Текст книги "My Soul to Keep"

Автор книги: Kennedy Ryan

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Breathing in and deeply usually helps, but I’m too far gone. My heart is too raw today. A sob erupts into the silence. I’m horrified that my body is betraying me this way. That my emotions are this undisciplined, wet spill over my cheeks. I squeeze the linen napkin in my lap until I’m sure I’ll draw blood from it, but the tears won’t stop. The pain doesn’t stop. I leak it. I lose it. I cannot stop it.

I cover my face with my hands too weak to even stand or run. I’m lost in this storm of grief, and there’s nothing to hold on to. I’m blowing in high winds, and I’m sure I’ll be carried away. God, please carry me away. In this moment, saturated with loss, life is merely the thing I want to escape. On this day that always meant so much to us, I want to be with her again more than I want to be here.

But then strong arms encircle me. Rhyson’s firm hand nudges my face into the solace of his shoulder. He rubs my back and makes shhhh noises by my ear. His voice, his touch, is an unexpected balm.

“It’s okay, Pep,” he whispers, his voice so low and tender I want to stop sniffling to hear what he’s saying. “I’m right here, baby.”

It’s so perfect. It’s just what I needed him to say. That he’s right here. That even though I feel like I’m alone in the outer reaches of grief, someone who cares is right here with me. Anchoring me to this life. Every touch, every soothing sound pulls me back from the precipice until I can breathe again.

I sit back to look up at him. He smiles at me, a slow, subtle smile that tells me if I need to cry some more, I can. His food could grow cold and his family could wait all day, and he’d still be right here. I manage a watery smile as he gently mops the tears from my face with his napkin.

“Better?” He angles his head and positions his shoulders to block everyone else out. I nod and finally glance around the table. Emmy’s eyes are wet, but she gives me a kind smile. Grady’s concern is all over his face, and so is San’s. Bristol is looking between her brother and me, a mixture of emotions I can’t decipher shadowing her pretty face.

“I’m sorry, everyone. I didn’t realize . . .” I pick up my fork and turn back to my plate, hoping it’s the signal they all need to resume dinner as usual. “I didn’t know it was hitting me that hard. Please, go on and eat.”

I dig into the turkey and stuffing, even though it tastes like ashes in my mouth. I eat and manage to smile as Bristol and Rhyson fall into their usual brother-sister banter, but it takes time for me to get past that dull ache. When will it be gone for good? Will it ever, or will there always be this chance that when I think of her, when I dream of Mama, I will lose myself to this sorrow?

“I THINK I ATE AWAY TEN years of my life,” Rhyson groans, holding his stomach.

I laugh and scoot a little closer on the nook built into the wall surrounding Grady’s poolside fire pit. Today was gorgeous and warmer than any Thanksgiving I’ve ever had, but with the sun gone, there’s a bit of an early evening chill.

“What was your favorite dish?” I already know. I lost count of how many helpings Rhyson had of my stuffing.

“You know what it was.” Rhyson bumps my shoulder and laughs.

“My stuffing?”

“Yes, your stuuuhffin.” Rhyson drags the syllables out and teases me with a sideways glance.

“There you go again, belittling my Southern roots. Will it never get old?”

“I doubt it.” Rhyson eases back against the pillows behind us, pulling me closer and tangling our ankles. “That first night we met, I thought you were gonna stab me in the eye with a toothpick for teasing you about it.”

“You were awful.” I kick his shin and feel his shoulder shake against me when he laughs. “You teased me about my accent and then made me feel even more self-conscious about that icky producer at my audition.”

I expect him to laugh again, but he doesn’t. He’s still against me for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Yeah, you never told me who that guy was.”

“Huh? Who?”

“You know, the guy. The one who wanted you to blow him.”

“Oh, he was . . .” I stop myself just in time, sitting up and looking back at him. His easy smile doesn’t distract me from the cold calculation in his stormy eyes. “Why do you want his name, Rhyson?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but he’s tense at my side.

“Just wondering.”

“Just wondering so you can go find him? You’re worse than San.”

Rhyson sits up so fast I’m not prepared for how close it brings us together. Not prepared for the heat of his body or his words.

“You’re right.” His sharp words disrupt the quiet. “I am worse than San because he knows who the guy is and didn’t do anything about it. If you gave me a name, not only would that bastard be walking with a limp, but he’d be broke by next week. Count on that.”

It scares me. The violent emotion brewing behind Rhyson’s eyes. Not because I think he would hurt me. He never would, but because he lets me see it. Less and less he’s hiding, and I wonder how long we’ll be able to stay in this limbo where everyone knows we’re more than friends, but where I keep us less than lovers.

“Look, I know you worry about me, but I’m a big girl.”

“You’re not a big girl.” He grabs my wrists, holding them up in front of my face like little sticks. “You’re a tiny girl, and any guy bigger than you—by the way, all the guys are bigger than you—could get you alone and make you do something you don’t want to do. Something I’d have to kill him for. This is a tough town, Kai. It’s not Glory fucking Falls.”

“I know that, and I know you have my best interests at heart.”

“Do you?” He moves his face closer to mine, the apple cider mintiness of his breath misting my lips. “If you know that, then why do you catch buses at midnight instead of calling me when you need a ride? Why do you work yourself half to death instead of letting me help you?”

I jerk my wrists away and pull back a few inches to escape the temptation of his mouth and those soulful eyes.

“Thousands of girls are here in L.A. doing the same thing I’m doing. Working in crappy restaurants. Dodging lechers at auditions. Catching buses late at night because they are hungry. They want their big break just like I do, and are willing to pay their dues.”

“And I don’t give a damn about them!” He plows a hand through the hair dipping to the crinkled line of his eyebrows. “I care about you. Only you.”

His eyes soften, and a small smile touches his lips, but I know him too well to think that means he’s backing off. If anything, he’s using our intimacy against me to get his way.

“Let me make things easier for you, Pep.” He pushes the hair over my shoulder and down my back. “Grip is Prodigy’s first artist. Be my second.”

I can’t believe he just offered that to me. After all these months of me telling him I want to make it on my own. That I don’t want anyone thinking our friendship, or whatever this is between us, gave me an advantage, he offers me a spot on his label that I haven’t earned. He’s barely even heard me sing properly.

I stand up and start toward the house. His hand grasping my elbow, gentle but firm, his warm, hard chest at my back, stop me.

“Just think about it.” He runs his hands down my arms until he reaches my fingers, plucking at them like they are the strings of one of his rare guitars. I turn to face him, hoping to make him see once and for all.

“If you give it to me, you can take it away, Rhyson.”

“That makes no sense. Once you have it, you have it. Who cares how you get there? What matters is that you have the talent and drive and grit to stay there, and you do, Pep.”

“It matters to me how I get there. I want to do this on my own. I wish you’d respect that.”

I wish you’d respect me.

He lifts my chin with one finger. The callus from all the acoustic guitar he’s been playing lately brushes the sensitive underside of my chin, and I press into its roughness. I want him rough and sweet with me, just like this. I want it all the time. I want him all the time, and if I give into it, he could easily become the only thing I want.

“Okay. I’m sorry I brought it up.” He runs a broad hand over my hair and pulls a chunk of it back to drape across my shoulder. “Forgive me? Forget about it?”

The light from the fire partially illuminates his face, painting shadows under the high cheekbones. Lighting sparks in his dark eyes. I nod because I want what’s left of our time together before I go home with San to be better than the last few minutes.

He walks us back over to the fire pit and settles against the pillows like our argument never happened. He pulls me under his arm, and my head flops against his strong shoulder.

“I really like Emmy,” he says, a deliberate change of subject if I ever saw one. “She’s good for Grady.”

“I like her too.” I groan, recalling Emmy’s sympathy when I broke down at dinner. I press my face into Rhyson’s shoulder. “Ugh, I’m so sorry I melted down like that at dinner. What must your sister think?”

“She’ll probably thank you.” He kisses my hair so softly I wonder if he thinks I don’t feel it. I pull back to look at him.

“Thank me?”

“Because of your meltdown, as you call it, I’ve decided to go home for Christmas after all.”

I throw my arms around his neck. I’m too happy to worry if the small sparks always idling between us might flare to life.

“That’s wonderful, Rhys.” I settle back against the pillows with a smile. “I’m glad.”

“Seeing you that way did something to me.” Rhyson gives a quick shake of his head. “What you had with your mom, with your grandparents, I won’t ever have that with my mother and father. Too much has happened, but seeing you today, knowing you would give anything to have one more day with the ones you’ve lost—”

“Anything,” I cut in with a vigorous nod. “One more day with Mama. Seeing Grammy and Pops again, I’d give anything for that.”

“It made me want to at least try to restore things with my parents.” That familiar cynicism tugs Rhyson’s mouth to the side. “I don’t expect much, but I want to at least try.”

I blink back tears because my hurt served some purpose today. I’ve become so accustom to the weight of my grief, sometimes I forget I’m carrying it. And sometimes I think it’s actually getting lighter, more so since I met Rhyson. Maybe I shed pain every time he makes me laugh, opens me up to something new, or shares a secret that by all rights he shouldn’t trust me with.

“You got me through today, you know?” I reach for his hand, and he immediately wraps his fingers around mine. I keep my eyes trained on our hands melded together by friendship and this heat I’m not sure I can keep ignoring. “I almost lost it completely today, and you rescued me. Without Mama, I thought I’d be so . . . alone. But I can’t ever feel alone when I’m with you.”

My soft words are a confession I can’t take back. I don’t know what he’ll make of them, but I can’t take them back. I’m not sure I want to. Rhyson looks at my bent head so long that I have to glance up, compelled by the heat of his eyes on me. He slides his hand around my neck, his fingers warm and searching.

“This wasn’t just your first Thanksgiving without your mom, Pep. It was our first Thanksgiving together.” He bends until his lips whisper against my ear. “But it won’t be our last. D’you hear me?”

I drop my head to his shoulder and nod because I know he’s waiting for me to acknowledge what he said. I can’t look at him though, because I don’t want to see what’s in his eyes. And I can’t let him see what’s in mine.

“Sorry to interrupt this special moment.” San stands over us, smirking.

Rhyson glares at him. He’s usually pretty tolerant of San’s constant presence, but lately, his patience has been wearing thin.

“What’s up, San?” Rhyson tightens his hands on me so I don’t move.

“Just got a tip. Celebrities are off the chain, so I’m needed in the office.” He scrunches his face into an apology. “Sorry, Rhys. It’s a living.”

“Long as you’re not reporting about me.” Rhys raises warning brows.

“Uh, yeah.” San looks between us. “You’ll be okay getting home, Kai?”

“I’ll take her home,” Rhyson says.

“Somehow I thought you would.” My two guys grin at each other for a few seconds. “I’m gone, pipsqueak. See you when I get home.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes after San leaves, both of us contemplating the fire we don’t need for warmth and the pool whose refreshing invitation it’s too cool outside to accept.

“You ready?” Rhyson finally asks.

“Sure.” I stand and stretch. His eyes sweep over my legs, my hips, the slight curve of my breasts, and finally over my face.

“You look really pretty today,” he says softly, making me blush.

“Thank you.” I straighten my dress, shaking out wrinkles. “You’re rather handsome yourself.”

“We’re quite the pair.”

Thank goodness he didn’t say couple. I can’t deal with that can of worms tonight. I barely survived dinner.

Loaded down with leftovers, we say our good-byes to Grady and Emmy. Bristol left a while ago to hit clubs and visit friends. We’re taking a few unfamiliar side roads before I realize we should be at my house by now.

“Rhyson, where are we going?” I look around, confused to see fewer shops and traffic lights.

“You’ll see.” He grins, turning the steering wheel with confidence.

Ten minutes later, we stop, and I may cry all over again, but for a completely different reason. Not because Mama is gone, but because Rhyson is here. He’s in my life, and he is a blessing.

Hundreds of Christmas trees sit in neat rows under the bright lights strung overhead. The sun has gone down, and the lights cast a faint glow over the wide variety of trees on display. A few people mill about, but not many.

“You wanna pick a tree?” He’s already grinning.

Shock and gratitude encompass me, and I can’t believe he brought me here, just based on what San said about our Thanksgiving Day tradition of putting up the Christmas tree.

“There are a few people here. Will you be okay?”

“I’m not a hermit, Kai.” He laughs even as he reaches in the backseat for his Dodgers cap. “I just like to interact on my own terms, not have some camera shoved in my face every time I go to the grocery store. People aren’t that bad. It’s the paps I want to strangle.”

“I don’t have any decorations at the apartment.” I frown, wondering if I can dash into a Walmart, even though the thought of braving those already-Christmas-shopping crowds makes my head hurt.

“I asked Emmy if she had any spare decorations.” Rhyson loosens his seat belt and turns off the car. “She has tons and is dropping them off at your place in a little bit.”

He gets out of the truck and, as is always his way, walks around to my side of the car to open my door. He helps me down, and I grip his hand tighter when he would let go.

“Thank you.”

It’s only two words, but I can barely get them past my lips. I’m overcome with emotion. My insides have been shredded today, and in this sweet, thoughtful moment, are beautifully restored. I push myself up on my toes to kiss Rhyson’s cheek. His hand immediately presses into my back, keeping me against him. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his strong and steady heartbeat.

“You didn’t have to do this.” I take a step back, but he doesn’t let me get far before he’s stepping back into my space, his eyes engaging mine and refusing to let go.

“You have no idea what I’d do for you if you’d let me.” He runs his thumb over my bottom lip., his touch light, but enough to seize my breath. Enough to triple my heartbeat. “But one day you will.”

NEW DRAPES, REFINISHED FLOORS, AND FRESH coats of paint do nothing to change what this house has always been to me. How it still feels. Like a luxurious prison with me the inmate and my parents the wardens. Redecorating, re-facing my childhood upstate New York home is like wrapping a corpse in a fresh layer of skin. It’s still cold, dead, and rotting inside.

I only realize that I’m humming “Rach 3,” caught up in its robust virtuosity, and fingering imaginary keys on the dining room table, when everyone around me goes completely quiet. I’ve sought success as an adult in the mainstream, but concert piano haunts me like a first love waiting in the wings for a second chance. When people, things, situations bore me, which is about half the time, I find myself retreating into the hallowed chambers of my mind. The music that was just always there, still is.

The stares of my family members weigh heavily on me, transporting me, like everything else in this house, back to my childhood when I always felt like a rough-edged puzzle piece that never quite fit anywhere.

Grady and Emmy are the only friendly faces at the table. Even Bristol’s expression pulls tight.

I clear my throat, lowering my fingers from my makeshift piano on the dining room table to my lap.

“Sorry,” I murmur, spooning some of the lobster bisque into my mouth. It’s delicious, but makes me feel like I’m eating a catered meal.

What I wouldn’t give for the simple dishes Kai prepared for Thanksgiving dinner. They tasted like home and care. I can’t help but wonder how things are going for her. I glance at my watch. We’re having a late lunch since Bristol, Grady, Emmy, and I arrived a little later than we had anticipated. Kai told me they would serve the homeless in the basement of Glory Falls Baptist Church tonight, followed by a brief service and some traditional carols. I want to be there with her. I try to convince myself that being anywhere would be better than at this long dining room table, as tight and closed as a coffin, but I know anywhere wouldn’t do. I want to be with Kai.

I saw her only briefly before she flew back to Georgia, just long enough for us to exchange Christmas presents. A Pepper nameplate necklace from me to her like the one Carrie wears on Sex and the City. An engraved harmonica from her to me. She left yesterday, and I miss her already.

“So I heard you and Bristol will see Petra in Chicago in a few weeks,” my father says, chewing a delicately seasoned piece of fish.

I give Bristol a long look. She better not be spying on me for my parents, reporting my activities to give them something they can use to get back in with me. She shrugs like it’s no big deal. With a marble-hard look, I let her know we’ll talk about it later.

“Yeah, probably.” I give my father a brief glance and swirl my spoon in the bisque.

Seeing his face that looks just like Grady staring back at me, but with hard, calculating eyes and a tight mouth that rarely smiles disconcerts me sometimes. Amazing how two physically identical people can be so completely different where it counts. I glance over at Grady to make sure he’s still there, still real, and not some carbon copy of the cold man at the head of this coffin table.

“That will be nice,” my mother offers.

She sits to my father’s left, but they may as well share a seat, they are always so in sync. I don’t know that it’s ever been a love match between them, but it’s a damn good partnership. Her eyes, seemingly the only physical attribute Bristol and I inherited, consider me down the length of the table.

My mother, Angela Gray, is a beautiful woman. She may have nipped and tucked a few things, and the vibrant, red hair is surely aided by the bottle, but for the most part, she remains as I have always known her. Slim. Expensively attired with pearls at her neck and ears. Perfect and proper.

“Petra, I believe, is touring soon, yes?” Mother raises an asparagus spear to her neatly outlined mouth.

“So I hear.” I push a bit of food around on my plate.

“She’s doing Europe next year.” Bristol takes a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “We’ve talked about getting her into a few of Rhyson’s shows on the tour.”

Invisible screws turn, tightening the muscles in my back and shoulders. This is exactly what we should not be discussing. Any talk about my music, about my work, could toss a lit cigarette into the pool of gasoline on the table. Am I the only one who realizes this? I look around the table, catching Grady’s eyes. He already wears a troubled frown.

“Maybe we should . . . this bisque is delicious.” Grady spoons some into his mouth. “Bertie made this, Angela?”

“Yes, Bertie’s a marvel.” Mother waves the question off with a slim hand. “Bristol, have you considered a full reunion tour of sorts? Celebrating the tour Rhyson and Petra did together when they were younger?”

Bristol bends her head over her plate, steadily lifting forkfuls of bisque, but I know she feels my stare, heavy as stones. If this family dinner reunion is actually part of some grand plan to re-infiltrate my parents into my career, into my life, I will fire my sister without blinking. I will write her off and ruthlessly, mercilessly cut her out of my life like a malignant tumor. She knows it too.

Bristol finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, shifting her gaze between my tyrannical parents at the head of the table and me.

Choose wisely, Bris, I silently urge her. We weren’t close growing up, but I’ve grafted her into my tight inner circle the last few years. I don’t want to lose her. She and Grady are the only family I have any real ties to. She’s seen what I do to family ties that choke. To protect myself, I’ll cut them.

“No, we haven’t considered that.” Bristol speaks into the waiting quiet broken only by silverware scraping plates and bowls. “Rhyson doesn’t want to go in that direction right now.”

“It’s a missed opportunity, if you ask me.” My father sits back a little to give our housekeeper, Bertie, more room to ladle another helping of bisque into his bowl.

“Everything is an opportunity, right, Dad?” I stop pretending I want lobster fucking bisque on Christmas Eve and slide it away. “Every person too?”

He and my mother exchange a meaningful glance, one I saw a thousand times growing up. The look that says Rhyson’s being difficult. That I need managing. What I needed was for them to parent me, not manage me, but they never bothered to do that.

“Rhyson, don’t read too much into it.” My father uses that cajoling voice I hate. “It was just an observation.”

“One I didn’t ask for.” Irritation sharpens my words, and I can’t dull them now.

“So you would miss a great opportunity that would benefit your career just to spite us?” My mother’s sarcastic laugh grates across my nerves. “Well, that’s wise.”

“I think I’m doing fine without your wisdom, Mother.”

“Is that so?”

“I would say so.” I lean forward, setting my elbows on the table to annoy her. “Both my albums went double platinum. I have six Grammys to show for it. I can write my own ticket, and I plan to.”

Mother’s eyes rest on my elbows like she wonders if farting and cartwheels are next in my dinner etiquette repertoire. She finally looks me in the eyes, her lips tight.

“You’ve coddled your brother, Bristol.” Mother delicately pats her mouth with her pristine napkin. “Despite the success he’s had so far, he doesn’t seem to grasp that it could all be gone tomorrow if he doesn’t make the right moves.”

“He is sitting right here,” I snap. “I run my career and my life, not Bristol. She knows that and so should you.”

“We’re only trying to help you,” my father cuts in, abandoning his bisque and leaning back in his seat. “You’re so self-destructive. Always have been. It comes with your gift, I suppose. That wild temperament. That’s why we had to keep the reins so tight on you, but you never understood that.”

“Working two hundred dates a year?” I fire back before he can reload with a second round of bullshit. “Hooked on prescription drugs? Your tight rein was strangling me, but you didn’t care about that as long as the checks kept rolling in, did you? You knew I needed to go to rehab but still pushed me to keep touring. Hell, you got me hooked in the first place. Thanks for all that help, Dad.”

I’m reminded that Emmy is hearing all of this, witnessing all of this, only when she gasps. Pity and horror fill her eyes. Great. I’ve fucked up her Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family drama. Batting a thousand, Gray.

“We should all calm down.” Grady looks between my red-faced father and me like he’s a negotiator and we’re both strapped with dirty bombs.

“Grady, maybe you can manage to stay out of it this time,” my mother says through tight lips. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s fucked up, Mother.” My words come out sharp as hot glass before Grady has the chance to defend himself. “The one person in this farce of a family who looked out for me, who had my best interests at heart, and you attack him.”

“We all had your best interests at heart, Rhyson,” my father says. “We just had different ways of arriving at them.”

“And your way could have gotten me killed.”

“Oh, spare me the melodrama.” My father tosses his linen napkin onto the table. “Our way would have saved this family the public humiliation of being dragged through court for a totally unnecessary step that set your career back nearly a decade.”

“With all due respect, Benjamin,” Grady says. “I wish things could have been handled differently, but I only wanted what was best for Rhyson. If we could all focus on the future and put the past behind us—”

“You just can’t stay out of it.” My mother shakes her head, narrowing her eyes on Grady. “How are we supposed to reconcile with our son if you’re always getting in the way?”

That does it. I stand to my feet to face the Machiavellis at the head of the dinner table.

“For the record, Grady is the reason I’m here,” I say. “And since you can’t show him any respect or gratitude, I refuse to endure this Christmas charade.”

I turn to Emmy, touching her hand and smiling ruefully.

“I’m sorry my family seems to ruin all the holidays for you. You’re very lucky Grady’s nothing like the rest of us.

Without another word, just a touch to Grady’s shoulder, I’m headed toward the door.

“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” my father’s voice booms from behind me. “You’re even more self-centered and arrogant than you were before, disrupting our Christmas this way. Walk out that door and you’re no son of mine.”

Son?

That word doesn’t even sound right on his lips, like a foreigner mispronouncing a new tongue. The right letters and syllables, but wrong to the point of grating on your ears. I turn by degrees to face him, years of pent-up rage slipping through cracks I’ve only spackled and plugged in therapy.

“Really, Dad?” I set my voice to deadly quiet. “That’s the threat? That I’m no son of yours? Didn’t you get the message that I didn’t want to be the son of a cold, heartless, mercenary bastard like you when I begged the courts to emancipate me?”

I think I’ve actually hurt him. Before he lowers the shade over his expression, I think I see pain. Am I evil for hoping so? How much of my life have I lived just wanting a reaction from him? He didn’t seem to respond to the things a father should, so our dynamic has always been off. Now, it’s so bad that even his pain satisfies me because it may be the only real emotion between us.

I can’t take this room anymore. It’s like being locked in a garage filling with carbon monoxide. My chest hurts. My eyes burn. I think I’m dying so slowly I don’t even notice. Without another word, I’m out of the dining room, through the foyer, and on my way up the steps to get my shit.

“Rhyson,” Grady calls from behind me.

I can’t even talk to him right now. I don’t stop.

“Rhyson, don’t go.”

No way am I stopping. No way am I listening.

“Rhyson, stop,” Grady says again. “Stop, son.”

Son.

That’s how it’s supposed to sound.

I stop and turn to face the only member of this family who has ever loved me without strings. I don’t say anything. He has earned my undivided attention.

“He wasn’t always this way, Rhyson,” Grady says.

“Well, he is now.”

“I think he can change. I think he wants to.”

“Maybe he does.” I shrug. “But that’s not going to be our Christmas miracle. I’m sorry, Grady, but I can’t stay under the same roof with them. You and Emmy stay, but I can’t.”

“I just don’t want you to be alone on Christmas,” Grady says with a concerned frown.

My first genuine smile since Bertie set a bowl of lobster bisque down in front of me breaks out.

“Don’t worry about that, Grady. I don’t plan to be alone.”