Page 7 of Licks

The big guy shook his head, looking equally as surprised to see me. “Too long. Way too long. Last I heard, you and your guitar were winning over Europe.”

I ran my left thumb over my callused fingers. “Not sure about the winning part, but it pays the bills.”

“Modesty doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen YouTube videos. There were screaming girls.”

I shrugged off the comment, never comfortable with praise. I may not have hit it big in the U.S., but my European audience had grown steadily, my singer-songwriter style hitting the mark with them. Downloads had recently shot through the roof, my fan base building, tours getting longer. And lonelier. Not that I could complain. Most musicians would trade their spleens to make a living doing what they loved.

“What about you?” I asked, happy to deflect. Last thing I needed was him asking why I was in town. “Thought you were living in D.C.”

I glanced at the tattooed guy beside him and offered a nod.

Owen dragged a hand through his sandy hair, mopping up sweat along the way. “I was, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Been living here over a year now. Traded in my finance job for a woodworking business.”

“Dude, are you trying to be an asshole?” The tattooed guy drew my attention, his grin a contrast to his snarky comment.

I took in his rough exterior, catching a glimpse of familiarity under his dark scruff and shaggy hair. I squinted and leaned closer and…no fucking way. “Jimmy?”

He motioned to his yellow jersey. “Is the color throwing you off?”

I snorted. It may have been twelve years, and we may have worn red when the three of us had played soccer together, but the change in jersey wasn’t what had thrown me off. Teenage Jimmy had been a clean-cut pretty boy, not a tatted up, scruffy man. “You did something different with your hair, I think.”

He barked out a laugh. “Nailed it. My girlfriend likes applying conditioning treatments.”

We shook hands and pounded backs while I digested this biker version of Jimmy Giannopoulos. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if I’d kept in touch with the guys, but who had the time? Owen and Jimmy were a couple years older than me, had gone to different high schools, but we’d played in the regional league together. We’d been close. Staying connected into adulthood was still tough.

The only social media I suffered through was to promote my music, never wasting hours scrolling through Facebook or Snapchat or Twitter. The meager news I’d hear about old friends came through accidental run-ins, the odd person attending my shows.

Owen massaged his shoulder. “If you’re in town awhile, we should go for a beer.”

This visit would be as short as possible, unless I decided to learn how to knit or speak Japanese before facing Gwen. “I’d love to catch up, but I have some things to take care of, then it’s back on the road.”

At least I sounded confident about getting shit done.

Arriving here around the anniversary of Gwen’s epic betrayal wasn’t helping matters. The event may have been part of the reason I’d quit school and had become a musician, something I could thank her and Finch for, but the betrayal had festered a long time. I’d managed to block Gwen from my life the past nine years, but missing her mother’s recent funeral had felt wrong. I’d also found myself remembering our good times lately, more than rehashing that one awful night. Barely being civil with my brother was a whole other wreck, everything easier to ignore when across the globe.

The sooner I saw Gwen, the sooner I could put her—and all of it—behind me.

Instead I was winning my procrastination-athon.

“If you change your mind,” Owen said, “let me know. This guy”—he elbowed Jimmy—“lives in Napa now, but he’s around plenty. We can coordinate soccer next time. Sign up for the same pick-up game.”

“You running the winery now?” I asked Jimmy.

He nodded. “My brother and I took it over. We’re doing some rebranding, and I’m organizing Napa festivals on the side. Actually…” He bobbed his head as though having an internal conversation. “Any chance you’d play at a function? It would be great exposure for the festivals.”

Committing to anything in San Francisco made me itch, but I offered a vague, “Sure, we’ll work on it.”

We all traded numbers as Owen’s brother, Emmett, joined us with his boyfriend—a pompadour-styled guy with more ink than Jimmy. A few short minutes of reminiscing settled me, but it was a reminder my life now was full of transient people, acquaintances. Not friends who remembered how I drank myself sick on tequila and had puked on Samantha Walsh. No one in Europe had a clue I’d streaked through Delores Park. These guys did. Built-in history. Easy banter.

Owen smiled at someone over my shoulder, then headed toward his gear. I turned to check out the recipient of that affectionate look, and my internal organs slammed on their brakes.

Gwen.

The two girls beside her were watching the guys leave, but Gwen’s eyes were locked on me, and my pulse rocketed, like I’d already played my soccer game, had run a marathon, had summited Everest, my oxygen thinning at a rapid rate. I wanted to drop to my knees and apologize for what I’d done. I also wanted to tell her her actions had devastated me, but if she’d listened to my first angst-ridden album, she’d be well acquainted with my resentment.

That didn’t keep me from soaking her in.

Even from my distance, I could tell her arms were defined in her slim tank top, suggesting she worked out a lot. She’d always been athletic, but this was a body honed through years of exercise, work. Her hair skimmed her shoulders, shorter than I’d ever seen it, her face a bit more angular. She still exuded casual style. Effortless. Unpretentious. Drop-dead beautiful.