by Emma Scott
“Because I want to keep my word. And, as it turns out, Miller can’t make it anyway. We talked it out. Even if he could go, I’m sticking with you, if you want me.”
“I do,” he said, his smile faint and sad. “You’re probably my best friend. And definitely the only person I trust to not spread my shit all over the school.”
“I never would. And I am your friend, River. Always.”
His grateful smile nearly brought tears to my eyes.
“I’ll take you to dinner first, unlike last time.”
“Last time…” I mused. “Was he the reason you didn’t make it?”
River nodded. “That fucker is my kryptonite. But I promise that won’t happen again.”
“I trust you. But River, if things change—”
“They won’t.”
“But if they do, I’ll understand. Just give me a heads up before our dance comes up.” I laughed. “Scratch that. Your dance, not ours. I doubt I’ll be anywhere near the Prom court this time around. “
“Also my fault.”
“It’s not important. But now that we’ve established our BFF status, can I suggest something? Talk to your mom and dad before you head off to college, move away from Santa Cruz, and begin a life you don’t want.”
He shook his head. “The pressure… It’s the weight of an ocean. Dad’s pinned all his own broken hopes on me. It’d kill him if I walked away. And with Mom being sick, I can’t do that to him.” He stood up before I could argue and offered me his hand to pull me off the bench. “Come on, BFF. Confession is over.”
We walked in companionable silence as the bell rang at the end of lunch. When we reached my locker, I gave him a hug.
“Thank you,” he said in my ear. “I mean it.”
“Any time. Oh, and River? It’s blue.”
“What’s that?”
“The color of my Prom dress is blue. For my corsage?” I teased, arching a brow at him. “In case you need the reminder.”
“I won’t,” he said heavily. “My dad won’t let me.”
Chapter Twenty
June 3rd arrived. My flight to Los Angeles wasn’t until that evening. Violet had a late doctor’s appointment for a final check-up after her concussion, so Evelyn was driving me to the airport to give me last-minute advice. In LA, a car would take me to the Fairmont Miramar Hotel. The next morning, I’d meet with Jack Villegas, senior vice president at Gold Line Records.
Holy shit, I thought for the millionth time that day as I packed.
I didn’t have much. I put my best dark jeans in a duffel along with my Sonic Youth T-shirt, which was my least faded. Evelyn had advised me to wear the leather necklace with the bone horn she’d found for me to complement my braided leather bracelets.
“And your beanie,” she’d said. “For God’s sake, wear your beanie.”
The clothing felt shabby and too casual, but I had nothing else. Evelyn said it was the “real me.”
But what if the real me isn’t good enough?
I cursed myself for being this wound up and invested, but I couldn’t help it. Hope was sometimes as potent as fear and just as debilitating.
I went to the fridge with my portable med storage bag and took a quick inventory of the snacks I needed to bring, estimated what I’d eat on the trip, and calculated how much insulin to take. I felt Chet’s eyes on me as I removed the refrigerated capsules and packed them in the travel bag.
Since hearing the news about my interview, he’d been in a foul mood. Like a simmering pot ready to boil over.
“Hey, hotshot,” Chet called from the couch, then muttered into a beer can, “Yeah, thinks he’s fucking hot stuff now. Little bitch is what he is.”
My pulse quickened. It was only ten in the morning. Everyone—with the possible exception of Ronan—still had school until three. Mom had called in sick from work, and I’d stayed home with her to make sure she was okay.
I’d been staying home from school as often as I could, since the day I found the bruises on her arm, but she’d told me not to. I was truant, for one thing, but instead of protecting her from Chet, she said me being home all the time made things worse. Put Chet more on edge.
“He’s never touched me again after that,” she’d sworn, and so I went to school.
But that morning, I was too jacked up for school and even more reluctant to leave Mom. I went into her room to check on her.
“He’s ready to blow.”
“I know,” she said. “But you have to go. Please. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Me? Kick him out, Mom,” I hissed. “Call the cops.”
She sat against her pillows, tired and worn. “It’ll mess up your day. You might miss your flight and that can’t happen. Go, honey. I’ll be fine.”
I gritted my teeth and bent to kiss her forehead. “Call me if you need me. Promise.”
“I will.”
I dragged myself out of her room and went to mine to get my stuff.
Vi, Shiloh, and the guys were gathering for what Holden called a Remember Us When You’re Famous party. I figured I’d go to the beach and wander, try to calm myself down.
I slung my duffel over my arm and carried my guitar case out, then I stopped short. Chet blocked the hallway. His jowls were pasty under days’ worth of stubble, and he stank of stale beer and smoke.
“You think your little trip is going to change anything?” he said, eyeing me up and down. “They’re going to see right through you. A dirty, punk-ass little bitch singing your stupid songs.”
My pulse crashed in my ears and my throat went dry. “Back off, asshole.”
Chet looked ready to fight, but the bedroom door opened, and Mom came out. “What’s happening out here?”
“Nothing,” he said and let me go, giving my shoulder a hard knock as I passed, then followed me into the living room. “Nothing’s happening,” he said louder as I went to the shabby coat stand near the door to grab my jacket. “You hear me? You’re a fucking carny pretending to be bigger than you are. But you ain’t shit.”
I hunched my shoulders against his words, but they sank in anyway.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I muttered and reached for the door. Behind me, Mom gave a cry, and then my guitar case was torn out of my hand. I spun around to see Chet hurl it at the wall behind the couch. It struck hard enough to leave a scuff mark and tumbled onto the cushions.
“What are you—?”
My words—and air—cut off as Chet gripped me around the throat and shoved me against the door. He moved in close, seething, spittle flecking my lips as he spoke.
“For too long, you’ve been a smartass hotshot walking around here. I keep telling your mom to kick your ass to the curb. You’re eighteen now. I think it’s time.”
Black starbursts were flaring in my vision. Mom was shouting at him to let me go, tugging his arm and begging. I got my hands around his wrist and yanked him off me.
“Fuck you,” I cried hoarsely, then hurried to my guitar.
I felt Chet behind me, then his hand gripped my shirt between my shoulder blades. He yanked me back, throwing me off balance, and then shoved me forward. I stumbled and banged my shin on the coffee table, then crashed headfirst onto the couch. The right side of my face scraped against the edge of my guitar case. Pain flared like a burn.
“Stop it!” Mom cried. “Leave him be!”
I scrambled to my feet and gripped my guitar case. On instinct only, I swung it backward without looking and heard it connect with Chet’s gut. He made an ooph sound and staggered back. I raced for the door, grabbing my mom’s arm on the way, dragging her with me.
She tore out of my grasp. “Miller, no.”
I stopped. Stared. Sucking in air, my pulse crashing in my ears. “Mom… Let’s go. You can’t stay here.”
From behind her, Chet was breathing heavily, a triumphant smile splitting his thick lips. “She doesn’t want to leave with you. She knows better than that.”
I jabbed a finger in
the air at him. “Go to hell, asshole, I’m calling the police.”
He chuckled. “And say what? You think she’s going to press charges? You going to press charges, Lynn?”
I stared at her, waiting for her answer. She cast her eyes to the ground, and I felt something in me break off and fall away.
“That’s right,” Chet said. “It ain’t your house. It’s hers. This is her home. But you’re a grown man, son. I’d say it’s about time you got the hell out.”
“Mom?”
She lifted her eyes slowly, heavy with pain, and so tired. She kissed me on the cheek that burned.
“Just go,” she whispered. “Get to LA. Be amazing.”
I stared, first at her, then Chet smiling lazily, leaning against the kitchen counter as if it were his. Because now it was. I looked back to my mom, the words to tell her that her safety was more important. Her happiness. But she’d already turned and headed back down the hallway to her room in shuffling steps.
Chet’s beady eyes met mine. “You heard your mother. Go.”
So I went.
I opened the door with trembling hands and stepped outside on shaking legs. It closed behind me, and I heard the lock click.
In a half-daze, falling off an adrenaline high, I made my way to the Shack like a zombie. My face was on fire where it had scraped against my case, and my throat felt as if I’d swallowed a handful of rocks.
I stepped into the old rickety room. Holden had nailed a small mirror on the back wall. Or maybe it was Shiloh. She’d been hanging out here more, adding artistic touches here and there, making the place feel homey. The Shack was more of a home than my own.
I took a good look at myself in the mirror to examine my wounds. Fingerprints were darkening on my neck, and the area around my right eye was inflamed. Little scrapes of blood dashed my cheekbone. Anxiety jolted my stomach like an electric current.
I can’t go to LA looking like this. I can’t play for them like this…
Another terrible fear wracked me, lighting up my insides with panic. I quickly knelt in front of my guitar case and threw open the latches. With two hands, I gingerly pulled the guitar out and turned it over, inspecting it. A sigh of relief miles deep eased out of me, as I set it back in its case, whole and undamaged.
But the damage had been done. I looked exactly like what Chet had said. A dirt-poor kid who couldn’t manage to stay out of trouble long enough to make it through one important meeting.
The strength drained out of me, and I sat down hard on the wooden bench and stared at the ocean through the Shack’s lone window. The battle with Chet replayed in flashes, making me wince. But my mom’s defeated face scared me more.
The last thing I wanted to do was eat; but I took my insulin and choked down some food, every bite like a rock in my bruised windpipe. Panic lit me up all over again.
Jesus, what if I can’t sing?
I hummed a few bars, wincing at the pain. A few lyrics grated out. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder. For a few nerve-wracking minutes, I warmed up my voice until I could sing past the pain and sound like myself.
“Goddamn,” I murmured. Chet had almost ruined everything.
Maybe he did. They’re not going to want me either.
The last vestiges of adrenaline left me drained, and I laid my head on the table. The scents of salt and old wood and the sound of the ocean crashing and retreating soothed me like Mom’s perfume and lullabies used to when I was a kid. A lifetime ago.
A soft hand touched me awake. I opened heavy eyes to see Violet standing over me. She wore jeans and a baggie hoodie, no makeup, her hair in a ponytail.
So beautiful…
She smiled. “Hey, you. Napping before your—?” Her words cut off in a gasp as I sat up and the afternoon sunlight fell over my face. “Miller…My God, what happened?” She touched my chin, turning me toward her to get a better look and then bit back a little cry. “Your neck. Who did this to you? Chet?”
I nodded. “I’m okay. But shit, look at me. I can’t go to LA now.”
“Of course, you can,” she said fiercely, her voice wavering. “You can’t let him stop you.”
“I’m going to meet a high-level exec looking like this? It’s pathetic. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.”
“They won’t. Not after you sing.” She pulled me to her, cradling my head against her soft sweatshirt.
“He kicked me out, Vi,” I said into her middle. “He kicked me out of the house.”
I was homeless for the second time in my life.
“No,” Violet said in a quavering voice. “He can’t do that.”
“He did. My mom is too scared and beat down to stand up to him. My only chance now is to go to LA, convince them to invest in me, and kick his ass out when I get back.”
Saying it out loud made it sound even more implausible.
Violet sat on the bench beside me. “You can do that, and you will,” she said, blinking her tears away, determination taking over. She glanced around the Shack. “I thought I saw a first aid kit around here.”
“Holden brought one.” I pointed at the small medicine box, sitting near the generator softly whirring in the corner.
Violet brought it back to the table. I winced as she touched antiseptic wipes to the scrapes on my cheek. “Tomorrow, it won’t be so red. It’ll look better tomorrow.”
I noticed she didn’t say anything about the fingerprints on my neck that looked exactly like what they were. No hiding them.
Voices sounded from outside.
“Shit, the others are here,” I said. “I don’t want them to see me like this. It’s fucking humiliating.”
Violet touched my cheek. “It’s not. It’s just what happened. They’re your friends, and they care about you.”
Holden and Ronan could be heard bickering at each other as they prepped the firepit, Shiloh cutting in to scold them for being jackasses.
Despite everything, I smiled. I’d missed them.
We exited the Shack. Three heads turned, and three pairs of eyes widened at the same time to see my face. I put my hand up before anyone—mainly Holden—could speak.
“I don’t want to talk about it. My mom’s boyfriend is a dick. Let’s leave it at that.”
“But fucking hell, Miller,” Holden began.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll deal with him when I get back.”
Somehow.
Holden reluctantly backed off. Shiloh’s face was a mask of concern. But Ronan…Ronan looked ready to kill. While the others were busy setting up the fire and getting the food, he pulled me aside.
“When you get back,” he said in a flat tone, his gray eyes hard and flinty, “we’re going to handle it. Okay?”
I nodded, teeth clenched to keep the damn tears from my eyes. “Okay.”
“Good,” he said, then I nearly fell over as he reached out and gripped my shoulder for a short second. Ronan never touched anyone. He gave me a thump and let me go.
He got the fire started while Holden got the conversation going. For a few hours, I was able to put what happened on the back burner. I sat in the sand, Violet in front of me, her back to my chest, my arms wrapped around her, her head nestled in the crook of my shoulder.
We ate hotdogs and potato chips. Holden told an outlandish story about the time he and another patient at the sanitarium in Switzerland attempted a poorly-planned escape and ended up being chased through sprinklers on the front lawn wearing only bathrobes, their bare asses waving in the wind.
Violet laughed with the rest of us, but I noticed she was watching Holden differently, as if seeing him in a new light.
After the food had settled, Shiloh asked me to play the songs I’d prepared for the meeting.
“Not in the mood,” I said with finality.
No one pushed it.
Eventually, it was time for me to say my goodbyes.
Holden put both hands on my shoulders, his peridot green eyes staring intently into
mine, serious as death. “Listen to me. If you get to this meeting and start to panic or freak the fuck out, I have a sure-fire solution that I use when I get in tough spots.”
“What’s that?” I asked, preparing myself for something ridiculous.
“I ask myself one question and one question only… What would Jeff Goldblum do?”
Yep.
“Thank you, that’s super helpful.”
Holden grinned and then it suddenly fell from his face as his gaze landed on my bruises. Wordlessly, he pulled off the scarf he was wearing, despite the warm afternoon, and slung it around my neck. He wound it loosely so that it covered the marks.
“You don’t have to explain anything to them, okay?” he said. “Not a goddamn thing.”
“Dammit, Parish.” My eyes stung as I hugged him tight. “Thanks, man.”
He let me go, and Shiloh took a turn, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Knock’em dead. I know you will.”
Ronan had already said his peace earlier; he gave me a short nod as the three of them left the Shack. Violet and I lingered for a bit before heading out; I knew she had something on her mind. She gathered my medical bag while I shouldered my duffel and picked up my guitar case.
“I wish I could drive you to the airport,” she said quietly as we walked along the beach. “I want to.”
“You can’t skip that appointment, Vi,” I said, brushing strands of raven black hair from her temple. “They need to make sure you’re okay.”
“I know I’m okay.” She bit her lip. “But…does it have to be Evelyn?”
“She has some last-minute advice. Probably along the lines of Don’t fuck this up.”
“But what’s in it for her? She never does anything without an agenda”
“Massive amounts of ad revenue for her vlog,” I said. I didn’t add that Evelyn had said the true purpose for driving me to the airport was to finally tell me the favor she wanted in exchange for helping me. If it was something wildly inappropriate—which I suspected it was—I’d shoot her down and Violet would never have to hear about it and be hurt.