The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  “Tell me about it.”

  He peers down at our entwined fingers. “I was sixteen and walking through the rough side of town where I grew up. It was nighttime, I’d missed the bus home, so I had to walk.” His voice cracks, and so does my heart—chips that I thought were mending because of him slowly falling away all over again because of the same man.

  “I heard about the people who hung around. The muggings. Assaults. You don’t think anything bad will happen to you until it does. That night, I was jumped. And maybe if I didn’t open my mouth and talk back it wouldn’t have been so bad, but after they were done beating the shit out of me, they stole what little I had, and left me for dead. Bleeding out on the sidewalk.

  “It was hours before anybody came looking for me. Both of my parents worked, so when they found out I wasn’t home they searched. Found me unconscious, black and blue, bleeding, broken ribs, broken eye socket, cut lip. I spent a few days in the hospital pretending I didn’t remember what happened, because pretending was better than reliving it. And with the amount of damage those guys had done to me, the doctors didn’t question for a second I had some sort of memory loss. Whether because of the trauma or post-traumatic stress. Nobody asked, and I never told.

  “But I remember thinking from that day on that I’d find a way out of that town and become somebody nobody could damage again. If I was going to fuck my life up, it’d be on my own terms. No amount of therapy or counseling could change that. The only thing being forced to talk to somebody got me was a love for music and writing out what I felt— using my anger and pain and putting them to lyrics.”

  Tears well in my eyes as he tells me this, heartbreak unlike I’d ever felt before flooding my body.

  He swipes away a tear. “I’m not worth crying over, Ashton. Don’t waste those tears on me. That moment defined me and who I am, making me stronger and more determined than I’d ever been.”

  But you are worth them, I want to tell him.

  “A light in a dark,” I whisper instead.

  “Your ex stole my notebook,” he explains quietly, jaw ticking. “Some producer called Tom when Conner Mason tried passing off one of my songs as his. That notebook was the same one I’d gotten in counseling almost eight years ago. Nobody has seen it. Nobody should ever use those songs.”

  My jaw drops. “Oh my God. Dylan, I’m—”

  “Your little boy toy ratted Conner out once I threatened to sue and end both their careers. They may have a few hit singles out, but there’s a perk to being part of a band like mine. We’re bigger than them, and they know messing with me will get all of us on their bad side.”

  I close my eyes, feeling guilt completely take over the euphoria I previously felt. My high dimming until it threatened to turn into a crash like a junkie out of stash.

  “It’s my fault,” I tell him.

  “It’s theirs,” he argues firmly. He tips my chin up, keeping his touch on my skin. The truth is in his eyes, and I know he means it … that he isn’t angry with me.

  I swallow back my argument, too wrapped up in him to try countering. “Thank you. For opening up to me. For letting me open up to you.”

  The pain is back in his eyes, washing out the warmth. Instead, I stare at the cool hues and shiver at the change, fear creeping into my conscious.

  “I want to know you better,” he admits, stroking his fingers through my hair, the feeling easing my body. “But I want to be known.”

  I stare at him, blinking back tears that I wish I was strong enough to fight. “And you can’t have both?”

  His movements stop, his hand slowly retracting back to his side. “Not if I want to be the same man.”

  “The same man?” I repeat, not grasping what he’s saying.

  He averts his eyes, blinking back a look I’ve seen too much. Guilt. And I wait for the final blow, knowing it’s coming.

  “I need this feeling I have with you, Ash.” Voice cracking, he finally looks at me, hands trailing over my face, cupping my cheek, eyes searching my features like he’s trying to engrave me into his memory.

  Because he’ll never see me like this again.

  “But I need my reputation more.”

  I blink back tears as I watch him take me in, not sure how I can fight back the tugging in my heart. It hurts—I hurt.

  We’re both damaged, afraid, and waiting for the world to do us wrong again. And it’s that cumbersome understanding between us that’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep.

  Dylan

  The smoke billowing from the pan on the stove is probably two seconds away from setting off the fire alarm in Ash’s kitchen, so I wave an oven mitt to disperse it. Ash tossed and turned all night, and I sat watching her the entire time. Right before she fell asleep, I saw the familiar reality creep in her eyes. We had to say good-bye.

  I search the cabinets for plates as I let the eggs cook longer, cursing when one of the cabinets slams shut louder than I intended it to. I hoped to let Ash sleep in before she came down to see the mess I’m trying to pass off as breakfast.

  Turning the burner off and moving the pan away, I pop some bread into the toaster and take out some butter and orange juice from the fridge. When I’ve got our plates made up and drinks poured, I hear the stairs creaking under the weight of her, heart picking up in my chest knowing she’s coming.

  I tell my heart to calm down, but it’s more than enamored by Ash. It’s controlled by her.

  When she rounds the corner, her eyes are glazed and puffy, and she freezes mid-step when she sees me.

  “Ash?” I step around the corner, concern plastered on my face. “You were crying.”

  She quickly wipes away any evidence on her damp face with the back of her hand. She sniffs, takes a deep breath, and stares at the plates sitting on the counter.

  “You cooked?” she rasps, eyes blinking in disbelief.

  “You cried,” I repeat firmly, gut wrenching over the idea that it’s because of me.

  Does she regret what happened?

  She won’t meet my eyes. “I thought you left,” she admits quietly.

  My lips part.

  She cried over me?

  I pull her into me, resting my chin on top of her head. Her cheek presses against my chest as her arms wrap around my waist.

  “I didn’t want to yet,” I say.

  She pulls back, round eyes looking up at me.

  “But,” I add, “we both know it’ll have to happen eventually. I just thought maybe it could happen on a better note than how I left it last night.”

  She steps away, hugging herself. “So you thought burnt food would make it easier?”

  I chuckle, turning to look at my failed attempt at doing something decent. “We ran out of frozen waffles,” I explain.

  She manages to smile. “You’re not a cook, are you?”

  That’d be an understatement. “I can pour a mean bowl of cereal,” I offer.

  She frowns. “We ate it all.”

  Aside from takeout, we’ve heated up precooked meals, because neither of us are particularly skilled in the kitchen. For once in my life, I wish I had the ability to make a beautiful girl a nice breakfast.

  We walk over to the plates, both staring at the food. She pokes the charred eggs.

  “Um …” She clears her throat, giving me a sheepish smile. “It was a nice thought.”

  I snort, taking our plates and dumping them into the trash. Not even the toast looked edible. Who fucks up toast?

  “I have a proposal.”

  Her brows quirk up.

  “We should go out.”

  She stares.

  “On a date,” I add slowly.

  She blinks.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I say, “I know I’m not the best guy. I sure as hell don’t deserve somebody like you, but we should ignore that just for today. Because …”

  Because I’ll be gone by tonight.

  Her eyes train on our untouched drinks, her teeth drawing in her bottom lip an
d nibbling it.

  “One date?” she asks after a long moment.

  “Just for the day,” I confirm.

  Knowing it won’t be more than that hurts more than I want to admit, but I brush off the pain and let it settle deep in my bones where all the other shit hides.

  I lean on the counter, tapping her nose. “I say we go get breakfast since I screwed it up here. Then we can go anywhere you want.”

  Her eyes light up. “Anywhere?”

  Internally, I groan, wondering where her mind is going. But I nod.

  She peers down at her pajama-clad body. “I need to change. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Watching her walk away, I smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Truest statement ever said.

  After eating over half the breakfast menu at a small diner in the city, Ash gives our Uber driver directions to our next destination.

  “Close your eyes,” she demands when we get closer.

  I stare at her. “Really?”

  She eyes me as if to say, Do I look like I’m joking? Holding my hands up in surrender, I close my eyes.

  “Don’t peek!”

  I snicker. “I won’t, Boots.”

  The car finally lulls to a stop, and Ash’s hand drags me from the car. I stumble when I hit the ground, her grip stronger than I anticipate. She’s excited, and it causes me to smile wider than I have in a long time.

  “Okay stop,” she commands, halting me. “I know you’ll probably hate this, but know that this is one of my favorite places to go. Grandpa took me here not long before he passed away, and I haven’t been since. It didn’t … it felt like I was cheating on his memory by going alone. But I feel better knowing that you’re here with me.”

  My lips waver hearing her admission. I want to hear it, my heart reacts to the words, but I know becoming too close will only make our departure that much harder to deal with in the end.

  I clear my throat. “Can I open my eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  My eyes connect with the sign in front of me, and I can’t help but chuckle. She brought me to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

  She’s holding her hands in front of her, as if begging me not to leave.

  “Relax, Boots,” I muse. “If this is how you want to spend the day, I’m here.”

  She claps and wraps her arm around mine, guiding us to the entrance.

  It’s cute watching her face light up as we walk inside, like she’s seeing everything for the first time. She isn’t Ashton King, country music singer. She’s just Ashton King, every day human fangirl.

  I lean into her, whispering, “One day, you’ll have an exhibit in here.”

  The smile she casts me makes everything about being here worth it. Just having her by my side, eyes lit up and warmth radiating into me, has already made this one of the best days of my life.

  And I mean it. She’s talented. Everybody knows it—me, her label, the world. And based on how everyone looks at her when we walk up to get tickets, I’m not far off. She’s going to be the star of this museum one day, featured along all the people she idolizes.

  The person in charge greets us with a wide smile on his face, telling us to look around without any charge. Even though we fight him on it, he insists.

  When Ash isn’t looking, I slip him a hundred-dollar bill, whispering, “My mother always taught me to pay for the date. Can’t disappoint her now, can I?”

  The man chuckles. “I suppose not.”

  I wink and let Ash guide us around, soaking in the way she looks at every exhibit we pass. I can tell how much it means to her that we’re here, and wonder if part of her wishes her grandpa was with her instead of me.

  After two hours have passed, we sit down on a bench on the side of the room, my arm hugging her into my body. I force myself to remember how she feels against me, how she manages to clear my head from everything that usually plagues me.

  “What do you think?” she asks me, drawing back, her hand resting on my chest.

  My eyes lock with hers. “I think this is going to be one of my favorite memories.”

  I see her swallow, her eyes fighting to look away. She doesn’t want to accept that this is only for today—until I leave.

  Her hand slowly moves off me. “You act like you can never see me again after our deal is over,” she replies, hurt in her tone.

  “I told you that this can’t be anything more,” I remind her, shifting so my body angles toward her.

  “You know what I think?” she asks curtly.

  I wait for her to continue.

  Her eyes are solid green, a fire flickering behind the depths. “I think you’re too afraid to change, because you’re so consumed in what you’ve become you don’t want to remember who you were. But I’ve seen you, all of you, and I can’t figure out why it’s so hard for you to accept you’re not an asshole.”

  I close my eyes, knowing what it’ll take to get her to stop hoping for something more. I thought we agreed that we would enjoy the day until it was time to go back to our own worlds.

  Our realities aren’t meant to cross. Not forever. Not permanently.

  “I brought you here because I care,” she tells me slowly. “Grandpa told me the day he died that I should do what makes me happy—to never settle. I’m happy with you, even the parts that you want me to hate. So if you’re worried I’m settling—”

  “Stop,” I tell her hoarsely. “Just … stop.”

  She stares at me, unblinking.

  “Maybe …” Jaw ticking, I inhale deeply, knowing I need to set her off so she won’t want stay attached. It’ll hurt less this way.

  For at least one of us.

  Finally, I say, “Maybe I just don’t want to settle for you.”

  Her eyes begin watering, and it crushes me, but I know it had to be done. I stand up, ignoring the way she reaches out to me.

  I fight myself from brushing her hand, cheek, any contact that would make this moment better.

  “I should go,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Want me to call you a car?”

  Her eye twitches. “No.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat, nodding. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

  Cringing at how lame that sounds, I force my feet forward, leaving her behind me. As much as I want her to be in my past, I know that she’s engraved in every part of me.

  I won’t forget about anything that I’ve felt with Ashton, but I sure as hell hope she can manage forgetting about everything she’s felt with me.

  Dylan

  “Again.”

  I glare at Richard Dickson, or Dickhead as I like to call him, through the glass window that separates the studio from the recording booth. He’s the uptight producer Tom hired years ago, and he’s been helping make our albums since we started.

  But right now, I’m not thinking of all the times he helped, because he’s too busy pissing me off with the constant redoes.

  “That’s the fifth fucking time!” I bark into the microphone.

  Ian gives me a watchful eye from where he sits across the room, guitar in his lap. We’re cutting two versions of Ashton’s and my song, one acoustic and the other with full-band instrumental.

  While Tom wasn’t thrilled over the song leaking, he didn’t give me shit about it either. Hell, he gave me a pat on the back and praised me for finally going viral over something good for once, racking up fan interest in the collaboration.

  However, PR wasn’t as amused. They never went public with the collaboration details, so as far as they were concerned, we’d messed up by letting the world see us uncut. Knowing half the shit they would have released to the press, it was better we let it play out as we did.

  “Well maybe if your head was out of your ass, we could have finished this session on the third try like usual,” Dickhead retorts.

  Tom is rubbing a palm down his face, looking as exhausted as I feel. This is day five in the studio, and we’ve spent more time in here trying
to get the perfect take than we ever have before.

  I wish I could have blamed Ashton’s absence for my screwups—pass the blame onto her for not being here. But when Tom told us she was choosing to record her parts in Nashville, I couldn’t be angry at her. We both agreed to say good-bye over a month ago, and neither one of us looked back.

  “Why don’t we take a break?” Tom chimes in, gesturing for us all to scatter. The mic must be turned off from their section, because whatever colorful exchange is going on between the two isn’t being broadcasted in here.

  Bash grabs a bottle of water and tosses it at me. “Dude, we should be done by now. What’s the deal?”

  I shake my head, leaning my elbows on my spread knees from where I sit on my stool. Pressing the cold water against my forehead, I try finding some reason why we aren’t done by now.

  But I come up empty.

  “Tom gave us all a break before we recorded just so we could clear our heads,” Bash added, drawing my attention back to him. “Maybe if you didn’t spend it going back to your usual ways then you wouldn’t be so fucked right now.”

  Ian sighs. “Fighting won’t help us get this done, guys. I get we’re all tired—”

  “I’m more than tired,” Bash cuts off. “I finally found a house, and all I want to do is get my shit moved in and straightened out. I’m only half done, and at this point, I won’t get a chance to finish settling in before we’re off doing this mini-tour with Ashton.”

  “It’s only a few shows,” I scoff. Four shows, to be exact. I’ve already memorized the schedule. We occupy the first week of June, with our first show at Madison Square Garden in New York, then we travel to Bridgestone Area in Tennessee, Phillips Area in Georgia, and make our last stop at the Staples Center in California. Right where it all started.

  There’s something poetic about going full circle, but I have a feeling Ashton won’t see it that way. Especially not since the rumors about us dating had flared after our song hit the internet. It didn’t matter what the press said about us, yet it got a rise out of her. She went radio silent, no public appearances, no social media posts besides one that Teagan had tagged her in on Instagram, wishing Ashton a happy twenty-second birthday. Knowing that I couldn’t be around to celebrate with her hit me hard, and I spent that night locked up in a hotel room outside of Albany drinking and feeling sorry for myself.