Chapter 17: Ricky

The drive away from Fran’s house felt like I was navigating through a thick, heavy fog, even though the night was perfectly clear. My hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, but my brain was still back on that stone terrace, stuck in a loop of the ten seconds that had just rearranged my entire universe.

I was in a complete daze. The smell of her perfume—something like vanilla and expensive trouble—was practically tattooed into my brain. My lips still felt electric, buzzing with the memory of how she’d grabbed my vest and pulled me down. One second she was tearing me apart with her words, and the next, she was... well, she was kissing me like she meant it.

"Earth to Ricky," a voice piped up from the passenger seat. "You’ve been staring at that green light for about five seconds, man. People behind us are starting to get pretty annoyed."

I blinked, realizing I was sitting motionless at an intersection. I shifted the van into gear and rolled forward, my movements stiff and robotic.

"Sorry," I muttered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

Georgie shifted in his seat, his drumsticks clicking together as he toyed with them. He didn't say anything for a minute, just watched me out of the corner of his eye. He’d been unusually quiet since we hauled the gear back to the van, which was my first clue that he’d seen more than he was letting on.

"So," Georgie finally said, popping the ‘p’ with annoying clarity. "It was pretty dark out there."

"It was, Georgie. People go outside to breathe," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I failed. My voice cracked on the word 'breathe.'

"From the window, it looked like you two were trying to share the same oxygen supply."

I felt the heat rush to my face, probably turning my skin a shade of red that matched the taillights in front of us. "You were watching? Seriously? Whatever happened to privacy?"

"Privacy is for people who don't act out scenes from a teen drama in front of a giant glass door," Georgie retorted, but his tone wasn't as biting as usual. He actually sounded... concerned. "Look, I saw the whole thing. The kiss, the shove, the part where she looked like she wanted to scream and then bolted back inside."

I let out a long, shaky breath, the weight of the rejection finally hitting me now that the adrenaline was fading. "She said it was a way to make up for my toe, Georgie."

"What an interestingly way to say sorry."

"She basically told me she only did it because she liked the music, and then she left."

"Women are weird."

I gripped the wheel harder, the angst of the last few months boiling over. "I don't get her. One minute she’s running over my foot, the next she’s kissing me, and then she’s telling me she hates my face. It’s exhausting. I feel like I’m being played with."

Georgie went quiet again. He looked out the window at the passing streetlights, his reflection looking way too mature for an eighth grader.

"She's scared, Ricky," he said softly.

I scoffed. "Roxie George isn't scared of anything. She’s the one who does the scaring."

"No, she’s scared of you," Georgie corrected, turning back to me.

"Scared of me? How? Why?"

"Think about it. Her life is perfect, right? Everything is curated and organized and fake. Then you show up with your 'struggle bus' and your music and your divorce drama, and you’re the first thing she can’t control. That kiss? That was her losing control for a second. The walking away part was her trying to grab it back."

I glanced at him, surprised by the insight. "When did you get so smart? Did you hit your head on a snare drum?"

"I spend a lot of time observing you being an idiot," he joked, but then he reached over and punched my shoulder—not hard, but enough to bring me back to reality.

"I should hit you back for that comment." I grinned.

"Don't let her get to you. You played a killer set tonight. Everyone loved us. You proved you're a rockstar. If she wants to pretend nothing happened, let her. But we both know she’s lying."

I pulled the van into our driveway and cut the engine. The silence of the neighborhood felt heavy after the noise of the party. I sat there for a second, looking at the darkened house, thinking about how much everything had changed since we left our old town.

"I really do hate her," I whispered, though it lacked any real conviction.

"Sure you do," Georgie said, opening the door and hopping out. "And I’m the King of England. Come on, help me get the amps inside before Mom wakes up and asks why we smell like fog juice and bad decisions."

I stepped out into the cool night air, feeling the ghost of Roxie's touch on my vest. Georgie was waiting by the back of the van, leaning against the door with a supportive, slightly smug grin.

"Hey, Ricky?"

"Yeah?"

"For a guy who just got his heart stepped on again, you handled that solo pretty well."

I managed a real smile—the first one since the terrace. "Thanks, Georgie. Let's get the gear in and you can call me Rodrick."

"Okay... Rodreick."

We worked in silence, hauling the heavy equipment into the garage. The daze was still there, but the sting was a little less sharp. I still didn't have a plan, and I still didn't understand the girl in the 'sweet' angel costume, but as I looked at my brother, I realized I wasn't as much of an outsider as I thought. I had a band, I had a brother who had my back, and I had a secret that—no matter what Roxie said—was very, very real.