Текст книги "King of Hearts"

Автор книги: L. H. Cosway

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Twenty-Three

“Oh, my God, don’t even get me started,” Lille harrumphed. “That flippin’ monkey has stolen dozens of my hair ties, several tubes of lip gloss, packets of face paints, and any number of small coins since I started living with this circus. Somebody needs to call the cops on the little fecker. I swear, I don’t know where he hides it all.”

“Maybe he has a secret stash where he goes to admire all his pretty treasures,” Matilda suggested with a grin.

Lille sighed. “He was walking around with green all over his tail the other day, and my green paint was suspiciously missing from the case.”

“Well, this isn’t good news for me. After meeting Pierre, Oliver is determined to get a monkey. I may have to dazzle him with a new toy just so he’ll forget,” I joked.

The girls laughed as we sat at the tiny kitchen table in Lille’s camper van, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about Marina’s monkey/thief, Pierre. When I’d tried to think of somewhere to go earlier, I found myself instinctively driving in the direction of the circus. I’d lied when I’d told King and Elaine that I had things to do, but it was a white lie. I could have gone to my parents’ house, or even to Karla’s, but for some reason I wanted to spend time with these women, talk to them about King because they were the ones who knew him best these days.

Somehow though, we’d managed to discuss everything other than the father of my child, and it was oddly relaxing. Sometimes it was a relief to just talk about random crap, like monkey hijinks. Matilda had a dress in front of her as she hand-stitched a detail into the neckline. Jack and Jay had been around, but mostly they were in the tent, rehearsing. I was interested by the dynamic between the two couples, and truthfully, dying to know how they’d all met. So, like the Nosy Noreen that I was, I asked.

An hour or so later, the bottle of wine had long since been emptied, and I’d lived through the stories of two pretty spectacular romances. It made me feel relieved to know I wasn’t the only one whose heart had been twisted around, chewed up, and spat back out again. I thought that maybe the best loves had to suffer the greatest hardships. You had me and King, Jay and Matilda, Jack and Lille. Hell, there was even Karla and her husband, but that was a story for another day.

Matilda had just gone to use the bathroom when Lille bent forward and placed her hand over mine. At thirty-three, I was almost eleven years older than her, and yet, there was something about Lille that felt wise beyond her years. Her touch comforted me, and when she spoke, my heart felt too full.

“I’m so glad we found you, Alexis. Seeing King get better has been truly amazing to watch, and it’s all down to you.”

I stared at her for a long moment, then wrapped my fingers around hers to squeeze her hand. “I’m so glad you looked.”

It was late evening when I finally said my goodbyes. I’d only had two glasses of wine, and that was hours ago, so I knew I’d be okay to drive home. When I got there, I found Elaine curled up on armchair in the living room, asleep and a blanket draped over her. King sat on the couch with Oliver, and a kid’s movie played on the TV. Oliver was sitting comfortably in his lap as King absently stroked at his hair. If I wasn’t so taken by the sight of them, I might have pulled out my phone to take a picture. It was just too bloody charming.

“Having fun?” I asked softly, careful not to wake Elaine.

King looked up at me, and I was struck by the calmness in his features, the sense of peace about him. He didn’t answer, just shot me a lazy smile and nodded for me to come sit. I dropped my bag on the floor and shrugged out of my jacket before taking the place beside him. After a second of hesitation, I rested my head on his shoulder. He exhaled heavily, turning his face so he could nuzzle his nose into my temple.

“Did you and Elaine get enough time to talk?” I whispered.

“Yes,” King whispered back and I could feel him smiling into my skin. “Thank you for giving us some time. We needed it.”

“It’s no problem. And Oliver wasn’t too much trouble?” I asked, our son too engrossed in the film to hear his name.

King shook his head, still smiling. “No, love, he was good as gold.”

Only a minute or two passed before Oliver bolted upright and announced, “I have to pee.” He was up and out the door a second later, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. I let out a quiet laugh and glanced up to find King looking down at me warmly. Elaine stirred in her seat, Oliver’s announcement having woken her.

“What time is it?” she asked, voice sleepy.

“Just after eight,” I answered. She took in the sight of me and King sitting together, and smiled fondly.

“Well, I’d better be going,” she said, running her hands down her dress and standing. King stood, too.

“Shall I walk you?”

She seemed taken aback by his offer, shy even. “Well, I’m just down the street, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”

King held his arm out to her, and she slid hers through it before he led her from the room.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he called over his shoulder just as the front door opened and shut. I took the opportunity to go upstairs and get Oliver ready for bed. On a normal day he would have been asleep already, but this wasn’t a normal day. Catching him just as he left the bathroom, I lifted him into my arms.

“All right, mister, bedtime.”

“But I was watching a film,” he complained.

“And you can finish watching it tomorrow,” I said firmly as I carried him into his room. I needed to stop lifting him, because Jesus, he was getting heavy these days. I was going to end up doing my back in.

“Where’s Oliver 2?” he asked as I went to get his pyjamas from the drawer.

I let out a breath and answered, “He’s just walking Granny Elaine home. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I like him.”

His statement made me smile. “You do?”

He nodded and leaned forward, whispering, “If I ask him to be my best friend, do you think he’d say yes?”

I swear, I didn’t know where he got his guilelessness from, because it certainly wasn’t from me. I’d been a little terror at his age. There was something about the moment that made me feel like testing the waters.

“Baby, you know how Granny Elaine is Oliver 2’s mummy?” He stared at me, nodding, and I continued, “And Granny Elaine is your grandmummy? Well, that means that Oliver 2 is your daddy.”

He looked at me for a long time, his expression concentrated like he was trying to figure out the logic. “You said my daddy was far away.”

“He was. That’s why Granny Elaine hadn’t seen him in a very long time, but now he’s back.”

Oliver was frowning then and I wasn’t sure why, but his lips went all full, like he was going to cry. “Is he going to go away again?”

I pulled him into a hug. “No, honey, he’s not going to go away again. I promise.”

And just like that, the possible crying jag had vanished as he bounced in my arms. “He’s my daddy. I can’t wait to tell Timothy that I have a daddy now.” Timothy was his friend from Montessori. And seriously, he needed to stop saying things that made me emotional. Trust my son to accept King was his father without a single hesitation. There was a knock on the door, and I went down to let him in.

“Hey,” I said as I held it open and he stepped inside. “So, you and Elaine really had a good talk, then?” I’m not sure why I felt the need to reaffirm that everything was all right between them. I guess I just wanted to make sure he was okay and didn’t feel like things were moving too fast, especially since I now had a another bomb to drop. Perhaps it could wait until morning.

He nodded and answered, “Yes Alexis, we’re good. Stop worrying.”

I told him I was just putting Oliver to bed, so he followed me up. The very second we entered the room, Oliver shouted out, “Hi, Daddy!”

Well, waiting until morning was out of the question then.

King stopped, frowned, looked to me, looked to Oliver, then looked back to me again. He wore an expression of disbelief, like maybe he’d been hearing things. I was sure I was wearing a terribly guilty expression.

Looking at the floor, I said, “Sorry, uh, I might have told him that you’re his dad.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. All right. Eh, that’s…that’s….”

“It had to happen sooner or later. Might as well bite the bullet.”

“I’m not annoyed with you, Alexis.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t think you were. I just, maybe I should have talked with you first.”

He stepped forward, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine. I’m more than fine. Relax.”

His words worked to calm me. “Do you want to read to him again?”

“Sure.”

I left them to it and went into my room, taking deep breaths. For a second there I was certain I’d fucked up. I lay down on the bed and tried to focus on reading the paperback I was currently working my way through. After about twenty minutes, I looked up to find King standing in my doorway. We locked gazes, and a pregnant silence fell between us.

“I should go,” he said at the same time I blurted, “Stay the night.”

Ugh, why was I being so awkward? King shot me a cocky grin, so I threw a pillow at him. “Don’t give me that face.”

He moved farther into the room and asked coyly, “What face?”

“That one.” I pointed. “The face that says you think you’re the shit. I hate that face.”

He was at the foot of the bed when he countered, “You love this face.”

“Okay, I’ll adjust my statement. I love your face. I hate your expression.”

He shook his head. “Nah, I’m pretty sure you love my expression, too.”

He was leaning over me now, climbing onto the mattress and levelling his hands on either side of my head. I was about to say something clever, but it immediately fled my mind when he kissed me. His tongue swept into my mouth, and all I could do was moan.

“Thank you for telling him,” he breathed as he broke away to kiss along my jaw, moving down to my neck. I strained beneath him, hands going to his shoulders. Everywhere his lips travelled, they left tingles in their wake.

“I thought you might be angry with me for a second.”

“I wasn’t angry. I was just taken aback. He called me Dad.”

“Well, you are his dad.”

He was lower now, his face levelled with my boobs as he nuzzled into my cleavage. “Yes, I am.”

I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the trajectory of our conversation rather than the fact that his nose was brushing against my ever hardening nipple.

“I’m not gonna lie,” I said breathily. “He got a little upset when I told him. Not because you’re his dad, but because he thought you might go away again.”

King paused to look at me, his face serious. “And what did you tell him?”

A beat of silence elapsed as I swallowed. “I – I told him you were here to stay.”

His eyes held mine for a long moment before he nodded, “Good, because I am.” And then he licked his way across the top of my breast, and my brain turned to mush.

***

The following morning, I woke up to my alarm clock bleeping loudly at six-thirty a.m. King was spooning me just like he had been the day before. His body was hard and warm, and I really didn’t want to leave. Duty called, unfortunately, and I sat up in bed, which solicited a groan from him.

“Where are you going?” he asked groggily.

“I have work. Go back to sleep.”

Despite my order, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. The sheet fell to his waist, revealing his bare torso, and I had to use a good lot of willpower to look away. We’d made love well into the early hours of the morning, and I could still smell him on my skin. God, how I wanted to crawl back into bed and spend the entire day there, just the two of us.

“Could you drop me off at my apartment?” King asked, surprising me.

“Uh, sure.” I didn’t ask why he wanted to go there, but I took it as a good sign. I gathered my things for the shower and made my way into bathroom. I’d just turned it on and stepped under the spray when a large, warm body joined me.

Best. Shower. Ever.

Elaine arrived to take care of Oliver, and I drove us into the city, dropping King off at his old place first and then heading out to the office. It was a busy day, and though one half of me really wanted to go straight home and put my feet up, the other half wanted to go get King. I liked having him in my bed, in my home. In fact, if I had my way, he’d be moving in with me and spending every single night there. I knew not to push him, though, knew I had to take things one step at a time.

It was just after six when I parked outside his building and went in. He buzzed me up, and I took the lift to his place to find him sitting by his piano, sheet music everywhere and an electric sort of aura about him. The very sight caused an exhilarating tremor to go skittering down my spine. I took a peek at the pages, noticing a lot of them contained his own handwriting, musical notes scribbled down in pencil. Was he composing something?

He started to play a gorgeous melody, and I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

“Do you mind?” I called.

“No,” said King absently. “Go ahead.”

I found a small box of peppermint that Elaine must have left there and turned on the kettle. When I returned to the living room, King was still sitting by the piano, practicing.

“So, you’re playing again?” I asked tentatively as I lifted the cup to my mouth and took a sip.

King’s eyes were alight when he turned his attention to me. I swear they almost glittered, and I could tell his mind was racing. The creative muse was upon him.

“Yes, the music, it’s, well, it’s pouring out. The focus is liberating. I’ve barely stopped all day.”

What he said concerned me. “Have you eaten?”

He furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. “I think I ate some toast at lunchtime.” Well, that was a lie if ever I heard one. Pulling my phone from my bag, I quickly dialled my favourite Chinese takeaway and put in an order. With that done, I stood in front of the piano and levelled him with a reprimanding look.

“You have to eat, King.”

He reached forward to cup my cheek. “I will. Don’t worry, darling. It’s just that I get so absorbed when I play that I forget everything around me, and it feels like there’s never enough hours. What Rachmaninoff once said was true: Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music.”

“Yeah, well, what Selina Kyle once said is also true: A girl’s gotta eat. I think that goes for boys, too,” I told him with a wink.

He grinned. “I don’t think Catwoman can trump Rachmaninoff, darling.”

Oh, I could have smacked him right then for his superior little tone on “darling.” Somehow though, it made me grin. Any signs of his old self always made me grin. They mixed in with his new self to create something I loved so much better. Anyway, I didn’t bother to retort, because I was far too curious about the sheet music. “Have you been composing?”

His expression turned guarded, but he answered me anyway. “Yes.”

“Will you play some of it for me?”

When his body stilled, I knew I’d made him uncomfortable. “I’m wary,” he said and then paused, his eyes meeting mine. “Don’t get me wrong – you’re the one who inspires me, but I just don’t want to fall into the trap of playing for praise. That’s what I used to do before. I worked so hard so that people would respect and look up to me, praise me for a job well done and tell me how bloody fantastic I was. Then when I lost it all, I felt like I had nothing left to live for. I want this music to be something I do because I love it, not for the sole purpose of being the best.”

“That’s understandable,” I said, coming and taking a seat next to him. “I want you to do what makes you happy. And if you never play for me or for anyone, then that’s fine. So long as it’s what you love.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I’m acting crazy. Sometimes the way my mind works baffles me.”

I reached out and took his hand, sliding my fingers through his. “Don’t be sorry. I like your mind. It suits my mind.”

The smile he gave me lit up his entire face, and my heart beat faster at the sight of it.

I squeezed his hand as I continued meaningfully, “But just remember, your music doesn’t have to mean praise for you. It can be the gift you give to other people.”

He stared at me, thoughtful, before his attention wandered to the piano keys. I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said. A few moments passed as we sat there in silence, the weight of the years surrounding us and the love we held for one another making all the heartache worth it. I swallowed the last of my tea and bent to place my cup on the floor. My top rode up at the back, exposing skin, and I felt King’s palm press down on the base of my spine. I went utterly still as he leaned down to murmur seductively in my ear.

“I think I remember telling you once that I was going to fuck you on this piano until you forgot your own name.” He paused and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Shall we try that?”

I didn’t need to speak, because my body had already told him the answer.

Yes, Oliver, let’s try that.

Twenty-Four

Two months later.

King had a secret.

Well, I wasn’t exactly sure if it was a secret, but he was definitely up to something. Every couple of nights he’d go missing, not telling anyone where he was going. If I wasn’t such a good judge of character, I’d think maybe he was drinking again, or worse, having an affair. But no, he definitely wasn’t drinking, nor was he having an affair. His love and desire for me was something that felt impenetrable. Solid. Constant.

In fact, he kept asking me to marry him, and it was becoming a bit of a bother. The first time he asked, he’d arranged for a romantic candlelit dinner in his penthouse. He was keeping it as a place to store his piano mostly (I know, weird.) But other than that, he’d basically moved in with me and Oliver. I loved having him here, loved his smell on my sheets and his voice in the mornings as he spoke to our son.

This was why I surprised even myself when he popped the question and I told him no, I wouldn’t marry him.

At first he’d been upset, but when I explained to him that the answer was no for now, but yes for the future, he’d gotten a gleam in his eye, determined to wear me down. I just didn’t want to rush into marriage. It felt superfluous to me. We loved each other. Neither one of us was going anywhere. A wedding was a pointless expense. Not to mention I wanted to be a bride about as much as I wanted to stick pins in my eyes.

No, if we were ever going to get married, it would have to be a small affair. Quick and painless. It also wasn’t going to be something I dived right into. Unfortunately, King was a singularly focused individual, which meant I was proposed to at least once a day. Sometimes two or three times. I’d find Post-It notes inside the tea caddy. Voice messages on my phone. Texts with picture attachments of “Marry Me?” written in sand or on foggy car windows. He’d even sent one of him topless, with the words scrawled in marker pen across his chest.

Kinda sexy? Yes. Bordering on ridiculous? Also, yes.

I was standing by the cooker, heating up some soup for Oliver, when King came up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. I geared myself up for yet another proposal, but it never came. Instead, he told me, “I’m heading out for a couple of hours. Don’t wait up for me.”

I nodded quietly, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, and off he went. He’d started driving his old Merc, but he’d sold his other cars, which had been stored in the underground garage beneath his apartment, and donated the money to charity. In fact, he’d donated a huge sum of his wealth to foundations for homelessness and alcoholism, keeping just enough to live off. After years of living with nothing, I didn’t think he felt comfortable with wealth anymore. I also didn’t try to stop him. In fact, I supported the action. In my opinion, money only brought happiness up to a certain level. Any riches over and above that just made you as miserable as being poor. Okay, maybe not for everyone, because the Kardashians seemed pretty fucking happy with their lot. Perhaps I should adjust my statement. Vast riches for those with hearts and brains made you just as miserable as being poor.

Elaine was already spending the evening with us, so as soon as King left, I hurried to the living room, asking if she’d watch Oliver for me while I popped out for a bit. I was behind the wheel of my car and pulling out of the driveway just in time to see King’s Merc turn the corner at the end of our street.

I followed a few cars behind him all the way into the city, biting my fingernails the entire time. Where the hell was he going? Finally, he parked down a side street in Camden, got out, and walked off. I hurried to park, too, then discreetly followed him. He didn’t suspect a thing, never once looking back, and then he slipped inside the door to a hipster-looking bar.

Oh, shit.

A bar? He’d sneaked off to a bar? Maybe I wasn’t such a good judge of character after all. This wasn’t looking good. I stood on the street for at least ten minutes, freaking out and trying to convince myself that this wasn’t what it seemed, while my brain was all, Bitch, how can it not be what it seems?

FYI, my brain was a skinny gay guy who worked in a hair salon and loved to gossip cynically about other people’s love lives.

When I managed to calm myself down, I noticed that a long queue had formed outside the bar, but King had managed to walk right past it. Figuring I didn’t have any other option, I got in line. It took forever for me to get inside, because the place was packed out and the bouncers were staggering the queue. The bar was dark and crowded, and I instantly hated it. That was, until I heard the music. It was beautiful, transforming the room from something annoying into something wonderful. It was a unique mix of classical and modern, and it was just one instrument. The piano.

I felt it all around me, right down to my toes, and instinctively I knew it was his, knew this was the music he’d spend days on end composing alone in his apartment.

I couldn’t see the stage because it was surrounded by people, but my heart began to pound as my suspicions about King being back on the beer slowly faded into the background. Pushing my way past the bodies, I finally reached a spot where I could see. There on the tiny stage he sat, playing glorious music on a worn-out, beaten-up piano that looked like it had been in the bar for over twenty years. Nevertheless, his audience was captivated, and so was I.

The way his body moved as he played, the way his hands manipulated the keys so fluidly, set my every nerve ending alight. He’d kept his hair long, just like I’d asked him to, and it hung attractively over his face, making him appear elusive and mysterious. His eyes were closed, too, adding to his enigmatic vibe. He wore only a simple white T-shirt under an open grey shirt and jeans. Basically, he looked nothing like what you’d expect from a classical pianist, but then again, he wasn’t exactly playing straight-up classical. It was an unusual sound, something new and different, which was probably why he’d attracted such a crowd. Somehow I knew that if King wasn’t playing, this bar wouldn’t be half as packed as it was right then. I could tell because the patrons were focused completely on him rather than chatting amongst themselves and socializing.

He must have been doing this for weeks, telling no one. The thought made me both happy and sad at the same time. But then I remembered our conversation weeks ago in his apartment, where he’d talked about playing for the love of it rather than the praise. I also remembered telling him that his playing didn’t have to be either of those things, that it could simply be a gift to other people. In that moment, I knew he’d taken my words to heart, because every person in the bar was getting a gift right then.

A worker moved past me, collecting empty glasses, and I pulled her aside, nodding to the stage.

“Does he play here often?” I asked.

She glanced at King, then back to me. “Not often. He performs in different places around the city. A couple of weeks ago he showed up at a bar in Soho and asked the manager if he could play. The place was quiet, so the manager said yes. He’s been gaining a following ever since, but he never announces a gig, just shows up randomly, and people spread the word.”

“Oh,” I said, absorbing her answer, skin tingling at the idea of King just randomly playing piano for people wherever and whenever it took his fancy.

“What’s his name?” I asked just before she turned to leave.

“They call him Oliver,” she answered.

“Just Oliver?”

“Yeah, just Oliver.”

And then she was gone and I was looking back at King, everything about him holding me captive. The fact that he kept his eyes closed most of the time and never really looked at anyone in the audience meant he didn’t see me there. Still, I made sure to stand behind a couple of other people just in case. For a second I thought of waiting around until the end, pouncing on him, and declaring I’d discovered his secret. But no, that wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted him to go on playing, to keep doing what made him and the people he managed to touch with his music happy. I’d never be the one who turned what he loved into something that required praise, something that had once destroyed him.

So, when he finished his final song of the night, I inhaled a deep breath, savoured the moment, and soaked in the reactions of those around me, the catharsis they felt from the emotions portrayed in his wordless song. Then I turned and left the bar.

***

A couple of days later, I found myself waking Oliver up on a Monday morning and getting him ready for his first day of school. I had his uniform all set out: a white shirt, grey tie, navy jumper with the school crest, and grey slacks. I swear he looked so handsome, tiny yet grown at the same time, and I felt like crying.

I bet all mothers cried on their kid’s first day of school. It was programmed into our DNA. Oliver was full of questions and enthusiasm. He’d been gearing himself up for this for a year. Often we’d drive by the school and he’d see the kids, and I’d tell him that’s where he’d be going soon. I marvelled at how he never acted frightened or apprehensive. No, his eyes lit up at the prospect of something new.

King was sitting in the kitchen, eating a slice of toast, when I came down with Oliver, all clad in his new uniform.

“Daddy! Look at me, don’t I look handsome?” he said, and King turned to take him in. Unlike me, he didn’t get-teary eyed. No, his lips twitched in amusement.

“You’re looking very dapper indeed, little man,” he said, shooting me a smile.

“What’s dapper?” Oliver questioned.

“Your daddy’s being fancy again. He always tries to be fancy,” I teased. “And it means you look sharp. Sharp and handsome.”

He seemed pleased with my answer, and King went about getting him some breakfast. Once it was time to go, all three of us left the house to walk him to school. It was only ten minutes away, and it was a sunny morning, so we decided to forgo the car. I held one of Oliver’s hands and King held the other. All the while, our son strolled along between us, chatting away about how he was going to make friends with everyone and how he was going to play hopscotch in the yard during his break.

I glanced at King at one point to see him smiling down at Oliver, affection and love in eyes as he listened to his every word. Then, too soon almost, we were at the school, and the teacher was waiting outside as the children gathered.

“There’s Timothy,” Oliver shouted, spotting his friend. “I’m going over.” Before he could run off, I pulled him back and knelt down, looking him in the eye and fixing his tie. There was something about how small it was that made me feel like welling up again. King noticed my ridiculously emotional expression and took over, bending down to give Oliver a hug.

“You be good today, son. Your mum and I will be back later to collect you.”

And with that he was gone, running excitedly to his friend, his little blue rucksack on his back. All around me, parents said goodbye to their kids, and there was a lot of crying going on. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out at the prospect of being separated from her mum, and it kind of broke my heart. In a way, I wished Oliver had been more like her, more upset, because that way I’d feel like less of a wuss.

King and I stood side by side, watching Oliver as he got in line with the other kids. “I hope you don’t think me a soppy fool after this, but when we go home, I might get back into bed and be weird for a while. And by that I mean I might get back into bed and have a good cry.”

King slid his hand into mine, a quiet show of affection, as he cocked his head to me and smiled. “Don’t you have to be at the office in an hour?”

“Stop effing with my plans, Mr King,” I snipped, but there was humour in my voice.

“You know, you haven’t referred to me as Mr King since you were my employee,” he teased. “Want to take the morning off? Maybe go home and get into bed for a different reason? Do some role-playing perhaps?”

I shoved him in the shoulder and scowled. “Don’t be a cad.”

He bent and whispered in my ear, “Aw, but you love it so much.” His voice gave me tingles, and I closed my eyes for a second to push the images of our sex life from my mind. This clearly wasn’t the time.

“Nah, maybe we’ll save it for later. I wanted to head into the city anyway, spend a couple of hours practicing.”

What he said brought back memories of the other night, and how electric it had felt to see him play for an audience, how he finally seemed to be completely himself. No pain. No loneliness. No addiction. No evil father trying to fuck up his life. No frightened mother, too paranoid to leave the house. He was better, and that’s all I’d ever wanted him to be.

Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity, a feeling that all was right with the world. And then I was feeling weepy again, but this time it was for a whole other reason. I couldn’t hold back the tears, and my eyes grew watery as they ran down my cheeks. Of course, they were happy tears, but when King saw that I was crying, he sucked in a breath and pulled me to him. Still holding my hand in one of his, he reached up and wiped the wetness from my cheeks.