I'm Not in the Band

by Amber Garza

  “He has,” I respond.

  “Then you know who has the musical talent in this family.” Ross waggles his eyebrows.

  I feel like I’m treading in dangerous waters. It’s clear they’re both sarcastic and like to tease each other. But Archer’s seemed off since his brother walked in tonight. Swallowing hard, I force a smile and catch Archer’s eye. “I thought he was pretty good.”

  Archer’s lips lift slightly, and my insides heat up.

  Ross laughs. “And here I thought she had good taste in music.”

  “She’s not a fan of the Playlisters, so she has that going for her,” Archer answers proudly.

  “Wait,” Ross says. “I thought you met at my concert.”

  “I was there with my sister,” I explain. “She’s a huge fan.” Thinking of Sophie, I giggle. “If she knew you were here, she’d be breaking into your house right about now.”

  Ross shakes his head. “Maybe don’t tell her, then.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Archer stands, resting his hand on my shoulder. I freeze, my mouth drying out. “Want me to walk you out?”

  It’s like a slap in the face. I guess I’ve worn out my welcome. Even Ross appears shocked, as squiggly lines paint his forehead.

  “Okay,” I respond as cheerily as possible. “It was nice to meet you, Ross.”

  “I’ll let you know about those tickets,” he says.

  “Cool. Thanks.” I’m glad he remembered. I want the tickets, but I didn’t want to remind him.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Archer says when we reach his front door.

  I nod, grateful he’s not going to simply shove me outside.

  The air is crisp as it flutters over my skin, but Archer’s proximity warms me up. Our arms brush as we walk forward, and I shiver. I want to ask him about his change in behavior, but decide against it. We hardly know each other.

  When we reach my car, I stop walking and pivot until our eyes meet. “Thanks for having me over.”

  “I’m glad you came.” I search for hidden meaning in his words, then realize I’m being silly. Archer’s more relaxed out here, but our earlier connection has vanished.

  “Me, too,” I answer politely, trying to figure out what went wrong.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Archer

  @themacattack Partying it up. #TGIF #watchoutladies #ontheprowl #therealmacdaddy

  Archer Devlin—with Kassidy Milton

  Movie marathon!

  John Cruise Am I reading this right? You actually hung out with someone other than Mac on a Friday night? Does Mac know about this?

  Brody “Mac” MacMillan Of course I know about it. I was there.

  John Cruise Not according to this post.

  Brody “Mac” MacMillan That’s just ’cause I didn’t want to be tagged.

  John Cruise If it’s not on Facebook then it didn’t happen, man. Everyone knows that.

  Archer Devlin John’s right, Mac.

  Brody “Mac” MacMillan You know I was there, Archer.

  John Cruise Sounds like someone’s a little worried they’re being replaced.

  Brody “Mac” MacMillan Trust me, no one can replace me.

  Kassidy Milton Thanks again. I had a great time.

  Archer Devlin Me, too.

  …

  Ella: So you were hanging with the new girl.

  Me: Kassidy.

  Ella: Right. Kassidy. Why didn’t you just tell me?

  Me: It was last minute.

  …

  Mac: How did it go with Kassidy after I left ?

  Me: Okay.

  Mac: Just okay?

  Me: Ross showed up.

  Mac: Thought he was on tour.

  Me: He has a weekend off.

  Mac: And you didn’t know?

  Me: No.

  Mac: Did he catch you two in a compromising position?

  Me: No.

  Mac: Then what’s the problem?

  Me: I think she likes him.

  Mac: The way Tiffany does?

  Me: I don’t know. Maybe.

  Mac: I thought she wasn’t a fan.

  Me: Me, too.

  Mac: Was she flirting with him?

  Me: Not really.

  Mac: Then what happened?

  Me: They like the same bands.

  Mac: Oh no! Better buy a tux for the wedding.

  Me: Don’t be a dick.

  Mac: Don’t be an idiot. That girl likes you.

  Me: I don’t know.

  Mac: I do.

  Me: Whatever. How was the party?

  Mac: It was okay. Ella was all over me about where you were.

  Me: Figured. She texted me earlier.

  Mac: You swear you don’t like her?

  Me: Ella?

  Mac: Yeah.

  Me: No.

  Mac: She’s hot, man.

  Me: She’s not Kassidy.

  Mac: You really like this girl, huh?

  Me: Yeah, I do.

  Mac: Why?

  Me: Why not?

  Mac: Kassidy’s cute, but she’s no Ella Marsh.

  Me: She’s way hotter than Ella.

  …

  Me: How was your run?

  Kassidy: Okay.

  Me: Just okay?

  Kassidy: Yeah. I was tired.

  Me: Sorry.

  Kassidy: Don’t be. It was fun last night.

  Me: Told you movies were better than books.

  Kassidy: I never said that.

  Me: Sounded like you did.

  Kassidy: Whatever.

  Me: Sorry about my brother showing up like that.

  Kassidy: No problem. He’s nice.

  Me: Being alone with you would’ve been nicer.

  Kassidy: Really?

  Me: Really.

  Kassidy: What were you planning? To show off more of your rap skills?

  Me: You know it.

  Kassidy: LOL. I still can’t believe your brother’s met the Rocketlaunchers.

  Me: That’s what happens when you’re famous. Hey, what are you doing tonight?

  Kassidy: Going to Paint It Up.

  Me: That place in the mall?

  Kassidy: Yeah. What about you?

  Me: Not sure yet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kassidy

  #9—Learn to Paint

  Perplexed, I stare at the phone in my hand. Nancy Drew weaves between my legs, meowing. I scoop her up with my free hand and nestle her in the crook of my arm. Biting my lip, I walk slowly down the hallway, mulling over my text thread with Archer.

  “What’s that look for?” Sophie asks when I enter the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table wearing fuzzy pajamas and drinking a cup of coffee.

  Nancy leaps from my arms down to the floor and stealthily makes her way to her food dish. “It’s almost noon. Did you just wake up?”

  “Not all of us enjoy getting up at the butt-crack, Kass.” She scrunches up her nose and pats her messy bun. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. What’s going on? Why do you have that look on your face?”

  “I had a really good time at Archer’s last night and then—”

  “Oh, that’s right! You were at Archer’s last night!” Sophie interrupts, moving so enthusicastically she almost spills her coffee. “Was it just the two of you?”

  “Mac was there for a little while.” I plunk into a chair across from her, biting my tongue to keep from telling her about Ross. If she ever finds out he was in town and I kept it from her, she’ll kill me. But if I tell her, Ross will kill me. Archer, too, probably. That seals it. I keep my mouth shut.

  Shoving her coffee aside, she leans forward on her elbows, her eyes alight. “You were alone with him? Kass this is huge!”

  “Nothing happened. We just talked.”

  “About what?’

  “All kinds of stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Stuff about his brother.” Nancy nudges my chair with her head
. I pick her up and cradle her in my lap, then I absentmindedly stroke her fur.

  “Ooh, what about his brother?” Her eyebrows rise.

  “Nothing you’d find interesting. He just talked about what it’s like having a famous brother. It’s kinda weird how much I could relate because of how things were with Kate.”

  Pity splashes across Sophie’s features, and I have to look away. My gaze lands on Nancy Drew. I stare at my fingers as they trail down her back. “Did you tell him about her?”

  “A little.”

  “You really trust this guy.”

  I nod, feeling as stunned as I imagine Sophie is.

  “Then what’s with the confused face?” Sophie asks.

  My gaze flits to my phone. “He just sorta acted weird at the end of the night. Like he wanted me to leave or something. But then he texted me this morning to see what I was doing tonight.”

  “And?”

  “I said I have painting class.”

  Sophie’s lips immediately fall downward at the corners. “Why?”

  “’Cause it’s the truth.”

  “He was going to ask you to hang out again.”

  “You think? Even though he was acting strange when I was over?”

  “Yep. Guys are weird,” she answers flippantly, as if it’s common knowledge.

  I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, my heart sinking. “Oh, well. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Sophie’s mouth drops open. “You like this guy, right?”

  I nod.

  “Then cancel the painting class and hang out with him.”

  The thought had crossed my mind, but I can’t do it. “No.” I shake my head firmly. “That’s what the old Kassidy would do. Change my plans for someone else. But I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

  Her face sobers up. “I get that, Kass. I really do.”

  Smiling, I gently guide Nancy Drew out of my lap. Then I push my chair back and stand. “Mom and Dad will be home soon, and I’m supposed to clean my room.

  Sophie groans. “Oh, yeah. I gotta get some laundry done, too.”

  Sophie studies me a minute, a caring look in her eyes. “I know they have been really worried about you. I have been, too. But I think you’re gonna be just fine.”

  “Thanks.” I desperately want to believe that. It’s what I’m working toward. I’m not sure if Sophie’s right, but I cling to her words as if they’re prophecy. Simply knowing she thinks it’s possible gives me courage to keep going.

  …

  I’m the youngest person here by at least twenty years. Scratch that. By at least thirty years. I’m also the only person who didn’t come in a group, and definitely the only person who didn’t drink beforehand. Clearly, I misjudged this place. It appears to be more of a hangout than an art studio.

  I am about to leave when a hand lands on my shoulder.

  Turning, I see who it is, and my breath hitches in my throat. “Archer? What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d check it out.” His dark eyes sparkle under the bright lights, and his crooked smile melts my heart. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.”

  His thigh brushes mine as he scoots into the chair beside me. I fight to keep my breathing even.

  “I’m surprised you’re not with your brother,” I say.

  “Nah. His big head could never fit through the door to this place.”

  I giggle.

  “See. Now that you’ve met him, you see what I mean.” He points to his face. “I mean, this is a normal-size head. Am I right?”

  “Yes, you’re right. Your head is normal size,” I assure him. I’m still not sure what happened last night, but I figure it’s safest to agree with him. He and his brother are clearly competitive.

  “Exactly. Thank you.” He smiles, and I’m grateful to have the relaxed Archer back.

  I smile back. “Any time.”

  “Ross is out with my parents tonight. They were so excited to have their favorite son back for the weekend.”

  I freeze. “I’m sure he’s not their favorite.”

  His grin is impossible to read. “I know. I was kidding. Clearly, I’m the better son.” After throwing me a quick wink, his gaze falls on the blank canvas. “What do we do?”

  “Okay,” I say quietly. The teacher had already instructed the class on the first step. “We start with the sky.” I show him the plate near my elbow with globs of different colored paint on it. “We can share. I already mixed blue with white to make a light blue. So, now we paint the top half of the canvas with it.”

  “Easy enough.” Smiling, he picks up his paintbrush.

  “When we’re finished with all the steps, it should like that.” I point to the painting propped up at the front of the room.

  He studies it a minute before nodding. “All right. Rolling hills. Lots of flowers. Blue sky. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

  I giggle. That’s not exactly how I responded when I first saw the picture. “Right,” I answer, with more bravado than I feel.

  Dipping his paintbrush in light blue paint, he runs it over the blank canvas in front of him. “So you’re an artist, huh?”

  I snort. “Not even a little bit.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.” With quivering fingers I pick up the paintbrush and dip it into the paint.

  “Then why are you here?”

  I sweep the brush over the canvas in long, even strokes. Not that you can tell. The blue is coming out all clumpy, dark in some spots and light in others. “Just wanted to try something new.”

  His head bobs up and down once again. I notice he does that a lot. “I’m down with that.”

  For some reason, it’s a phrase that sounds funny coming out of his mouth, almost like he’s trying too hard. My palms get clammy. Guys don’t normally try hard with me. They also don’t usually show up to meet me unexpectedly.

  “This is a lot harder than I thought,” he mumbles under his breath, staring at his picture.

  Laughing, I say, “That’s okay. Mine doesn’t look much better.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he peers over at my painting, then his lips curl upward into an amused smile. But he doesn’t agree. Smart guy.

  The teacher returns to the front of the room. “All right. Now we’re going to move on to the grass. Go ahead and mix dark green with white. Then, you’re just going to paint the bottom half of the painting.” When she demonstrates, it appears effortless.

  I doubt it will be as easy when I try it.

  The teacher walks us through a few more steps, and we’re focusing so hard we hardly talk. Moving on to the flowers, I switch to a smaller paintbrush. My hands are shaky as I painstakingly attempt to draw a flower. So shaky that I end up making it larger than I intended. Horrified, I draw my hand back.

  “That is one big flower,” Archer observes. “Even bigger than Ross’s head.”

  I burst into laughter. “Maybe that’s how I wanted it.”

  “It makes a statement,” he says. “Not that I have room to talk.” He glances at his picture. “I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. Ross is the artist in the family.”

  “I guess there aren’t any artists in my family. Sophie’s just as bad as I am.”

  “Sophie’s your sister?”

  I nod.

  “The one you went to the concert with?”

  “Yep. My only sibling. And she’s a huge fan of the Playlisters.” I paint a stem for my giant, misshapen flower

  “Most girls are,” Archer says. “You must not have told her about Ross being in town. I didn’t see any random girls trying to break in today.”

  I laugh. “I didn’t breathe a word.”

  “Not to anyone?” He cocks an eyebrow, and my insides knot.

  “Nope. No one.”

  “It’s just that you seemed excited to meet him.” He shrugs.

  I swallow hard. “I was excited that he might get me tickets to the Ro
cketlaunchers.”

  “You really like that band, huh?”

  I nod.

  Archer studies me a minute, then with a slight smile he reaches for his paintbrush. I blow out a relieved breath. “Let’s see if I can make better flowers than yours.”

  “Hey,” I say in mock offense. “I like my flower.”

  “That’s good, because it takes up your whole picture.”

  I giggle, glancing at the monstrosity which is my painting.

  Archer taps his chin while staring intently at his picture. Then his eyebrows raise. “I’ve got it. I know what to do.” He snaps his wrist back and then flicks the brush forward.

  Paint splatters me in the face, sticking to my cheek and eyelashes. I sputter.

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry.”

  A shocked laugh bubbles from my throat. “You’re supposed to paint the picture, not your partner.”

  “Everything okay over here?” The teacher comes over. “Oh, my!” she gasps upon seeing my face.

  “It’s okay.” I wipe my palm down my skin, paint streaking my fingers. “It was just an accident.”

  “I’ve got it.” Archer snatches up a rag from a nearby counter. The teacher makes a clucking sound with her tongue as she wanders off. When Archer’s hand rests on my shoulder, I freeze, my heart arresting. Reaching up with his other arm, he gently swipes the paint from my face with the rag. Our gazes collide, my breath catching in my throat. My pulse skitters beneath my flesh. I stay still, afraid to move. Afraid to break the moment. His hold on my shoulder tightens, the movement of the rag slow and steady. “There.” Drawing his hand back, he studies my face. If I move forward the tiniest bit, our lips will meet. I’ll never work up the courage to do it, but the thought alone thrills me. “I really am sorry.” When he sits back in his chair, dropping the rag on the table, I sigh, wishing he’d drenched in me paint. Then he wouldn’t be done cleaning it off.

  “What were you trying to do?”

  “I was thinking I could splatter little colored dots on the grass in my painting and it would look like tiny flowers.”

  “Ah,” I say, impressed with his tactic. “I see.”

  “I think it would’ve worked, too, if not for my shoddy execution.”

  “Maybe so.” Pursing my lips, I set my paintbrush down. “I don’t think painting’s our thing.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Archer quips.

  His is more of a mess than mine is. At least mine resembles something. Sort of. I laugh.