Write or Wrong (Common Threads #9)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FEbrUARY STARS

ZARA

Zara’s gaze wandered around the lounge area of XY Records. The lounge that André had built for Nikki. It was gorgeous with its dark ceiling, exposed rafters, and gleaming copper ducts. Framed album covers that they’d produced hung on the wall, including the one they’d done together, along with vintage band posters and political art from the 80’s.

Their love had been one of her favorites to witness. Sabine and Sunshine too. Just a beautiful and honest acceptance of another soul. She wanted that someday.

If the small neighborhood that housed XY Records knew the number of celebrities working in their midst, they’d shit themselves. A collective shitting. Everyone at once.

But as it was, the people who worked there were able to do so quietly and under the radar. Making it one of the most incredible workspaces she’d ever experienced. The freedom of anonymity making it possible for the art to take shape in an authentic way.

She’d come down to the studio because she was hoping she’d be able to run into Asa and ask him…something. She hadn’t figured out the right question. Was he avoiding her? Had she pissed him off?

Asa had been living with her for almost two weeks and she had seen him exactly once.

And that had been just barely.

She’d come back from hanging out with Nikki and she caught sight of his back and shoulders disappearing behind his closed door.

She never heard him or saw any evidence that he lived there.

Sometimes food in the fridge would be missing but it was replaced by the next day. She still didn’t know if Asa had been doing that, or Cas and Devan.

Last night she’d crept down the stairs in her fluffiest socks and sat in the bend of the stairwell. Just listening.

But still, no noise came from beyond the closed door.

Maybe the insulation was just that good.

Or maybe he was a ninja.

She had finally given up and gone back to bed, deciding he was either sleeping or not home.

It felt like the kind of thing she should ask him about. But, as history had taught her, he didn’t answer her texts. It would have to be face to face. If only she saw him.

Hadn’t they had fun on moving day? Goofing around and joking with each other?

So what was the deal?

Or was she putting way too much on the small connection that they had shared?

Maybe it had only been significant to her. Maybe he connected like that with people all the time.

She’d gotten up that morning determined to speak with him, but he’d already left. He wasn’t at the studio either. Apparently it was his day off.

Hannah and Nikki’s laughter broke through her thoughts. She focused her gaze back on them only to find them looking at her.

She smiled anyway, knowing she’d missed whatever joke that had cracked them both up.

“You look like you have a lot on your mind,” Nikki said.

Zara didn’t argue.

“You sleeping okay?” Hannah asked.

Zara thought about her sleep the night before. “Sometimes,” she answered with a soft frown. “Last night was okay.”

Hannah nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It was difficult for my mind to adapt to a new rhythm when I first quit. Not that you’ve quit,” she added quickly. “But your ingrained habits probably aren’t consistent with your current lifestyle.”

“That’s true,” Zara agreed quietly. “I’m so used to being overly booked and overly busy that having time to myself feels…” She shook her head because she didn’t know the word. She didn’t know the feeling. It was new to her.

“Guilty,” supplied Hannah.

Zara’s head came up. “Yeah.”

Hannah’s eyebrows tilted with compassion. “I think that’s normal. Or at least expected. We can get so used to being busy that we think we’re doing something wrong when we stop.”

Truth rang through Hannah’s words. Zara didn’t like that. She remembered a time when being busy hadn’t been her entire personality. She used to play and have fun and create. Where was that girl now?

“Maybe I should try some new hobbies,” Zara said.

“You could try knitting,” Hannah suggested.

Nikki snorted.

“I mean, you can’t be any worse at it than I am,” Hannah said with a crooked smile.

“How’s the new roommate?” Nikki asked.

Zara took a breath to answer but had no idea what to say. She shrugged.

Nikki’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is he being a good houseguest?”

“Yeah,” Zara said quickly. “He’s such a good houseguest that you can’t tell he’s even there. I never see him or hear him. I’m not even sure he eats. There’s never a dirty dish or towel or anything. He might, in fact, be a ghost.”

“Hmm,” Nikki hummed thoughtfully.

“Is that normal for Asa?” Zara asked. “Or is that special for me?” She tried to sound like she was joking but she heard the harsh edge in her tone.

“These days? Nikki shrugged. “Asa used to be a lot like you, actually,” she remarked ruefully. “We fed off each other’s ridiculousness. He loved being happy. If he wasn’t happy, he’d make it a mission and chase it down like a hunter.” Her gaze lost focus like she was accessing a memory. “We’d amp each other up and drive Shelby absolutely nuts. She’d get so mad at us…” Nikki’s expression turned sad and then shuttered. “I suppose she won in the end.” She shook herself out of the memory and pasted a tight smile on her face. “Asa is who he is now. I’ve given up on trying to get him to be something he’s just not anymore. He’s a grumpy old man now and I’ll love him in this form just as much.”

Who the fuck was Shelby and why had she stolen Asa’s joy?

Hannah and Nikki left to do something in studio X, leaving Zara to her thoughts in the lounge.

Nikki’s information helped in one aspect—it alleviated Zara’s guilt about Asa’s standoffishness. But it also signaled to her that sometimes life circumstances left deep scars. He’d hinted at that, hadn’t he? By confessing he didn’t write anymore; by the way he changed the subject when his music came up.

If that was the case, if he was being haunted by ghosts, she really couldn’t do much about it.

She couldn’t imagine how many ghosts would still be haunting her if she had stopped writing. It was how she processed everything; the world, her emotions, things she didn’t fully understand.

He should be writing .

The bossy thought made her roll her eyes.

Right. Because the guy who avoided her on the regular was going to be open to her unsolicited advice.

Her phone rang in her hand, interrupting her thoughts. She grinned at the picture of her little sister Bianca on the screen.

“Hello?”

She tried to call home at least once a week but it had been more than that since she’d called Bianca directly. Between everything with her label and Logan and moving to Chicago, she’d been more distracted than she wanted to admit. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide the stress in her voice from her family members. They would worry. She didn’t want them to worry.

“Did you know that I thought you were dead?” Bianca said by way of greeting.

Zara laughed. God, she missed her brother and sister so much. “Well, then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because you kept sending me memes so I knew you weren’t dead dead,” came the sixteen-year-old’s quick reply. “And Oscar told me you called him a few days ago.”

Oscar was a year younger than Bianca and if Zara didn’t call him regularly he would start to send her pictures of sad animals. It was one of her favorite forms of guilt tripping.

Zara asked B about school and if she was dating anyone and how everyone was.

They laughed and joked and the longer they spoke, the easier Zara breathed. She really would have loved to go home and spend time with her family. But it would eventually turn into a circus and she couldn’t do that to them. Not again.

But maybe she could fly them all out to see her for a weekend soon. Which she suggested before she overthought it.

“Hey, remember the girl who bullied me in first grade?” Bianca asked.

“Yeah! She stole your Barbie and cut all her hair off. I thought you would never stop crying.”

“Yeah, good times,” Bianca replied flatly making Zara chuckle.

“Why? Did you run into her or something?” Zara asked.

“No. But I was thinking about when you made cookies with me to make me feel better.”

“That’s right,” Zara said. She’d forgotten that part. Geez. Had she even made cookies since then?

“Cookies make everything better,” Bianca said. “When I come visit, I want to make cookies with you again.”

“I love that idea.”

They said their goodbyes and Zara returned to her thoughtful state of mind.

Cookies, huh?

Maybe baking could be a new hobby. Cas wouldn’t even be weird about it because it was an indoor activity.

She tapped her chin with her forefinger. If Bianca wanted to bake when she came to visit, Zara should know what she was doing. She was the older sister after all.

She was reading in bed late, not really focusing on the words because she couldn’t stop the “what ifs” and “maybes” from interrupting. Another night she found it impossible to relax.

It was way past two when she heard the garage door open, signaling Asa’s return.

She put the book down and stared at the ceiling.

Was she just not good at living alone?

Was she really so insecure that a few days without talking to someone had her believing they hated her?

Maybe.

But when she specifically thought about it being Asa that wasn’t speaking to her, she felt… queasy? Was that it? It was subtle and sort of in the pit of her stomach. And if she focused on it, she could accidentally hurt her own feelings.

It was just…

He was so easy to talk to. Sort of like Nash Ellis that way. He had knowledge and experience she didn’t. He saw the world differently, but he spoke in a way that she understood.

She knew, rationally, she couldn’t make someone be her friend.

And she didn’t need Asa’s acceptance or approval to validate her existence. She was a valid human being with or without anyone else saying it.

Right?

She realized she was chewing on her lower lip again and purposefully stopped, flopping her arms down by her sides in frustration.

Maybe she should just confront him and ask him what it was he didn’t like about her.

She opened the security camera app on her phone and watched him come in the door.

He was in dark pants and a button-up shirt. He had a large shoulder bag slung across his body.

He carefully closed the garage door, input the alarm code, and reset it for the night. He glanced at the stairwell and paused several seconds before going to his room.

She waited for him to close his bedroom door before she slipped from her bed, silent as a cat in her fluffiest socks.

Sliding past the elevator, she padded down the four flights of stairs to the lower level.

She crouched close to the wall and peered around the corner.

The door to his room was still closed. He was definitely still in there. And probably still awake. If she knocked on the door, she wouldn’t be waking him.

But he would definitely think she was spying on him. Which she kind of was.

Okay, Z. You’ve gone full stalker.

What was she doing? Spying on him like a little kid?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

If she wanted to talk to him, she should just walk right up to him and talk to him.

Or maybe she could get Cas or Devan to hold him down first.

As she crouched on the stairs in the dark, ruminating on all her poor life choices that had brought her here, soft guitar strumming filtered through the solid door and reached her ears.

She sat down on the step and just listened.

He started and stopped and started over, finding the melody.

Goosebumps raised along her arms and the back of her neck.

His deep voice joined the guitar, too soft for her to make out the words.

She rested her head against the wall and just listened.

The music and his voice soothed that anxious feeling deep in her chest that she’d never lived without. The one she kept hidden because she had long believed it was just part of who she was.

Soon after that, her limbs grew heavy and her eyes got harder to keep open.

Silently, she retreated back up the stairs, turned off the light in her room, and crawled into her bed.

She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

ASA

It was the curiosity.

Overwhelming and obtrusive, it pounded through his body like a pulse.

He hadn’t seen her or talked to her since the day she’d helped him move in.

And that had been deliberate. He had to make sure her generosity wouldn’t backfire on her. Just the thought of Shelby finding out how close he was to everything she thought she deserved…it was enough to keep him in hiding when the coolest person he had ever met was in the same house.

But almost two weeks later, not one media publication had found out he was living in her basement. He knew because he’d checked.

He’d gone from having mentions of her muted, to turning on alerts for his own name.

All had been quiet on the internet.

It felt too good to be true. And that had made his pause longer. Just to make sure. He thought he hadn’t been conspicuous but then he’d received a string of aggressive texts from Nikki yesterday.

NIKKI: What the hell are you doing?

ASA: I’m out with Steiny, why?

NIKKI: Pull your head outta your ass. We both know you’re not stupid. Stop avoiding Zara. She already thinks you hate her.

ASA: What?? I don’t hate her!

NIKKI: *I* know that. But you’re acting like a bad friend. You’re a lot of things, Ace, but a shitty friend isn’t one.

NIKKI: I know you’re going through shit and you don’t want to talk about it blah, blah, freaking blah. But you’re not the only one going through shit. She needs someone who gets it. And. You. Get. It. Be the friend I know is in there somewhere.

Obviously he hadn’t been as lowkey as he’d hoped.

And truthfully, he didn’t want to avoid her. He wanted to hang out with her all the time. Hear her thoughts, get her opinions, her laughs, and her sincerity. Every time he was in the same room with her, he wanted to soak up every drop of goodness he could get.

And it freaked him out.

Last night he’d stayed at Steiny’s as long as he could before going back to Lincoln Park. He had every intention of going straight to bed but his eyes landed on his guitar as he shut the door and something happened.

Something that he hadn’t let happen in a while.

He wasn’t ready to talk about it, or even define it. It was just a moment, like a long held deep breath releasing all at once. A relaxation of all his strict borders and limits. Something that was just his.

When he’d woken up that morning, he’d felt…different. Something inside had shifted imperceptibly.

And it had made room for the curiosity that now pulsed through his veins.

What was she doing? Did she really think he hated her? Why was she here? In Chicago? Why was she so good to everyone around her?

He paused—one hand on the railing, one foot on the first step.

Her clear voice spilled down the stairs and cuddled his eardrums. She was singing “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters” unaccompanied and it was…amazing. Her vocals were always strong, but there was a freedom to them now that was full of power and soul.

He rubbed his hand over his chest and let out a deep breath.

His legs carried him up the stairs, no longer checking with his head. He reached the doorway to the large, open kitchen, and leaned a shoulder against the wall, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Zara was in light blue short shorts, a beautiful contrast against her tan legs. Her oversized cropped white t-shirt showed a tan midriff that was hard to look away from. Her black hair was in a thick braid so haphazardly entwined that several tendrils had escaped.

Ingredients lined one countertop while a half dozen mixing bowls took up another.

Sensing his presence, she lifted her head. Instead of being startled or embarrassed, she flashed him a bright smile that was like a shot of pure sunshine to his soul. She immediately dialed it back like she didn’t want to frighten him.

He knew that was his fault.

He’d caused her to question herself.

Oh, Asa, you really are a dipshit.

“Hi,” she said, sounding cautious and careful. “I’m making cookies.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Well, I’m gonna try,” she amended, glancing at all of her supplies. “I haven’t made cookies since I was fifteen.” She tapped on the tablet on the island in front of her. “I’m looking for a recipe that looks vaguely familiar.”

He’d been a dick. She had every right to call him on his shit and shame him back into the basement. But there she was, making cookies. Talking to him like he was still her friend.

He was going to be a better friend.

He pushed off the wall and came forward, craning his neck to see the screen. “What kind of cookies?”

“Chocolate chip.”

He nodded. “Classic.”

Stopping by her side, he eyed the recipe she had been studying. Looked about right. His eyes drifted to her and he realized she was gazing up at him, questions in those amber gold cosmic swirls she dared to call eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” A soft smile spread across her face and she shrugged. “I just haven’t seen you in a while.”

He swallowed. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve since pulled my head out of my ass.”

“Good.”

That was it. No guilt trip, no hesitation. Just acceptance and grace.

Something in his ribcage took its first easy breath in too long of a time. It was too complex for him to call his lungs. But it was something.

His eyes couldn’t decide which part of her to focus on. Her smile, her insane braid, or the fact that she was only wearing one earring. He touched her empty earlobe and her eyebrows dipped. “You’re missing an earring.”

She grabbed the earlobe and her gaze lost focus. “Ha.” Her lips quirked to the side. “Maybe I’m making a style choice.”

He rolled his lips inward and took a step back. “Okay, killer. Do you want help with these cookies?” He glanced around the kitchen, rubbing his palms together.

“Really?” she asked, sounding surprised.

Guilt rolled through him and he shook it off. He could be better. He would be better.

He washed his hands in the sink and dried them on a paper towel. “You know that story about the Little Red Hen?” he asked.

She narrowed those otherworldly eyes.

“I know how it goes.” He tossed the paper towel in the trash. “I don’t get cookies unless I help make the cookies.” He held his hands out. “And I definitely want cookies.”

She grinned and spun around on her toes, making a little squeaking noise that sounded like, “Yay!”

He shook his head and came up beside her again, looking at the recipe.

“Do you have experience making cookies?” she asked.

“I do,” he confirmed.

“Does this look like a good recipe?”

He scrolled through it. “The ingredients are right. But I have a technique I like to use that enhances that cookie experience.”

“Enhances, huh?” She snickered and the sound filled his chest with something like joy.

He could do this. He could be better. He could be the friend she needed without making it about himself.

“We brown the butter,” he explained, backing away. “Where’s the…?” He spotted the butter on the counter. “Get a saucepan and a whisk.”

She closed the cookies in the oven and hopped up on the counter, bare legs swinging back and forth.

His gaze caught on her tan, smooth skin for longer than he’d intended and he shook himself out of it.

Gorgeous pop star is gorgeous, he reminded himself.

“Why the sudden urge to start baking?” he asked, hopping onto the counter across from her while they waited for the first tray of cookies to bake.

She tucked her hands under her thighs and chuckled. “My sister called me and said she wanted to make cookies when they come to visit. And I thought I better have some idea of what to do.”

“When will they be here?”

She shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know yet. We have to make sure everything aligns. I miss them,” she ended softly. She took a deep breath and forced a small smile. “Hopefully soon."

He hoped so too. He remembered how she’d spoken about them six months ago. How much affection and love had shone through then and now.

“When did you see them last?”

“Last February. They came up to New York for my birthday.” Her eyes sharpened on him. “Your birthday is in February too, isn’t it?”

He nodded once.

“What did you do?” she asked. “Big party for turning thirty?”

He swallowed. Two things happened inside him he didn’t expect. One, her remembering his birthday caused his chest to compress with what could only be described as longing . And two, she remembered how old he was, which sent a surge of dopamine through his brain. Which didn’t make any sense and yet he wasn’t surprised.

“No big party,” he replied, keeping his voice even. He frowned, trying to decide how much to reveal. “My mom…” He sighed. “She has a tendency of making my birthday about her and causing a whole drama. So, I don’t celebrate on the day anymore. Nikki and I do something stupid the week before. This year she gave me a makeover.”

Zara bit her lower lip even as she smiled. “I’d love to see that.”

He chuckled, remembering how much fun they’d had. “I’m sure she has a picture she’d be more than happy to show you.”

She stretched her leg out and tapped his knee with her toes. “Sorry about your mom,” she said, softness stretching through her gaze in his direction.

He shrugged like it was no big deal. But the truth was stuff with his mom always stung. She was his mom . Even though she hadn’t always acted like it.

“What did you guys do for yours?” he asked instead of dwelling on his sad musings.

Zara’s expression turned reflective and she hummed. “Promise not to make fun of me?” she asked.

He scoffed. “I feel like that’s a given.”

She rolled her eyes. “They stayed for the weekend and we watched Lord of the Rings in the theater room in my place in NoHo.”

He grinned. “Nerd. Which one?”

A hint of pink touched her cheeks and she looked away. “Return of the King, which, by the way, I still have your copy of and I still plan on returning to you.”

“Sure,” he teased, like he didn’t believe her.

“And your shirt,” she added. “I still have that too.” She made a face. “Though I might not give it back.”

He barked a laugh. “Why not?”

“It’s really soft!” she defended with round eyes. “I’ve never had a shirt that soft and cozy. I wear it…often.”

His throat tightened at the idea of Zara wearing his shirt on the regular. Heat rushed through him and he took a slow breath. “You can keep it. I guess,” he said, sounding appropriately reluctant.

“Yeah?” she asked.

He nodded. Of course she could keep it. But he needed to change the subject before he said or did something very stupid. He stretched his leg out and tapped her shin with his toes. “Can I meet your family when they visit?”

“You want to?” she asked, surprised again.

Asa, you’re the dumbest boy in school.

He dipped his chin in affirmation.

“Okay,” she said, voice light. “I think they’d like to meet you too.”

The timer on the oven went off and she jumped down from the counter.

“These look perfect to me. What do you think?” she asked, holding out the sheet pan toward him. “You’re the cookie expert.”

He chuckled. “Those look great,” he said.

She turned and grabbed the spatula. He watched her carefully move them one at a time from the pan to the cooling rack.

“Where do you get your shirts?” she asked, her back turned to him. She set the pan down on the stove top to cool and took off the oven mitt.

Which shirt was he wearing? He glanced down.

Nice one, Ace.

It was pink and said “this is your mom’s shirt” in iridescent sequins.

Deciding to own it (because he did, in fact, literally own it), he shot her a wink. “I know a guy. Why? You want one?”

The laugh that rippled out of her hit him squarely in the chest. His smile grew large and he bit his lower lip. That laugh, her laugh, best sound ever.

“I love shirts like that,” she admitted. “But I don’t wear things with writing on them.” She blew raspberries and rolled her eyes. “I was told it would be bad for my image.”

“Right,” he said. “Because you alone have been the one holding up society.”

“If it crumbles, it’ll be my fault.”

They were smiling, but they weren’t joking. Because that’s how the world treated her.

Who she talked to, what she did, where she frequented, all of it was up for public discussion and dissection.

He read once that she had more power than the President of the United States. How fucked up was that?

No wonder she needed a break.

He was definitely getting her a shirt of her own. He had the perfect one in mind.