When the Lights Come On (Barflies Book 4)

by Katia Rose

  His face is a mix of confusion and awe that turns to complete shock when I feel the first hot tear spill down my cheek.

  “Paige, why are you crying?”

  A shard of fury cuts through the pain. How the hell can he not understand?

  “Because it was real to me!” I’m shouting now, my voice ragged, but I don’t care. “It wasn’t some game or fantasy. I. Meant. It. I meant all of it, and I don’t really fucking care if it was stupid or if it wouldn’t have worked. I wanted to try, and you told me you did too. Over and over again, you told me you wanted to try. You said you’d fight for us. You said you’d fight for me.”

  I finally give in to a sob, and before I know what’s happening, Youssef has one hand gripping my good shoulder and the other one cupping my cheek.

  “Paige.” His eyes search my face, almost frantic. “Paige, I don’t understand.”

  His thumb brushes one of my tears away, and it finally starts to click.

  Something isn’t right here.

  “Of course it was real to me,” he continues. “Of course I meant it. Every word. That’s why I wrote that letter. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have something you could hold onto even when I was far away. I...I mean...I told you I loved you, Paige, and you told me to have a nice life.”

  It’s like I just got pushed off a cliff.

  “You...what?”

  We stand frozen in a bizarre tableau, not saying anything as we watch each other with the same dizzying disorientation. I’m still crying. I can feel the tears trailing down my cheeks, but the rest of me has gone cold with shock.

  “You did get my letter, right?” he finally says, the question edged with dread.

  “I got a letter,” I answer. “You said...You said it would be best if we just moved on and forgot each other.”

  My mind is already racing ahead of me, echoes of my conversation with Zach coming back to mock me with how obvious it all should have been.

  ‘He typed it! Who the fuck types a letter like that?’

  ‘An asshole?’

  It was typed by an asshole—just not Youssef.

  “Did you write yours by hand?” I ask, the same dread now heavy in my tone.

  “What?”

  “Your letter. Did you write it by hand?”

  “Of course. It would have been weird if I—” He pauses when it clicks.

  “My mom.” My voice has gone flat. “It had to have been my mom.”

  I could tell she was happy when I let her know Youssef was bothering me and that I wanted him to get out of our yard. She’d been trying to stop me from seeing him since we first started hanging out. She called him a distraction, a bad influence, and warned me that he was going to turn out just like all other men did.

  When I read that letter, it was the first time I thought my mom was right about something.

  “Paige...”

  I break away and stumble through the living room until I get to the kitchen island. I grip the edge so hard my knuckles go white as I take a few heaving breaths.

  My mom and I never saw eye to eye on anything, but she was still my mom. She may have made my and Isabella’s childhoods into a hellish mess of auditions, endless music lessons, and missing too much school, but the first time my vocal coach got creepy when I was thirteen, she scared him so bad with threats he closed his whole business.

  I may not have always agreed with her methods. I remember her sitting me down and telling me that industry men would always try to take advantage of me, that they’d always want a girl who was pretty and quiet. She said the only way to get anywhere in life was to beat them at their own game, to be pretty, quiet, and smart enough to know when to get loud.

  I never wanted that. I didn’t want to beat the game; I just wanted out. I never wanted to be anything like her, but still, I thought in her own twisted way, she cared about me.

  “Paige, I’m so sorry.” Youssef is at my side again, his hand hovering near my arm like he’s not sure if he should touch me again.

  I’m really sobbing now. If it weren’t for my arm, I’d be curled up on the floor. My knees are shaking with the effort of holding me up.

  “She just—I can’t believe—” I gulp between gasps for air.

  But I can believe. Now that the realization is settling in, I don’t have any trouble believing at all.

  My mom always gets what she wants in the end.

  “I’m so sorry,” Youssef says again.

  “What—” A sob cuts me off, and I take a shuddering breath before getting myself in control enough to speak. “What are you sorry for?”

  “I should have asked more questions. I should have figured it out. I shouldn’t have just accepted things. I knew you better than that. I should have trusted you. I...” I almost lose it again when I look up and see his eyes are shining too. “I should have just told you in person to begin with. I should have just walked right up to you and said it.”

  I told you I loved you.

  I was too busy reeling from the realization to really let the impact of his admission hit, but now it does.

  He loved me.

  It crashes into me like a roaring wave, and I don’t have time to brace against the force.

  He loved me.

  “Paige!” Youssef snakes an arm around my waist just before my knees really give out. My whole body is shaking now. “Come on. Come here.”

  He guides me to the couch, and I’m too overcome to protest or insist on doing it myself.

  So much of my life spiralled out from the moment I read his letter, like a thread sewn through all of my choices. Now it’s like that thread is being reeled back in, tugging me through all the years and ripping them open.

  Youssef settles me on the couch, paying careful attention to my damaged arm. All his tenderness these past few days has made me so angry and confused. I kept trying to figure out how it could feel so good coming from someone who hurt me so much.

  Now I can take it for what it is, and the quiet kindness of his actions starts me crying all over again.

  I cry for everything: for the lost time, for what could have been and for what was. I cry for him. I cry for me. I cry for all the nights I told myself to be strong, to dry the tears and get tough instead. I cry for the nights when I couldn’t do it.

  I cry for all the what-ifs. I cry for who we are now, and when I’m done, when my throat feels raw and my cheeks are still wet and I’m sure I look like an absolute mess, I look at him beside me on the couch.

  He’s been crying too, not as hard as me, but he’s sat there wiping his own tears while stroking my back as I let out all of mine.

  So much has been wasted, but I’m done now.

  I’m done.

  So I kiss him.

  I don’t question it. I don’t think. I just do it. I lean as far forward as I can with my sling on, and I press my lips to his.

  For a moment, he goes still with shock, and then his hand slips into my hair. His mouth moves against mine. He’s familiar and new all at once, a memory and a prediction.

  He’s everything.

  I lose myself in that kiss as he tilts my head back and parts my lips with his tongue. He tastes like coffee and spice and a hint of something minty. I make a soft sound with his mouth still on mine, and he grips my hair a little tighter. My good hand clutches the bottom of his shirt.

  This kiss is a declaration, a protest, a promise, a challenge.

  I already know I accept.

  Fourteen

  Youssef

  HARMONY: When notes played together create a pleasing effect

  She tastes even better than I remember. The sounds she makes, the way she moves, the feel of her full lips on mine—I’m completely gone. The apartment could be collapsing around us, and I’d still be sitting here on this couch with my hands in her hair.

  Fuck, her hair.

  It’s smooth and soft in my fingers, thick enough to tangle my whole hand in the strands. She’s perfect. Everything about her is so fuck
ing perfect.

  And she wants me.

  She always wanted me.

  This was always as real to her as it was to me.

  After questioning it for so long, I’m flying on the strongest high I’ve ever experienced. It’s better than the rush of playing for a crowd. It’s better than the moment I get a song just right in the studio after working on it all night. It’s better than music itself.

  It is music. She’s music. She’s the best song I’ve ever heard.

  She takes my bottom lip between her teeth, and I lose it.

  “Paige.” My hand slips from her hair and splays across her clavicle, my thumb stroking her throat. “Paige, I...”

  I don’t know what to say. There are no words for this. She looks up at me through hooded, hungry eyes, but her cheeks are still damp from crying.

  Another wave of rage and sorrow hits.

  This should have been ours so much sooner. We shouldn’t have had to go through all this.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so incredible and so angry at the same time.”

  She nods as a shiver passes through her. “Me too.”

  I press my forehead to hers and close my eyes. “But it doesn’t matter.” I’m doing my best to convince us both. “It doesn’t matter. I just care that you’re here. That’s all I care about right now. You’re finally here.”

  Here with me. Here in my arms. Maybe it is true that none of it matters, because as I hold her now, I can’t help thinking this is where she was always going to end up.

  She keeps her head pressed to mine for a few moments, and the two of us just breathe.

  “I wish I could do this whole kissing thing better,” she murmurs after pulling away an inch. “But...” She glances down at her sling between us and chuckles.

  “Oh, shit.” I pull back. “Am I hurting you? Are you still sore? We can—”

  “Youssef.” Her deadpan expression is so familiar I almost laugh. “I’m fine. I’m just limited in my making out abilities.”

  “I would not call what just happened limited.” I lift my hand to brush her hair over her shoulder. “I would call that fucking amazing.”

  “Wait until I get out of the sling.”

  I know it’s just a joke, but a thrill shoots through me even as I laugh. She still wants me around when she’s better. This isn’t a one-time moment.

  “Do you want to...um...”

  I don’t know what to suggest. I’d be happy to just sit here and stare at her for a few hours. Even that feels like it might overwhelm me.

  “Do I want to...?”

  A sly note slips into her tone, and before I can ask her what she’s doing, she’s up off the couch and standing in front of me.

  God, she’s gorgeous.

  Usually I’ve at least got a bit of game, but I can’t do anything except stare at her and stutter when she’s right there looking like that. Her hoodie got unzipped somewhere amidst all the kissing, and it’s slipped over her good shoulder, leaving it bare except for the strap of her sports bra.

  I didn’t even realize she only had a bra under her hoodie until she stood up. Now I can’t take my eyes off the smooth skin of her stomach or the curves of her chest.

  I curse under my breath, and her eyes spark as she bites her lip.

  She was beautiful in high school. Now she’s a fucking goddess.

  I groan when she straddles my thighs and sits on my lap. I’m already hard, and I’m not sure if it feels better or worse when she brings her hips in even closer.

  All I know is I want more.

  “God, Paige.” I frame her face with both my hands. “You’re going to kill me.”

  She stares into my eyes, and though they’re blazing with desire, they’re filled with so much more. I see a million questions there. I see all the answers I’ve been looking for. I see the girl I knew and the one I desperately want to know now.

  I trace her lips with my thumb, and her eyelids drop. Her sigh is hot against my skin. I move to kiss her again, but then I notice she’s shaking.

  “Hey.” I brush the back of my hand over her cheek. “Hey, hey, hey.”

  She keeps her eyes closed. “Sorry. I know this isn’t exactly hot. I just...I just...”

  “It’s okay. Hey. It’s okay. I feel the same.” I swallow as the corners of my eyes start to prick with heat again. “It’s, uh, a lot.”

  She gives a weak chuckle. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

  “What do you need?”

  She bends so that our foreheads are touching again. “Could you maybe just hold me for a bit?”

  “Of course. There’s nothing I want more.”

  An hour later, Paige and I are lying next to each other on my bed. She’s propped up on pillows, her sling carefully arranged across her chest, and I’m on my side next to her, one of my hands playing with her hair.

  “Oh my god, you’re obsessed with my hair.”

  She tries to swat me away, but I go right back to twisting a strand around my fingers.

  “I can’t stop myself. It’s great hair.”

  I held her on my couch for a while before she said it might be better for her arm if we moved. We’ve kissed some more, and she keeps looking at me like she’s as desperate as I am, but we both realize this is one of those moments when it’s best to take it slow. Dislocated shoulder aside, I still don’t want to rush things. I want time to remember this.

  That doesn’t mean I can stop myself from trailing my hand down her side and making her shiver. Her hoodie is still unzipped, and I trace along the edge of her bra until I get to her tattoo.

  Chân lý is spelt out in swooping black script on her skin.

  “Chanly.” She stiffens for a second as I loop my fingertip over the accented letters, but she doesn’t jerk away or tell me to stop. “It’s Vietnamese, right?”

  “Yeah. Chân lý,” she repeats with the proper pronunciation.

  I let the silence settle. I’m not going to push her if she doesn’t want to tell me more.

  “It’s one of the ways to say truth,” she murmurs. “Or light of truth, in some situations.”

  You found your truth in the dark

  So what are you going to do when the lights come on?

  The words of her song come back to me now, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise just like they did the first time I heard them. I haven’t asked her about it, but somehow, the second the first verse started, I knew. It was her voice, and it shook me to the core like an earthquake rattling the room.

  “I knew I didn’t want to put music out as Paige Rivera.” The contempt in her voice when she says her own name makes me ache. “I was Paige Rivera in all those stupid auditions and on every demo she made us do. My dad was the one who picked Paige for me, actually, but I just...I never wanted to be called into some producer or label owner’s office as Paige Rivera again. I wanted this music to be different...to be mine, I guess.”

  I start tracing the swirls of ink again. “Your truth.”

  “Something like that.” Her rib cage rises and falls beside me. “Up until I started making electronic stuff, my music was always about what other people wanted it to be about. My whole life was kind of like that.”

  You found your truth in the dark.

  “And then...”

  She trails off and stays quiet for so long I move myself farther up on my pillow so I can look at her. “Yeah?”

  She’s staring at the ceiling, but she glances my way, and a sad smile lifts the corners of her mouth.

  “Then you happened.”

  My breath stops.

  “You happened, and it was like I found this...I don’t know, spark in me. That sounds fucking stupid, but it’s true. Before you, there were all these things I couldn’t put a name to, and then it all made sense. I started dreaming. I started caring. I wanted to make things for myself, and then we started messing around on that cheap-ass DJ controller you bought, and I just...I fell in love with it.”

  Tha
t’s about the same time I realized I was falling in love with her.

  “When you left, I...It took me a while to find that again. It took me a while to realize it was still there without you, that it was mine and not just ours.” She shudders, but it’s not the good type this time. “I wish I’d found out a different way.”

  I move my hand to lay it flat on her chest, just over her heart. “Paige?”

  She shakes her head and forces a laugh. “Here we are, both musicians just like we dreamed, both living in Montreal just like we wanted, and all we’ve got to say about the past six years is depressing shit from high school. How about you give me something good?”

  I walk two of my fingertips along her collarbone while I think of what to say, and I feel a rush of satisfaction when she shivers.

  “Um, so...” Her skin is so distracting it’s hard to speak. “Good things. Good things. Uh...”

  Plenty of good things come to mind, but they’re mostly about what I could do to her in this bed. I force myself to come up with a topic that isn’t sexy.

  “Uh, so you remember my friend Nabil?”

  She laughs. “Not what I was expecting, but yeah, I do. He’s the guy from noodle night, right?”

  I laugh too. “Noodle night?”

  “What?” She shifts her position. “We got noodles. It was night.”

  I can tell it’s more than that. She has a name for the day I came back into her life, and my chest swells at the thought that I really do mean as much to her as she means to me.

  I went so long thinking that couldn’t be true.

  She’s still Paige, though, and I know she’ll give me the finger and tell me to fuck off if I make a big deal out of it, so I just smile to myself and continue.

  “Well, meeting Nabil was a really good thing for me. He’s my best friend. I worked part-time as a rigger at The Cube Room through most of university. Nabil was an assistant stage manager when I started. He was the only brown dude, so I guess me being a kind of brown dude brought us together. He actually thought I was raised Muslim too for like, the first year of our friendship.”

  I chuckle at the memory. My family is pretty secular, but my dad grew up as part of Egypt’s biggest Christian minority, the Coptic Orthodox Church. With a name like Youssef Salah, though, most people just assume I was raised Muslim.