Chapter 18: Worst Critic

*Natalia's POV*

I didn't even bother turning my location off, as I saw Noah hadn't either. He wanted me to see he was already barhopping without me, most likely going to hit up the clubs once the sun completely disappeared. I knew his plan was to hurt me, and for a second, it did.

Until my chariot arrived, I used my somber bitterness into putting myself together as quickly as possible. It wasn't for Joe. It was for myself, a brief moment to feel that confidence again.

Finishing my look with winged eyeliner and two coats of mascara, my phone vibrated on the bathroom counter. It was the text I'd been waiting for, informing me that he was outside. I snatched my phone, a small black purse, and a black leather jacket that reminded me so much of him. It was his signature piece of clothing that already provided so many good memories. I had no doubt we were about to match with our black leather jackets.

But as soon as I walked out, Joe leaning against the back passenger side door, I was proven wrong. Instead, he sported a brown oversized jacket with matching pants. A white tank top peeked from under the jacket, along with his chest tattoo. At least we were matching with a white shirt underneath our jackets.

He also wore a small smile on his lips, but not one that came from a joyous elation. It expressed relief. Not because we were seemingly okay, but because I was.

"Tired of driving me around?" I alluded to the Uber parked in front of my apartment.

"No, I figured you shouldn't lie again," he opened the door for me, slightly stepping aside, "Our Uber awaits."

I glanced away with a fallen frown, a sting of guilt physically causing a pain in my stomach, as I hopped in the backseat. As lighthearted as he tried to make it, it still weighed with tension.

He closed the door once I was securely in and walked around to the other side, joining me in the back instead of taking the front passenger seat, "And I wanted to give you my full attention instead of it being on the road."

I forced a smile that never reached my eyes, briefly glimpsing up at him, "Yeah, about that night at the rink—"

"Hey, don't worry about it," he cut me off, not out of rudeness but in an attempt to divert the conversation, "I just hope I helped in any capacity, before my pride sabotaging it. I shouldn't have said what I did, so I am sorry about that."

With my head still lowered, I shook it, "If there's anyone who should be apologizing, it should be me."

"No, I...I misread the signals," he glanced out the window of the moving vehicle, "It was my fault for thinking—"

I gazed up with a curious anticipation, turning my head towards him once his words got caught in his throat.

He never finished his sentence, changing it to something less than himself and his bruised ego, "It didn't matter if it was one call or twelve. I would've called back either way. Not because you're manipulative, which, for the record, you're not by the way. But because I care."

I somewhat contained my smile that wanted to form, the sentiment meaning more to me than he'd ever know. I playfully slapped him lightly against the side of his head, "Oh, shut up, softie."

"Softie?" he giggled, moving his head away with my hand, "My bad for ruining my brooding reputation. I guess from now on I'll pretend not to give a shit." 

Our laughter lasted for a short moment, it diminishing naturally as we pulled up to a small undisclosed building I hadn't ever passed by before. Or if I had, I never took notice of it as it was smushed in between other random buildings that merged them altogether inconspicuously.

After unbuckling my seatbelt, I shuffled across the backseats as Joe held his door open, him wasting no time scurrying out the car right as we came to a stop. My hand wanted to wrap around his bicep as he lead us through the halls inside, but I kept to myself. I couldn't keep on confusing the both of us. Those feelings had to be left at the rink to dry out with the ice.

"Well, look who's finally back," a young man with a head full of perfect curls spoke through his mic on a giant black stage, "Little Prince Charming and his Elsa. You know, that's a Disney crossover I'd like to see."

"Maybe we're already looking at it," another guy with a guitar strapped to him teased from the other end of the stage.

"Just ignore my brothers," Joe muttered to me before raising his voice to be heard, no help from his own mic as it stood there waiting for him on its stand in the middle of the stage, "Guys, this is Natalia. She's gonna chill here for the rest of rehearsal, so please for the love of god, don't embarrass me."

The two guys on stage smirked at each other before Curly Top replied, "Yeah, trust me, we don't need to. You'll do that yourself."

Joe held himself back on their brotherly banter with a simple glare, fidgeting with his silver ring on his right hand.

He went to gesture around the room full of folded metal chairs in rows throughout, barely able to look me straight in my eyes anxiously, "So, um, you can sit wherever you choose to. It'll be a few hours, give or take, but there's food and drinks over there—"

"Joe, why did he call me Elsa?" I quietly questioned, immediately regretting exposing vulnerable information on the life I had to give up.

He looked back at his brothers on stage as they were figuring out the transition between whatever song they last played before we arrived to what they were about to play, "Who?"

I motioned to the young man on the right side of the stage, "The one with the curly fro."

"Ah. Yeah, that's Nick," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "Ignore him, alright? It's what I do the majority of the time."

"But why did he call me Elsa?" I repeated, my tone more firm than when I originally asked, "Did you tell him? What I told you at the rink?"

"No, of course not. No," he replied without a beat, although clearly anxious on my defensive attitude as his fingers played with each other, "You just, you can't make fun of me, okay?"

I couldn't promise such a thing, staring at him with the little bit of trust I still had with him.

"Okay, um," he scratched the side of his head, "He caught me watching your competition videos. I didn't say anything. I promise. It's embarrassing, I know. And it totally defeats the purpose me pretending to not give a shit. Yeah, I don't know. I just wanted to see you do what you loved to do. That's it."

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I sat in a chair closest to me. It was right in the middle, the second row from the end of the catwalk.

"Well?" I signaled to the stage with an opened hand, my palm upwards.

His eyes wandered in confusion with pressed lips, slightly turning his body to the stage, "Well...?"

"You got to watch me do what I loved to do," I said with a straight face, "It's only fair I get to watch you do what you love to do."

His lips curled up, "Why do I feel like you're going to be my biggest critic?"

"Because I will be," I winked, "Go on now. You're already making me wait too long."

Truth be told, there was nothing to critique. They performed every song perfectly, although every now and then, they determined themselves there was room for improvement. They were definitely their own worst critics.

They each owned their spaces on the stage, then coming together with a whole different energy that sparked in ways I'd never witnessed before. But Joe, even during his mistakes at forgetting lyrics or playfully maneuvering around to mess around with all the bandmates, stole the show. I couldn't take my eyes off him the entire time.

"No commentary from the peanut section?" Joe joked, taking a seat on the floor with his legs crisscrossed at the end of the catwalk. The lights from above still fluorescing on him, twinkling his pupils.

No. This was another weak moment, just like at the ice rink. His irresistible charm wouldn't work this time on me.

I simply smiled, leaning back in my chair, "People already prepaid to see this? Sucks they wasted their money, especially in this economy."