Kat

While Trace is having his business meeting, I do a little business of my own. Business I'm dreading. I call my friends.

I'm as honest with Laurel and Maddie as I can be, without telling them that I just spent six hours in bed with Trace. That's private.

 I tell them about the limo ride to the hotel, how Trace arranged for my own room, that I've agreed to stay another night. No, Trace and I haven't talked about anything beyond that. Actually, Trace and I have hardly talked at all, except for flirtation and innuendo, but I don't tell them that. Both of them ask for more details. I give them a brief run-down of our past history. I tell them we kissed once, on New Year's. No, we didn't kiss again last night. God no, we didn't have sex.

No, I haven't talked to Colin.

Well, they both already knew that part. They both tell me Colin has been blowing them up, to see if they have heard from me.

"You have to call him, Kat. He's going crazy. He's really sorry about punching Trace. He's really worried about you," Maddie says gently. "And about your relationship. He doesn't know if you're just mad at him, or if you're breaking up."

"I know. I just don't know what to say to him right now."

"I think you do," Maddie says, a little sadly. "You just don't want to say it."

I hang up, relieved that the obligatory calls are over.

I like Laurel and Maddie, but neither one of them are what I would call a really good friend. We just don't have the history. I only met them at the start of my junior year. They've been best friends for years, and although I  really appreciative that they've made space for me in their friendship, and I know it's mostly because of Colin that I am friends with them at all. Maddie and Colin are cousins. I met Maddie and Laurel before Colin, but looking back, I think Colin may have encouraged Maddie to befriend me, so he and I could get to know each other better.

I wonder what will happen to my friendship with them if Colin and I aren't together—especially Maddie. It's not a heart-wrenching dilemma for me, since we are all going to different colleges, but I would be sad to be on bad terms with with them. Or Colin, for that matter. But the fact that I am so calmly considering how to be friends with Colin tells me something. I don't feel for him what I feel for Trace.

That New Year's Eve kiss from Trace showed me something important. Trace couldn't go forward from our kiss, but I couldn't go back.

I keep saying that I'm furious at Trace because of the silence of the last two years, but the truth is much closer to the song he wrote. Don't smile a little Sister, because you think it helps me leave. I told him afterwards that I understood why we couldn't be more than friends, that we were cool, that the kiss was just a drunken mistake—no big deal. That was all fake. The truth is, Trace fired me up with hope, and then he devastated me and that's what I've been mad about all this time—because I was so hurt. I don't want to be Trace's friend. I want to be his...more.

These last two and half years, not seeing Trace...honestly, I was glad. I was glad his parents didn't live next door anymore, I was glad I didn't get any late night drunk dials. I didn't follow Soundcrush's social media, although occasionally I would break down and Google him. I let all of our mutual friends fade. Dropping an iron curtain over our connection was the only way to get over him. Or try. I think I was almost there. Or at least, I had almost convinced myself I was.

Now, eighteen hours of contact with Trace—and I spent six hours of that, skin to skin, wrapped in his arms—and I'm back where I was when when I stood shivering in the sleet on New Year's Day, two and a half year's ago. The way I feel for Trace—it's all or nothing. I want to be his girlfriend, or I want him to be nothing more than a guitar solo on my music app. There aren't enough rubber bands in the world for me to be Trace's friend. I'd probably wear right through my wrist, trying to snap romantic thoughts of him away.

I'm considering whether I should call Colin and break it off, when the hotel door opens and Trace is there. I stand up to greet him. He closes the door behind him and just...stares at me. He has that look. The same one as earlier. The cool, unaffected, gaze like he could fuck me or leave me.

Fuck his rock star face. I want the real Trace. This time, I'm the one that crosses the room. I'm on a mission—determined to break through the guard he's put up sometime between now and when we got out of bed this morning.

I cross my arms, and tap my foot, glaring at him. His mouth twitches, but he's trying hard not to smile at me.

"That pouty shit work on your boyfriend?"

"No, it works on you," I say confidently.

His smile breaks out against his will. He pulls my ponytail but then he plants his hand against the back of my head and pulls my  face into his shoulder, catching me in a tight embrace. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"About the curvy thing? Forget it. I'm happy with my body. I don't need you to tell me I'm hot. Or not."

"Christ, I'm glad to hear that. Just for the record,  you're smokin'. But that's not what I meant when I said sorry. It's something else. A mistake. A fucking big one. I don't know if I can fix it."

"Whatever it is, just tell me," I say. "We could always talk."

"In a minute. Just let me...feel you." He rocks me side to side, like he's...afraid to let go. Or maybe it's like before--he's letting go and he's afraid to tell me. Oh god, was bringing me here just a whim for him? Was he just curious to see me? Or nostalgic for a minute, but now he's over it?

Did I say I wanted the real Trace? Suddenly I feel like I've gotten too much Trace, too fast. I'm already in too deep. If he sends me home, I'll be in serious Trace withdrawals. At the same time , if he keeps holding onto me like this, I'm going to melt into a puddle right here on the floor of this twelve hundred dollar a night carpet. I have to lighten this situation up.

"Trace, just tell me what's going on with you. Are you on drugs? Is this rock star mood disorder? Or are you just crazy thinking about my hot pink panties?"

"The last one," he says in my hair.

"Oh good, that's easy to fix. I can just take them off, and your sanity will return." I'm totally kidding. Aren't I?

"Shut up, Siren. Don't you know a tender moment when you see one?"

I shut up. He holds on. I give up fighting and welcome the melting.

Finally, he murmurs in my ear. "I should have never written that damn song. You've been made. The world knows your name. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"That song is beautiful. Don't be sorry. I'm not."

"Really? I thought the way you looked last night...I was sure you didn't like it." He's still holding on, whispering in my ear.

"I didn't say I liked it. It hurts a little, when I hear it. But it's still beautiful and now I know for sure—I'm not sorry you were able to write it about me."

"Sorry is exactly what you are going to be, now that everyone knows you are Little Sister."

"It's fine."

"It's fine here, in my world, where I can shield you," he says. "It won't be fine in yours. There will be paparazzi, maybe even people that hardly know you giving interviews about you, saying things that aren't remotely true. It will be a hassle, Kat. I'm really sorry."

I sigh. He's in a real funk. He's not going to let this go on his own. I'm going to have to distract him.

"Well, right now, I'm in your world," I grin at him. "So show me a good time, rock star. Make the hassle of my two minutes of fame worth it."

I back up a little, to get a better view of his face, but he doesn't release his hold, so all I accomplish is pressing our chests together.

"A good time, huh? I have a couple ideas..." His words are slow, his lips barely parted. His eyes flit to the bed and then back to me with meaning. I swallow hard. That's maybe more of a distraction than I was planning just yet.

"How's your head?" I ask.

"You make it better," he buries his face in my neck again, and breathes me in, "You make it all better, Kat."

His lips make a soft, sucking kiss at the base of my neck. I feel his tongue, hot and moist, tasting me. Then another stronger, slower suck of my throat.

I can't respond; my body is paralyzed, overwhelmed with sensation coursing all the way through me. How does he do that to me?

I think I groan. I must have done something to encourage him because he gathers me tighter, pulling me up on my tiptoes. Tiny butterfly kisses brush up my neck and I think he's going to actually put his lips to mine and then—

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. He reaches down slowly, making a generous amount of contact as he feels for which pocket. I laugh. He pulls it out and looks at it. I feel a little buzz of confusion. I don't mind if he's looking at my phone, but I wonder if I would be granted the same access. To either of his phones.

Then, he releases me with a sigh, and the confusion fades to disappointment at the loss of his touch.

"Colin," he says flatly, holding up the phone. The Rock Star Face is back. He has no expression whatsoever.

So, Trace had the opportunity to tell Kat about Ashlynn again, and he chickened out. Is he wrong for that? Or does it seem reasonable that he needs a little more time to reconnect with Kat before he can explain how and why he is tied to her missing sister? What would you do in Trace's situation? I'd love to hear from you!

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