaker, run it again.
It’s actually incredible, seeing him in his element like this.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched him work. Only play. In hotel rooms with me. Backstage when we steal a minute or two of secret time, hiding from people. Here in Spruce, chilling out.
This person I’m watching, this is Chase Holt.
Andit’s Austin.
I’m amazed.
And I feel so incredibly small.
And terrible.
Guilty.
I don’t know how, but I end up back in the house in the walk-in pantry and decide quite suddenly to shut the door, blocking out the noise.
The peace I feel is instant. The world is gone. So is the chaos.
I think I can’t quite process that all of this is happening.
And it’s happening because of me.
Austin wants to take all of the responsibility, but shouldn’t I have been more careful at the Houston show? If I’d been smarter and more considerate, I would have understood the risks of taking a celebrity like Chase Holt out to dinner in public. I wouldn’t have been so selfish and instead taken into serious consideration how this might affecthim. I played with fire like a fool and set both our lives aflame like a greedy child.
I’ve been selfish.
I wanted too much.
The pantry door swings open. My mom appears. “Tell me you arenothiding in here stuffing your cute face with my secret stash of jumbo marshmallows.”
“You have a secret stash?” I ask tiredly, lifting my head.
I guess I’m sitting on the floor hugging my knees to my chest. Don’t know when that happened. But my mom seems to get a hint, closes the door behind her, and sits on the floor right next to me.
“Okay,” she decides after a moment, settling herself onto the floor next to me. “Yeah. Definitely nicer in here.”
“Everything’s so loud,” I moan.
“I know, sweetheart.”
We sit like that for a while. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even stare me down or prod me with a hundred questions.
It’s actually kinda worse.
Because now I’ve gotta say something. “I messed everything up,” I let out miserably.
She frowns at me and tilts her head, as if wondering where a thought like that can even come from. “How could you think that, sweetheart?”
“How else?” I ask through a humorless laugh. “I was reckless and acted a fool, taking him out to … to restaurants, out in public, as if we’re just two normal people. We’renotnormal people.”
“Sure you are. Everyone is. Even the Pope.”
I drag a hand over my face. “I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve known better, Mom. I didn’t think about what this could do to him. Or to all of the people in his life—his bandmates, or his hundreds of managers and PR people. Or … you and Dad.”
She lets out a gentle exhale, shakes her head, then touches my leg. “That young man out there? You didn’t drag him into this. He walked straight into it.”