Before & After You Read online

  I was still working on that part: rescuing myself.

  Fifteen Before

  WHEN WE WALKED into his bedroom, it took about one-point-two seconds for my attention to be completely diverted elsewhere, because up on his wall, above his bed, was an original black and white painting, by the freaking Ace.

  “Shut. Up!” Excitement had effectively flowed into all the melancholy spaces of my heart.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Greyson chuckled, drawing out his words in confusion.

  I’m not sure I even registered what he said before barreling on. “No. Way. No way!” I spun around on him.

  Again, with the confusion on his end.

  I pointed at the painting. “You have an Ace Painting?!”

  “A who?” he quietly laughed again. If I wasn’t so excited, I might’ve stopped to admire the way his eyes were shining with amusement—at me. But again, the painting!

  “Aramis Clair-Edouard? I love him—love his pieces. Like, obsessed, and now I’m secretly contemplating knocking you over the head with something so I can steal it and run far, far away. Would totally be worth the jail time,” I finished that last sentence under my breath, which only made him smile wider.

  “You really love art, don’t you?” he asked sincerely, his eyes contemplative, maybe even finding these little bits and pieces of me interesting.

  “I do,” I sighed, sitting down on the edge of his bed. I truly did. I loved the way art said different things to everyone. Loved the way a hundred different people could look at one painting, or photograph, or drawing and see completely different things. Could walk away from it with a hundred different emotions and feelings and ideas.

  I loved the way there were an infinite amount of ways you could express yourself through it.

  I told him all of this, and he seemed to really take it in, visibly sifting through all of my words. Time sort of stood still then, with me on his bed and him standing in front of the painting, both of us simply staring at it for a long while. My eyes swept over the chaos of lines, and squiggles, and pictures within pictures that formed the whole painting before us.

  “I guess I never thought of it like that before,” he eventually said, turning to face me. “I assumed a painting was a painting and we all saw what was obviously there. But you’re absolutely right.” He sat down next to me, the bed dipping down with his weight, forcing me closer. “It’s like music. There are lyrics, and everyone hears the same ones, but it doesn’t mean they hear them the same way, you know?”

  He turned to face me, and I instantly got lost, trapped in his gaze. I was such an idiot. We’d gotten way too close. It wasn’t safe there, where I was so close that I could see every little speck of green that made up Greyson’s perfect pair of eyes. Close enough that I could accurately imagine the way his cheek would feel against my palm. So close that I could reach up and fist his black shirt in my hand, and so close that I could pull him in a few inches and press my lips to his.

  I forced a breath in and out of my lungs. And again. “Totally,” I said, mildly breathless. It was a decent enough attempt.

  He smiled, his tongue sliding out momentarily to wet his lips.

  “I think all art is like that,” I continued, eyes glued to his mouth. “In all its forms.”

  When I looked back up at Greyson’s eyes, I found that his gaze had been drawn to my mouth, but he quickly cleared his throat, standing from the bed, gripping the back of his neck with both hands. “Couldn’t agree more,” he said, his voice rough.

  It was like an arrow shot straight to my core. Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him! it screamed.

  No. No way, I shook off the thought. He’d have to make that move. If we kissed, I wanted to know with one-hundred percent certainty that it was exactly what he wanted. He already knew I liked him; I didn’t need to make a bigger ass out of myself.

  So even though he was doing it again, looking at me with unspoken words that said anything but friendship, nothing happened. He didn’t pull me into him, and he didn’t kiss me.

  Instead, he pulled a guitar to his chest.

  “So…” he started. “There’s an open mic tonight.”

  It took a few beats for it to click. “And you’re going to play?” I treaded cautiously. Was this really happening?

  “I was thinking I might have enough balls to go up and sing this time.” He looked down at his guitar, taking a single pass over the strings with his thumb.

  Breath in. Breath out. Totally calm. “And I get to come watch?”

  “Well, yeah.” He chuckled, amused. “That was the plan.”

  “And um, will anyone else be there?” I feigned nonchalance.

  “Next time, maybe.” He set his guitar back down in its case, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But I think it’ll be too much pressure to have everyone there tonight. So I’m hoping that one friend—that’s you,” he flashed his tilted smile at me, “will be enough pressure to force me up there. And once I know I’m not a complete chickenshit, I’ll invite the guys.

  “…And I might also be putting off the fact that I work at pub, because then I’ll never hear the end of, Steal the booze! And Get us free food, Greyce!”

  I laughed at that. “Oh, for sure.” Totally made sense. Jaymes and the guys would hop on that train so quick. Sara, too. But wait… “So, you’ve never done this before? Singing in front of people?”

  “Nah.” He said it like it didn’t mean anything, but this was a huge, HUGE fucking deal. “So you cool with coming?”

  I smiled at him, biting down on my bottom lip, almost speechless. Almost. “Am I okay with it?” I asked, floored. “Hell yes, I’m okay with it! This is badass, Greyson!” I couldn’t contain my excitement any longer, because holy shit! I was going to hear Greyson sing.

  And he wanted me to hear him sing.

  In a room full of people.

  For the first time. Ever.

  Holy. Freaking.

  Shit.

  Sixteen Before

  IT WAS A small place. Dark. Simple. Dirty wooden floors, and a long, sticky bar. But it was filled with people—drinking and laughing and having the time of their lives. At least that’s what the alcohol was clearly telling them.

  Greyson and I were sitting at a small table in the back corner. We’d been there for at least thirty minutes at that point, and his knee was still bouncing relentlessly. I couldn’t help but smile. It was fascinating, this side of Greyson: Nervous, vulnerable.

  He was tapping a beat against the table with his hands when I slid one of mine over one of his, stilling it. “You’re going to do great, you know.”

  He chuckled, looking down at me. “You have no way of knowing that, but thank you.”

  I went to pull my hand away, but he flipped his over, wrapping his fingers firmly around mine, holding my hand hostage in his. Except I was a willing participant, and his hand felt more like the warmth and comfort of a womb than a prison with the way it soothed me.

  And maybe it comforted him too, because his knee wasn’t bouncing as much, and his chest seemed to be expanding and contracting a little easier than it had been before.

  My eyes trailed up his chest, up his throat and over his mouth that he was biting down on, and landed on his eyes. He smirked, somehow knowing I’d been staring at him even though he was looking straight ahead at the woman on stage reciting a poem she’d written.

  What was he thinking about right now? This very second? With his hand wrapped around mine?

  Probably nothing like what was going through my mind: That I could go the rest of my life without ever letting go.

  I looked back down at our hands just as his thumb made a quick pass over my knuckles. Quick enough to draw zero conclusions from, but that’s exactly what I was doing. Drawing conclusions. Why was he still holding my hand? Because he did want me. He’d probably turn towards me in about two seconds and pull my face into his hands and then finally. Freaking. Kiss me, and then he’d most likely put all of his babies inside
of me, right here in the middle of this bar.

  I laughed at myself, and then proceeded to purposely bang my forehead down onto the table, effectively smacking some sense back in there while I was at it.

  Greyson’s grip on my hand tightened, and I peeked up at him to see that he was laughing too, his eyes still on the stage. And then he pulled my hand closer to himself. Caging it against his chest.

  I swallowed thickly, my pulse quickening. It was a little hard to breathe, there against the table. But I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break whatever spell I’d managed to cast on Greyson, because this wasn’t like him. This wasn’t like anything, anything I’d ever felt before.

  Like I mattered. Like I was important to someone. Because for at least that small sliver of time, my presence calmed him like his calmed me. There was no question about it. I could feel it in my bones.

  Another few minutes passed before he tore his gaze away from the stage and looked down at me. “Wish me luck,” he said, squeezing my hand once before standing up and grabbing his guitar.

  “Good luck!” I shouted at his retreating back, shaking off the weight of the last few minutes. I threw in a few shouts of encouragement for good measure. I was definitely the loudest and most obnoxious person in the room, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t hold my excitement back; I didn’t want to.

  He climbed on stage with a smile and an excited glint in his eyes, sat on the stool front and center, and pulled his guitar into his lap.

  I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until his fingers made those first few passes over his guitar strings, the sound of it weaving through the room. My breath came out in a relieved rush. He was going to rock this shit so hard it wasn’t even funny. But the very next breath I took got stuck in my throat, because he’d started singing into the microphone.

  I might’ve died then. Before coming back to life and falling for him all over again.

  His voice was soft yet gruff. Gravelly, yet smooth. A complete contradiction of highs and lows and strength and subtlety that reached inside my chest and wrapped its claws around my heart, squeezing with a level of desperation I’d never felt before.

  He looked down at his guitar most of the time, but every once in a while, he’d search for me in the dark and smile through his words when he found me. I’d like to say that I remembered every single word he sung that night, locking them safely inside a little treasure box buried within my brain, but I was so lost in his voice, so lost in the moments his eyes would seek mine, that I only really caught half of them.

  I’d build a house out of stars, a past full of scars.

  Rewrite my name, take all of the blame.

  If you’d come back again, back again, back again.

  He finished his song, and the crowd went crazy. Clapping, and hollering, and drunken, slurred words of approval. I, on the other hand, was in complete and total awe. My mouth might’ve been hanging open. Just a little. He smiled shyly—the first of its kind I’d ever witnessed from him—and made his way off stage. When his eyes found mine, that shy smile grew bigger, brighter, more at ease. He strode straight towards me and didn’t stop until he was right in front of me. Not nearly enough time to process any of this before he picked me up in a tight hug, squeezing every ounce of air from my lungs.

  His arms.

  Around me.

  Firm, and strong, and unwavering.

  His face was buried in my neck. I felt him inhale a deep breath. He didn’t say anything, not a single word. And he didn’t let me go. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I closed my eyes and relaxed into his embrace.

  “That was…” he said, trailing off, inhaling and exhaling into my hair again.

  “Fucking amazing,” I finished for him. There were no other words for it. He was absolutely amazing.

  “Yes, that.” He laughed, slowly sliding me down his body to land on my feet. Except he didn’t pull away, and I didn’t step away either. So there we stood. Toe to toe, chest to chest. I looked up at him, and we both seemed to be forcing air into our lungs at the same time.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, the breath of his words falling over my face.

  “For what? I should be the one thanking you. I just witnessed the first-ever performance of the one-day, mega-famous Greyson Hayes… Will you sign my face?”

  He burst out in laughter. We were so close that I could feel the vibration of it tickling my skin. But I was selfish. I wanted more than that. I wanted to feel the weight of it against my body when he held me close. I wanted to feel the breath of it against my lips as he kissed me. There were an infinite amount of reasons and ways for him to laugh, and I wanted to own them all.

  We were still standing so close, and not for the first time that night. But this time he was definitely looking at me like he wanted to kiss me. And I know for a fact that the way I needed him to kiss me was written clear across my face.

  For a second there, I was absolutely sure he would.

  Until he didn’t.

  He cleared his throat and stepped away. “I can get you a free dessert,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Chocolate lava cake?”

  I forced a smile, “Sure.”

  I guess if I was being honest with myself, chocolate would come second to a kiss from Greyson. If Greyson were the waves of an ocean and chocolate was the deepest, darkest depths of it.

  Seventeen After

  THE THING WAS, I had felt so numb for so long, that Greyson was the first person to come into my life and make me feel something. To make me feel anything at all. And only five minutes into seeing him, after all of these years, it feels like he’s done it all over again.

  The aftermath is still lingering days later. I can’t shake it. Can’t shake seeing him again.

  What was he doing here?

  Does he live here?

  Is he here on press tour? Does he have a show in town? Will I run into him time and time again, or was it a single, fleeting moment I’ll never get back?

  Did seeing me affect him as much as it affected me?

  The need to know all of these answers has become borderline obsessive. Along with the need to self-analyze those last few moments I spent face to face with him—over, and over, and over again.

  Why did I have to run off like a total spaz? Why couldn’t I have kept it together long enough to hear the answers I needed and go home and completely lose my shit in my own space, on my own time?

  I hate that I had fooled myself into thinking I was okay. That I thought I had accepted the course my life had taken. A personal sacrifice made and experienced for the sake of self-growth and art.

  I was wrong. Because these feelings, these long forgotten fucking feelings he managed to dig up in a matter of minutes, won’t go away. They won’t. Go. Away.

  But if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m not sure they ever have. I’ve just gotten used to spilling them onto the canvas. To twisting every memory, and experience, and regret into my craft so I don’t have to deal with them on any level beyond that. Because if I avoid the thoughts, and pour them into pictures and paint instead, they can’t haunt me, right?

  I had honestly thought so. For a long time, I had really, really thought so. God, I’m such an idiot.

  I take a deep breath and shake off the burning thoughts, focusing instead on the paper in front of me. Because if there’s one positive in all of this, a yin to the yang, it’s that I now know exactly what was missing—from the painting.

  The heart. That’s the part that needs to be real. It is the bleeding, feeling, life-pounding epicenter of it all, isn’t it? The beginning and ending of everything.

  As soon as the idea clicked, hours post-Greyson run-in, I ordered one of those anatomically correct hearts online, along with a packet of fake blood—because apparently, you can order fucking anything online now—and receive them in less than forty-eight hours.

  I heard that package hit the floor of my front porch this afternoon and was up faster than a teenager on prom
night.

  Pretty sure I scared the living shit out of my mailman.

  I pull the image of a bloody heart from the tray in front of me and plunge it into the rinse tub, clipping it on the line above me to dry when I’m finished. I step back and observe it, inexplicably relieved at the perfection of it. But it is perfect, and it’ll fit into the painting effortlessly.

  It’s what sets me apart, I think. These snippets of reality pieced into my paintings. A mash-up of reality and fiction. A portrayal of what I know to be real and what feels like never was.

  This one will be the last piece for an art opening I have this weekend—in the heart of the city. It won’t be my first art show, but that doesn’t make me any less nervous. If anything, I think I become more and more anxious with each one. In part, I think, because I put a little more of myself into these pieces each time. Ripping away a chunk of the darkness and leaving it behind on every painting until it was almost gone.

  At least that’s what I had thought. Until I saw Greyson again. And now I don’t know anything. Up from down, left from right, day from night. Because call me crazy, but I just can’t shake this feeling that seeing him again has changed everything. That my life—my hopes, my dreams, my fate—has all been turned upside down. Like all of it has been picked up and flipped on its motherfucking axis, and I’m not sure how to cope.

  Eighteen Before

  HIS EYES. HIS eyes, his eyes, his eyes. It was those damn green anchors of Greyson’s that were going to be the eventual death of me. They kept landing on mine from across Jaymes’ living room.

  We were playing a phenomenal game of pretend.

  Pretending we didn’t share something that special earlier.

  Pretending I wasn’t the first person he’d ever wanted to hear him sing on stage.

  Pretending we hadn’t been that close to kissing.

  Pretending, pretending, pretending.