But I refused to give in to that kind of need again. I had to stop thinking about him that way. For the past two weeks I’ve tried to avoid getting too close to him. For reasons I don’t want to think about, though, I want to be near him. Then every time I am near him, I teeter between love and hate. It’s a fine line and I’m taking baby steps to avoid stumbling. I have to say, he threw me when he hadn’t said yes right away about my joining the band. That bothered me. I wanted him to welcome me, at least make me feel like he cared. But what bothers me the most is he hasn’t really tried to discuss what happened between us. I know I said the past was in the past, but I never thought he’d listen. He never used to let barriers keep him from discussing the things that were important to him. The fact that he seems so detached from the whole situation is eating at me in a way that’s causing me to lose focus. We’re going to be sharing the confined space of a tour bus and before I get on that bus, we need to clear the air. We are both grown-ups. We can do this—talk it out and then put it aside for the sake of business. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’m staying with a friend in Beverly Hills, so the drive to his house is short—too short. As I pull up to the beautiful architecture of his Canon Drive condominium building, my pulse races in a way I’m not familiar with. I walk slowly to his door, telling myself I can do this, not to be nervous. Just as I’m about to ring the bell, the door opens. I drop my gaze to the ground and I swear my heart jumps out of my chest. I think about running, but I’m not sure my jelly legs will take me anywhere. I draw a deep breath and when I can finally focus, I look up and almost laugh because it’s not him—it’s his brother. When I saw River at the announcement party I knew who he was right away—the light brown hair that looks almost coppery and the insanely green eyes hadn’t changed. To me he’ll always be Xander’s cute kid brother, but he’s grown up to be equally as handsome as Xander. The difference—River borders on adorable, while Xander exudes ruggedness. Their hair and eye color may be different, but there’s no mistaking they’re brothers.

“Ivy.” He greets me, pulling me for a quick hug.

“Hi, River. Is Xander home?” I ask nervously.

“Sorry. He’s not. I just stopped by to pick up a few things he bought for Dahlia.”

I must look at him skeptically because he explains, “He was out and picked up some old albums, CDs, and movies he thought she’d enjoy.”

“That was nice of him. I heard she’s been put on bed rest. I’d say I’m sorry, but really that must be kind of nice. The two of you get to spend time together doing things you like to do.”

An almost wicked grin crosses his face. He’s so much like his brother. My cheeks turn pink and I feel the need to clarify my comment. I point to the stack of albums under his arm. “Like listening to some awesome music.”

“Yes, we’ve actually been making the best of it,” he says with a laugh.

Backing away from the door, I say, “Well, it was great to see you again and it was really nice meeting Dahlia at the press announcement party. Please tell her I said hello. I’ll catch up with Xander later at rehearsal.”

“Ivy,” he calls in a tone that sounds a little too real for me to want to hear any more.

I stop just before the steps. Turning around, I clutch the railing.

“Never mind,” he says, and I just smile, then leave.

* * *

The sun brightens the east side of the stadium, with blazing-hot rays beating down and making it hard to see anything but what’s right in front of you. It’s our last rehearsal before hitting the road tonight, and Xander insisted on making it as realistic as possible. We’re at the Greek Theatre, the stadium is empty, and I’m clutching the microphone . . . my face carefully blank as I mindlessly search for him. It’s upsetting me that he’s occupying so much of my mind space. Before I went to his house, I thought having it out with him would take care of it, but now I think status quo might be best. My nerves overtook me when I was there, and I’m not sure I can actually discuss the past with him.

I just have to clear away all thoughts of him and focus on my career. But that’s easier said than done because every time I see him, he’s back in the forefront of my mind. Even right now he’s searing me as he strides down the aisle. He looks amazingly sexy in all black—black T-shirt, black jeans, and black work boots. I’m standing in this huge stadium with so many other people around and he’s still all I see. Moving toward me with his dark good looks and arrogance, he’s just the same eighteen-year-old boy I couldn’t wait to see, talk to, kiss, and wrap my arms around. But today, even though his hazel eyes appear tired and his dark hair looks a little more disheveled than usual, he’s still undeniably gorgeous. What’s wrong with me? One minute I don’t want to lay eyes on him ever again, and the next I can’t wait to see him.

The sound system is on the fritz and he immediately takes control of the situation. He points to the stage and yells to someone. He struts even closer and his walk is as full of confidence as his tone. Hearing his voice, now the voice of a man, makes my heart beat a little faster, my breath quicken, and gives me that feeling of comfort in my soul that it once did. Screeching crackles from the speakers pierce my ears. The scratching sound would normally make me cringe, but right now it’s the sweetest hymn of music because it helps distract me.

After he gives a few more directives, the sound system seems to be working again and he moves on to his next task. Ellie, the tour manager, calls him over and he approaches her with the easy grin and flirty manner that used to make me see green when he talked to other girls. It has the same impact on me now. I feel like that same lovesick teenager, and my reaction just makes me furious with myself.

When we finally finish what has to be the longest rehearsal ever, I swing my purse over my shoulder and make my way to the restroom. My phone rings the minute I cross the threshold backstage, and I fumble through my bag to pull it out. The screen flashes DAMON and I automatically hit IGNORE. He’s been calling and texting me for the last two weeks—begging forgiveness one minute and threatening legal action the next. He wants me back, but whether it’s for personal or business reasons, I’m not sure. I haven’t asked because I have no intention of going back. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when he finds out I joined this tour. Xander is making the announcement today that I’ve joined the Wilde Ones. I guess I’ll have to talk to Damon tonight, but I’ll wait until we’ve hit the road.

The bathroom backstage is old and definitely needs to be remodeled. The mirror is cracked, but I steal a glance at myself anyway. Hot, sweaty, and a mess. Oh, well. I try to stick the pieces of my hair that have fallen out of my low-slung bun back into the elastic as best I can and then head out. I’m a little nervous about starting this journey and a little excited at the same time. Singing is what I love, so getting back to sharing my music is exciting, but having Xander so close has put me on edge. My feelings for him are unclear and crystal clear at the same time—that’s why I’m nervous.

The smell of hamburgers fills the air, and I smile when I see that the food has been put on the tables previously set up in the orchestra section of the amphitheater. Since I’m starving, I make a plate and join the guys. Xander is not here. See, I’m still thinking about him—crap. I take a seat in the metal folding chair next to Garrett. His slightly long blond hair covers his gray eyes, shielding them from the sun. I just grin at him because his hairstyle and boyish face make him look like he’s still fifteen, and he really is cute. His lip ring only adds to his youthful appearance, and his tall, skinny stature certainly doesn’t help him look any more grown-up. When my phone rings again, I ignore it and switch it to VIBRATE.

Garrett asks, “Not going to answer that?”

The sunglasses on my face not only keep the sun from blinding me but also keep Garrett from seeing the stir of nerves within me. Damon’s continual calls are wearing on me. Smiling, I tell him, “It would be rude to answer at the table.”

He smiles back and takes a bite of his burger.

I push the unidentifiable salad around on my plate. “Do you think these are potatoes?”

He shrugs his shoulders and takes another bite of the mound identical to mine on his own plate. “It tastes like macaroni to me.”

Suddenly, the heap of food on my plate becomes very unappealing and I’m not hungry anymore. I push it aside. Nix is sitting across from me, sipping his beer. “He eats anything,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes.

Nix is an attractive dark-haired guy. In high school he always had a girlfriend but never seemed interested in any of them. He’s tall, but not as tall as Xander, and he has an athletic build. His hair is short, his eyes are chocolate brown, and his skin always looks tan. He looks the same as in high school, just more mature and more built. But he now wears a very detailed tribal tattoo that circles his biceps with an intricate feather design draped down his arm. It’s always peeking out from under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. Garrett told me he got it right after graduation—he went to visit his great-uncle, who lives on an Indian reservation, and came home with it. Garrett said he never really explained to them why he got it, but he figures it has something to do with his family heritage.

I stand up and toss my plate in the trash. My phone rings again, but this time it’s my mother and I decide to bite the bullet and get it over with.

“Hello.”

“Ivy, it’s your mother, honey,” she says, as if I didn’t have caller ID or recognize the sound of her voice.

“Mom. Hi.” I drop down to sit on the steps.

“I’ve been calling you. Why didn’t you call me when you broke off your engagement with Damon? I had to hear it from him.”

“I’m sorry. I just have a lot going on right now.”

“Well, sweetie, I’d like to have lunch this week if possible.”

I take a couple of deep breaths. “Mom, I’m going on the road with another band for a few months and I’m busy getting ready, but I promise I’ll call you as soon as I get settled.”

“Ivy, honey, it’s important. Your sister’s tuition is due and I don’t have the money and somehow I missed the mortgage payment last month.”

“Mom, I’ll see what I can do. Money is tight right now.”

“Oh,” she responds. “Do you think you could ask Damon?”

“No! I should be able to get you some money in a few weeks.”

“I can’t wait that long. The bank will take the house.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Listen, come get my car. I’ll text you where it is. I’ll leave the keys and the signed pink slip under the mat. That should hold you over for a bit.”

“Ivy, that would help tremendously.”

“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”

“Thanks, honey. I knew I could count on you.” She hangs up.

Her response was as automatic as mine. She knew all she had to do was ask. But what bothers me is that she didn’t even ask where I was going or with whom. That just wasn’t as important as getting a check.

My body fills with so much tension I feel paralyzed. I put my head in my hands and sit alone for the longest time, wondering how I’m ever going to free myself from her. Finally, I stand and head backstage to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. The floor is slatelike and my heels click against it with each step, but that’s not the only sound I hear—I hear Xander’s voice. With just one simple word he’s back in the front of my mind again and I stand frozen in place in the almost nonexistent space between the stage and backstage.

“Fuck,” he says, and the way the word rolls off his tongue catapults me back in time.

I had missed a week of school and band rehearsals. I was in the tenth grade and Xander had just gotten his license. I was sick, but I still had to babysit—my mother was working. The doorbell rang and when I opened it all I could see was a finger hooked around a hanging plant of ivy. I slammed the door shut, thinking it was the neighbor kids playing a practical joke and almost caught his finger.

“Fuck!” he yelled, and I immediately opened the door again.

He came into view and handed me the pot. I raised an eyebrow and just looked at him.

He grinned. “What?”

I eyed the ivy plant.

Shrugging, he said, “Roses are so cliché.” Then he kissed me and snickered. “I prefer Ivy.” He made the statement sound simple, but it was so full of meaning. His gift was a symbol of our love and it was something that could last forever . . . like I thought we would. He stayed that night to help me babysit. Once the girls fell asleep, we watched the Grammys and we talked about our dreams for each other—his was that I would be up on that stage one day. That made me laugh and made me cry. After that night he’d bring me ivy plants of all kinds—sometimes as a gesture to make up, sometimes for my birthday, sometimes just because . . . and I loved them all. I planted them in the garden I started with my sisters or hung them in my room, and they never died, but I did dig them all up and throw them away the night I saw him with Tessa.