Page 42 of Two Hit Wonder

Instead, she crossed the room to say goodbye properly, because what if Maeve noticed that she kissed the others? What if she was making it weird? What if… A quick kiss on the cheek. Friendly. Normal. The kind of thing people did all the time without turning it into an event.

Maeve turned at the same moment Iona leaned in, and they both went the same direction, and instead of a friendly cheek-kiss there was a collision of foreheads that sent pain exploding through Iona's skull.

"Ow," Maeve said, stepping back with her hand pressed to her head. "What the hell?"

"I was trying to kiss you goodbye. On the cheek. Friendly."

"You headbutted me."

"You turned!"

"Because you were coming at me like some sort of affectionate missile!"

They stared at each other, both rubbing their foreheads. Cam was laughing so hard she had to brace herself against her drum kit, tears streaming down her face. Even Ellie was struggling to keep a straight face, her shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.

"You two are hopeless," Cam managed between gasps.

Iona's face was burning, though whether from embarrassment or the impact she couldn't say. "Right. Well. I'm leaving now. Before I cause any more head injuries."

She fled, aware of Maeve's eyes on her back, aware of the throb in her skull where they'd connected, aware that kissing Maeve had always been painful, one way or another.

In the car, she sat for a moment before starting the engine.

Her thoughts kept coming back to Shepherd.

What could he possibly be working on? A TV appearance? Some kind of reunion documentary where they'd all have to pretend they hadn't spent fifteen years carefully not speaking to each other? The possibilities spiraled through her head, each more elaborate than the last.

Could they actually be big again?

The thought was terrifying. Also thrilling. Also completely absurd. She was a thirty-something single mother with two failed marriages and a pottery studio full of unsellable vases. She had no business dreaming about main stages and comeback albums and whatever Shepherd was mysteriously scheming.

And yet…

Chapter Fifteen

Glinna answered on the fifth ring, which was approximately four rings more patient than Maeve had ever managed in her life.

"Maeve! Hang on, let me just… Charity, put that down, it's not a toy, it's Mummy's… sorry, I'm here. How are you? How's London? Is it terrible? Tell me it's terrible."

Maeve pressed the phone closer to her ear and sat on the edge of her hotel bed. The bed still felt too firm. She'd complained to reception twice and they'd sent up extra pillows, which had solved nothing. "It's terrible."

"Oh good. I was worried you'd gone soft."

In the background, something crashed. Glinna didn't acknowledge it, which meant it was probably fine. Or she'd deal with it later. The Campbell household operated on a system of triage that Maeve had never fully understood but deeply respected.

"So," Glinna said. "Check-in time. How are you really?"

This was the question. Glinna always asked how she was twice: once for the performance, once for the truth. Maeve had learned not to try lying on the second one.

"I'm steady," she said. "The Manchester gig stirred things up a bit. Lot of old feelings. The smell of the bar. You know."

"But you didn't drink."

"I didn't drink."

"And you're not thinking about drinking."

"No more than usual." Which was honest. The whiskey smell had itched at something in her brain, but it was an old itch, familiar and manageable. She knew how to sit with it now. "I'm fine, Glinna. Really."