Read Online The After Girls by Leah Konen - Free Book Online Page A

When he wanted music, or more like a musical ideal that he (and only he) could understand, he was exacting, overbearing. In short, an asshole.
    And yet in spite of herself, she still liked the way that his sandy brown hair fell around his face, just above his shoulders. He’d always have that on her.
    “Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath in an attempt to still her mind. “Let’s just try it again from the top.” She had her bow at the ready. Max, on guitar, started them off, softly strumming.
    Eight counts of eight, she told herself. Eight counts of eight.
    One
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
    It wasn’t a difficult song; it was one they’d played many times. Not the main crowd favorite, but well-liked. A bit moodier, still upbeat. On the demo that Max wanted to record, it would be the second track. He was serious about River Deep. Had been since they’d started three years ago. So was Sydney.
    But the problem wasn’t the music. It never was. It was Max. He hadn’t said a word about them hooking up. Of course, she hadn’t either, but that was beyond the point. He was the one who wanted space until he didn’t want it anymore, for a few fleeting moments. He was the one who called the shots.
    Three
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
    She hadn’t told Ella what had happened between them. She had a feeling that she wouldn’t approve. Astrid was the kind of person she told those things to. Astrid was the one who never judged. It’s not that she didn’t love Ella — she did — but Ella wasn’t the one that you ran to if you were ashamed of yourself. She was the one you celebrated with when you were proud.
    Six
. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
    Astrid had wanted to tell her something, too. Her mind flashed back to that stupid party, Astrid getting drunk, her face right before Sydney walked away. What had she and her mom been fighting about? A boy? But Astrid never was all that into boys, at least not beyond the faraway crushes that everyone had at some point or another. Could she have been seeing someone and they hadn’t even known about it? Had she tried to talk to her mom about her dad? Was she tired of never mentioning him, of practically pretending that he’d never existed? Sydney had never even seen a photo of him anywhere in their house. She’d always thought it was a little strange, but now that he had a name, now that she knew he played the saxophone, liked jazz — was wild for Grace — it just felt wrong.
    And yet she’d never questioned it. Not once.
    Now, Sydney wished more than anything that she’d stayed. Pressed her until she got it all out. But instead, she’d just let Astrid be Astrid. Open up one moment and shut back down the next.
    That night, Sydney had known that something was wrong. God help her, she’d known. And she hadn’t done anything to help.
    Eight
. Two. Three. Four —
    The guitar stopped. Sydney looked to Max and Carter. Carter quickly stopped playing and looked at her bashfully, his face warm and nice like it always was. He felt bad for her. He always did.
    Max just stared at her. “Can you not count?”
    She thought of Astrid and all she felt was rage. At herself. At Max. At everyone.
    “I guess not,” she said, and she threw her bow across the garage as hard as she could. It hit a plastic sled and landed on top of a can of mineral spirits. She didn’t throw her fiddle. Even she wasn’t dramatic enough for that. And she knew that it damn well wouldn’t do anyone any good.
    She set it down instead, stomping out of the garage, cursing the pretty sunset that met her outside, bright orange and pink that really ought to be enjoyed. She had nothing else to do, so she sat down by the mailbox in front of Max’s house. She put her hands at her sides, took a deep breath, and screamed.
    No one turned, no neighbors or idle walkers, because there was no one there to turn. Max’s house was the only one along this road. In another place,