“I couldn’t give two shits about how likable I am.”
Calista rises, coming to help me with the provisions. She takes a can of Pepper Pot soup and examines the label. “Yeah. I know. And that’s your problem.”
“You can go now,” I say, brushing her aside. “Unless you want to stick around and give Ma her bath.”
“We actually just finished up before you got here,” she says.
“All right then. I’ve got this. You can go home.”
Calista’s mouth curls into a smart-mouthed snarl and she raises her hand, curling it like a tiger’s paw. “Who pissed in your cornflakes today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the nice girl who rear-ended my Porsche.”
She covers her mouth, fighting a laugh. “Is that why she gave you a ride home?”
“Yup.”
Calista shrugs. “Well, I still think she seemed cool.”
Her phone lights with a text, her fingers gliding across the screen at warp speed before she grabs her purse off a nearby console. One of her kids must need something. Or her husband. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be needed like that, constantly.
Just the thought of it makes me feel as if I’m suffocating, and I’ve spent my entire life just trying to breathe.
“All right. Looks like you’re getting your wish. I’m getting out of your hair,” Calista says, sliding her phone back into her bag.
I give her a quick finger wave and stack the last can of non-genetically modified corn on the shelf before me.
“Text if you need anything,” she says on her way out. And then she stops. “And Isaiah?”
Glancing up, our eyes meet. “Yeah?”
“Stop being a miserable asshole and go to the fucking concert.”
Chapter Three
Maritza
“Next.” The woman at The Mintz’s will-call window waves me forward Friday night. “Name?”
“Maritza Claiborne,” I say, reaching for my ID before sliding it across the counter.
The woman, whose arms are covered in vibrant tattoos of naked women and whose pixie cut is dyed the prettiest shade of lavender checks my driver’s license before rifling through a stack of tickets to her left.
A moment later, she’s frowning … like it’s not there.
I bought the ticket online yesterday—it has to be there.
“I have the confirmation in my email if you need to see it,” I say, searching for my phone in the bottomless pit of my vintage Goyard tote—a hand-me-down gift from my mother before she and my father moved to New York City last year because apparently they’d lost their minds and grown tired of the sunshine. My breath quickens. If I can’t see Panoramic Sunrise I’m going to cry—and I’m not a crier.
“Found it.” She holds up a lanyard, examining the name on the plastic badge. “It was in the VIP pile.”
My chin juts forward and I press my lips together. I didn’t buy a VIP ticket. Those were five hundred bucks and included a special section in the front, a private bar, an all-access behind the scenes meet and greet, as well as a chance to have a beer with the band after the bar closes.
I bought a seventy-five-dollar general admission ticket.
I know I did …
“Here you go.” She slides the pass across the counter along with my ID and smiles before glancing over my shoulder. “Next!”
Grabbing my lanyard, I place it around my neck before anyone has a chance to declare this a grave mistake and yank it away from me. Making my way to the ticket taker, I’m fully expecting to have my bubble popped any second, only he scans my pass and waves me toward a less crowded area designated for VIPs, and as soon as I’m in, I find a spot at an empty high-top table for two a mere six feet from the front of the stage.
My pulse quickens and I can’t help but wear the dorkiest grin when I see the band’s guitars and mic on stage. Panoramic Sunrise is my drug. It soothes and comforts and relaxes and reinvigorates me all at the same time. Everything about their low-key, indie, folk-rock tunes resonates with the deepest part of my soul in a way I could never fully explain or even understand. Plus the lead singer looks like an even hotter version of Adam Levine, so there’s that.
“Can I grab you a drink?” A pretty cocktail waitress with a high ponytail and orange-red lipstick approaches my table.
“Amaretto and Coke would be amazing. Thank you.”
They always open with their number one hit, Flipside, which is my favorite song in the history of songs. It’s sad in parts, funny in others, but mostly it’s angsty and ironic.
“This seat taken?” A man asks, standing behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to follow his voice, only by the time my gaze focuses on his chiseled face, he’s already taking the spot beside me.
“You again,” I say, sitting up straight.
Isaiah Torres’ fingers are wrapped around the neck of a Corona.