Page 42 of The Beat Match

He took another sip of wine, grimaced again, then swallowed. “I’ll be fine. I just needed a break. Time to myself. A little peace.”

And he’d sought that here. At her apartment. The same way sitting quietly in his recording studio made her content. It didn’t matter Wes ignored her when he worked. She learned by watching, felt part of his creative energy even as she’d get sidetracked studying his profile. He scratched his nose when he was stumped. He bounced his left heel when he was excited, on the cusp of a great mix. She loved reading his body language and being around him.

But she disliked the odd moments she’d catch him staring at her while she scribbled in her notebook, a look of longing on his face. That forlorn look confused her. She despised her jealousy when he had his Rosanna dates.

She really, really hated seeing him distraught now.

“If a break is what you need, I have a suggestion.”

“I’m not letting you dye my hair pink.”

“As fun as that Halloween was, I have something more therapeutic in mind.” She held up a magazine and flapped it in the air. “We’re going to scrapbook.”

“I don’t scrapbook, Squ…” He grunted. “You know I don’t get along with glue and sparkles.”

“You also used to hate pets and now you’re a proud owner of the world’s most terrifying rabbit-squirrel. It’s never too late to change!”

He found a spare inch on her coffee table and deposited his wineglass. “I thought you needed me to set-up your DJ equipment. And when did you get a piano?”

She could have set up her gear herself, but asking Wes for help had been a moment of weakness. In his condo, she’d promised to give him space, not interrupt his music sessions with chatter or add to his stress. She’d been good at keeping quiet, but she missed his teasing. Her quips. Their fun banter. She missed when he called her Squirrel.

She’d hoped having him in her apartment would return the fun to their friendship, even if friends were all they’d ever be. Wes clearly needed fun.

“The equipment can wait,” she said. “Scrapbooking wins every time.” It always helped her decompress. “If you order dinner, I’ll get you a fresh book of your own. There are menus on the coffee table, under the basket of pens. Order whatever you want, except that spicy Indian food or the Greek fish that smells up my place.”

Without waiting for him to rant or complain, she hopped off the couch and hurried into her room. She reached for the stack of empty albums on her closet shelf, pushed up to her tiptoes and nudged the top one closer. A bang and crash had her freezing, but she hadn’t caused the noise. A curse came from her living room.

Then she heard, “What the fuck?”

Mildly concerned, she nudged the album down and inched toward her bedroom door.

Where she screamed.

Wes was kneeling on the floor, pens scattered everywhere, bent over the last thing she wanted him to find. She debated running for cover. Pulling the hall fire alarm? He stayed bent over her secret Weston Aldrich scrapbook, mercilessly flipping the pages. He had never looked so livid.

When he reached the worst page, she covered her face.

“I can still see you, Squirrel. You better start explaining what the hell this is.”

The page in question had been crafted the day she’d gotten her driver’s license. Weston had given her a car. She should never have accepted the top-safety-rated Volkswagen Golf. The gift had been another example of his need to control Annie and feel like he was doing “good” in the world. Eighteen-year-olds, however, were pleasure seekers.

She had snatched the keys after hugging the stuffing out of him, and had announced she was going for a drive on her own, to explore her newfound freedom. Wes had asked her to check in when she got home. A simple request. He hadn’t accounted for Annie having way too much fun driving five hours to the Ausable Chasm Bridge, music blasting as she’d sung along. She hadn’t been able to resist staying for sunset photos. She’d chosen to sleep in her fancy new car instead of driving home past dark. Her phone’s dead battery had made a call to Wes impossible.

Upon her return, a furious Weston had stolen her car keys and rescinded his gift. She’d then created a collage by stuffing cutout dog poop into his two-dimensional mouth. Artistic expression that had made her feel vindicated.

The book had been safely hidden under her couch for years. He was never supposed to see it. She hadn’t accounted for spilled pens and Wes crawling around on her floor.

“That’s private,” she said. “You don’t have permission to look through it.”

“You don’t have permission to defile my pictures.”

“I don’t need your permission, Weston.”

“I think you do, Anthea.”

He’d called her Squirrel a moment ago, Anthea now. Names she should still hate, but she found her horror subsiding. “I do not need your permission, and I’m actually glad you found the album. It’s the perfect example of why you’re going to start your first scrapbook.”

“It’s the perfect example of why we’re never going to speak again.” He flipped several pages, found one of him with a rabbit attached to his front in a Baby Bjorn sling. An almost-smile threatened to crack his fury.