Few people would understand how many ways an instrument could act like a security blanket. Her guitar gave her a topic of conversation when she ran out of small talk. Gave her something to fidget with when she was anxious. Gave her somewhere to hide when she needed an escape.
Unfortunately, it was also a small-time problem fixer. It didn’t rise to the level of your-ex-disguised-himself-and-screwed-you-in-a-sex-club-type problem.
Her backup singers, Helen and Simone, had asked her to go shopping with them earlier, and her band wanted an early dinner date after rehearsal, but Giselle knew the invitations were simply excuses to get time with Giselle so they could riddle her with questions. And she didn’t have the patience or the strength to soothe their frustration with her lack of answers right now.
The stress had her so wrung out, all she wanted to do was sleep until the show, lose herself in the high of her music and the love of her audience, and fall back into bed. Not an all-around bad plan.
A knock sounded on her door before it opened, and Brook came in with a tray of food. Giselle winced. “Thanks, but I’m really not—”
“Don’t even start.” She set the food down on a four-person table and uncovered the plates. “Get your butt over here. You haven’t eaten since dinner last night, and don’t think I didn’t notice how you pushed your food around to make it look like you ate something. I babysat a lot as a kid.”
Giselle set her guitar aside and pushed from the window seat. “You’re going to make a great mom, you know that?”
“Not anytime soon. Especially not after watching the hell you’ve gone through with love.” As Giselle pulled her chair under her and picked up a strawberry, Brook said, “It’s no wonder your songs are so…gut-wrenching.”
That made Giselle chuckle, and her heartache loosened a little. “Hey, half of my songs are happy.”
“But they still bring tears to your eyes.” Brook took a seat next to her and finished uncovering dishes—eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit. Breakfast at noon, although it was her favorite meal any time of the day.
Giselle’s stomach rolled with pleasure. “Oh my God. That brings tears to my eyes.”
Brook gave a smug smile. “I know what my girl likes. Eggs and bacon first. You need some serious protein. No fainting on stage tonight.”
“Mmm,” she said around a strawberry, “that would seriously suck.”
“Right?” Brook popped the top on a diet Pepsi with a roll of her eyes. “Imagine all the publicity I’d have to field.”
They fell into a silence that would normally have been comfortable, each woman mired in her own thoughts, sharing when it suited her. Today, it wasn’t like that. It hadn’t been like that since Brook had found out about Troy at the mixer three days before. She’d known something major was wrong the moment Giselle had come back upstairs, despite her denials, even when no one else had noticed, not even Chad.
She’d told Brook about seeing Troy, but hadn’t confessed any details about the club or their kiss at the mixer.
“Have you talked with your stunt hottie?” Giselle asked to ease the silence.
Instead of answering, she said, “I googled Troy. Do you want to know what I found?”
Her gaze cut to Brook. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Giselle’s air rushed from her lungs; her fork fell from her hand and clinked against the plate.
She already knew what Brook would find, which was why Giselle hadn’t googled him herself. She was sure Brook had found out that Troy was an actor of some kind and the worst kind of playboy. She’d found images of Troy w
ith woman after woman after woman on his arm. Which was fine. No, it was great. It was exactly the kind of life he should be leading. He was handsome and charismatic and intelligent. He’d obviously grown into a man who wielded the whole damn package, just like she’d known he would. And she was sincerely thrilled about that. Anything less would have been a true waste. He was a very special man.
Unfortunately, he was a very special man who hadn’t been able to cope with the pressures of her demanding career. A career that was more than a job or even a way of life for Giselle. Her music was her calling. Her purpose. What she’d been born to do. And Troy knew that. He’d never once asked her to give it up.
“No,” she said, “I don’t want to know what you found.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, actually, I really don’t. I left him. I have no right to judge the way he’s spent his life. I have no right to any pride in his success, no right to any disappointment in his failures. I have no rights at all where Troy’s concerned.”
Brook was silent for a long moment while Giselle felt like she was bleeding inside. Because she may have no rights, but she still cared. Would always care. And the fact that he was still hurting over their breakup enough to act so…fucked up, felt like a hot dagger in her gut.
“That’s so…” Brook started, her voice dry, “mature.”
Didn’t feel mature. Just felt painful.