All I could think about was the way she’d felt in my arms—soft and vulnerable. The way her lips and tongue had moved against mine. How she’d sounded when she said my name and then came against my fingers.

I lifted my dumbbells from the corner of the room and started with bicep curls. Before the night was over, I’d probably get through my entire workout routine. It was a healthy habit I had picked up in Amsterdam during a particularly stressful afternoon at the studio. And somehow I figured it balanced out my unhealthy vices.

Johan had a weight machine and barbells laying around in the back room, and he’d taught me some simple exercises. I’d go back there and work out my frustrations on practically a daily basis. At night, I’d head to my favorite “coffee shop,” also known as a hash bar, and work out my troubled head in a different way—only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

After my twelfth rep, I focused on my quivering muscles instead of my desire to head straight back into Rachel’s room and lay down beside her. I wanted to pull her body taut with mine and smell her again. Taste the skin on her neck and whisper in her ear.

But that would have only confused the situation further. I needed to steel my emotions away. What happened tonight was just a fling to her. It was the same thing she’d been doing the last few years at college. I was just another guy she’d hooked up with. Used to make herself sane.

It had taken every sober brain cell I had to stop me from sinking myself deep inside of her. Because if I had, I’d be an even bigger wreck than I was right now. For her, this was about forgetting Miles, not about sharing something with me.

My phone buzzed with a text message from Dakota.

Dakota: How is she? Did she beat your butt for jumping in the car?

Shit, I’d forgotten that at any moment Dakota could’ve walked through that door and caught us in a compromising position.

Me: She’s going to be fine. Already asleep. Took a couple of shots to get her there.

Dakota: I don’t doubt it. K, gonna crash here. I don’t want to hear anything about it. You’ve been gone for 3 years & I’ve taken care of myself just fine.

Me: Whatever. Shane better give you a bed to sleep in. Alone. See you in the morning.

That motherfucker better not try anything with Dakota. Of course I knew that my best friend had a crush on my sister on and off through high school, but no way did I need them to have a drunken hookup over the summer. Or even date and then break up. It would’ve been all kinds of awkward between the three of us for all of eternity.

Hell, I was being a damn hypocrite. Rachel was practically a member of the family and look what line I’d crossed tonight. I brushed my fingers through my hair and paced around the room. Dakota had never given me any kind of warning about Rachel, because, even though Rachel and I were friends, Dakota thought we were interested in different things. Different people. No way could she have ever suspected how my feelings for Rachel had grown before I left for Amsterdam, could she?

And Rachel. Never would I have expected her to be attracted to me. I knew she was only interested in sex, sure. But I also knew I had never been her type. Somehow that had changed tonight. Damn, the way she’d begged me for it. At this rate, I’d be hard for two more hours.

I set down the weights and stalked toward my upright bass, pulled it off its stand, and positioned myself behind it. I placed my fingers on the strings and began playing something I’d been working on since moving back home.

I was never one to use a bow for the upright bass or even a pick with my electric bass—I preferred hammering away at the strings with my bare hands. It felt more organic that way, as if I were one with the music. Some of the best musicians I’d ever had the privilege of hearing used only their fingers, so I figured I was in good company.

The pads of my fingers had long since developed a thick skin. If I didn’t play for a few weeks—which almost never happened—a painful process would occur all over again. Blisters would turn into scabs and then into dense and unyielding calluses. My hands would never be the same again.

I’d first heard the upright bass at an orchestra concert in middle school. It was a Christmas program I’d begged my mother to take me to, despite the cost of the tickets. My father had tried to steer me toward the football field or basketball court, but I wanted nothing to do with sports. I was playing the piano and guitar at that point, and my teachers had told my parents that I was a natural, talented beyond my years.

Since that night, the sound of the upright bass had always calmed me. It has a low rumble, concentrated and deep. I loved the way it added such a rich layer to jazz and the blues, just as an electric bass grounds all the textures together in rock music. I liked to play either instrument, depending on my mood.

I’d always enjoyed working with my hands. Even dabbled in art and photography, but music was my first love. My original band was Shane, Joe, Logan, and me in my parents’ basement rec room in the eighth grade. We mostly just messed around, but I was probably the most serious about it in the group.

By high school, while they had moved on to other things, I continued playing in several different bands, performing at parties and even at some bars. I was heavy into smoking dope and could have sworn some of my best music was written while I was flying high.

In Amsterdam, I became a damn competent studio engineer. I loved working with new talent who’d come in to record their first albums. If they were a shitty band, no amount of engineering could help, especially if they ever wanted to play live. I’d tell them that they’d have to lip synch forever, or they could practice hard for the next several weeks, then come back and try again instead. Some bands told me to fuck off. Had their eyes so set on fame that they ignored my advice and then fell flat on their faces months later.

My other favorite part of working in the studio was sitting in on bass, or any other instrument, when a band needed extra sound for their demo. I loved losing myself in the music. Creating something new with people I’d never met.

I lit up a joint with the hope that it would help me unwind and actually fall asleep tonight. I was going to work for my father in the morning, and I needed to get my head screwed on straight, so I only took a couple of hits. I didn’t want him to see that my eyes were red or glassy.

Dad had said he was done with me and the music biz, and that I owed him, needed to pay him back after I’d messed up so royally in Amsterdam. And I knew he was right.

Besides, in a lot of ways, I was still the same screw-up I was in high school. A kid who needed to put in extra hours just to earn passing grades. I still couldn’t make it on my own, not yet. Not with only my music to support me. But sooner or later, I would have to prove to him that I could. Prove it to myself, really.

I padded out into the kitchen for a glass of water and then made my way down the hall to Rachel’s room. I opened the door a crack to make sure she was still asleep. A totally brainless and dangerous thing to do—watching her lying there in only her tank top and underwear after I’d helped remove her shorts so she’d be more comfortable. I could’ve slipped inside those sheets so easily and held her all night.

I couldn’t shake the words Rachel had uttered right before I had kissed the hell out of her. She said that I had left her. How was that even possible? She had been the one to pull back, to escape to a college so far away from home.

I considered what a rough time it must’ve been for her. She probably felt like everyone was moving on without her. And I never wanted her to feel that way again.