by Geneva Lee
I can’t say no. I don’t want to.
“Okay, but I’m going to make you listen to The Great Gatsby,” I warn her.
She shifts toward me on the couch, carefully resting her head on my shoulder as though testing it out. I put an arm around her, hoping this doesn’t remind her of the last time I did this. If it does, it doesn’t seem to bother her. She relaxes against my body, fitting perfectly against me.
I open the book. “‘In my younger and more vulnerable years’—see? It’s riveting.”
She snorts, elbowing me lightly in my ribs before nuzzling back against me. “Keep reading.”
So I do.
26
Adair
Present Day
“No live music tonight.” Jack flashes an apologetic smile. The man oozes charm, but it does nothing to soften the blow.
“This is the Barrelhouse!” I smack the counter. Maybe I’m beginning to feel those shots a bit. “Unacceptable. Actually, I might be able to something about that.”
“Oh really?” Jack and Sterling share a look. They think I’m drunk. They’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’m blowing smoke. “What?”
“A girl has to have her secrets.” Pulling out my phone, I send a text.
“Are you going to sing for us, Lucky?” Sterling asks.
I hate the way my old pet name sounds rolling off his tongue, smooth and silky as the bourbon Jack keeps pouring me—with just as much fire hiding under the first taste. I hate that after all these years he can slip back into the way it was between us. I hate that I know it’s all just pretend.
I hate that I like the way it makes me feel anyway.
We’ve nearly finished a bottle when the Calvary arrives. Or maybe I’ve nearly finished a bottle because Jack is showing no signs of being drunk. In fact, he’s as sharp as ever, which means he’s the first to spot my friends walking through the door.
“Is that…?” Shock registers on his face when he sees who’s entered his bar.
I wave to Poppy and Kai as they scan the crowd. The truth is that I didn’t just text them to hook Jack up with a performance for the evening. I needed backup. If a girl is stuck drinking whiskey with her ex-boyfriend, who quite possibly is a sociopath, then she doesn’t have a lot of other options than to call in her friends. Kai keeps his head bowed, his cowboy hat tipped down to avoid recognition, but he’s unmistakable. He sticks out from the crowd for all the reasons he once thought he’d never fit in. His tight jeans and vintage flannel shirt might look old-school country, but he wears the look like a rock star. As it turned out, I’d been right all those years ago. He was exactly what country music needed exactly when they needed it.
Poppy’s always known how to dress the part. Tonight, she’s found a cotton summer dress printed with little yellow flowers. Its ruffled skirt ends mid-thigh and showcases her long legs. I used to be jealous of her dancer’s body. Her height. The way she seemed to flow across a room. It’s strange, but when my girlish body gave over to a slightly more plump version of myself, I’d gotten more comfortable in my skin. Not that I wouldn’t kill to move as gracefully as she does
“You look gorgeous,” I say as she forcibly hugs me. I don’t fight it. Sometimes in friendship, you have to compromise. Poppy is a hugger. I am not. She puts up with my cranky ass, so I let her. This is how being best friends works for us.
“I’m not going to hug you,” Kai says with a laugh, spotting my slightly rigid form. “But only if you give me a drink.”
“I thought superstars didn’t ask for booze,” I tease him.
“They don’t,” Jack interjects, sticking out his hand. “Jack Archer. I’m a big fan.”
“You like country music?” Kai asks. It’s a test. We all know it.
“Not particularly.” Jack passes it. “I’m more of a blues man. But you’re not really country—not modern country, at least. I love what you’re doing for the scene. It was getting a bit stale. It needed you.”
“You’re going to make me blush,” Kai says.
“Let’s dance before I have to give you back to L.A.” Poppy grabs his hand and drags him to the dance floor. Considering the lack of live music, there’s only a few others on it. Occasionally, someone catches a glimpse of Kai and does a double take.
“I’m going to chat with my boys,” Jack says. “I want to make certain they keep an eye on him.”
“He’s used to it,” I say.
“I’d rather play it safe. He’s here for a good time not to be harassed.” Jack leaves us at the bar to talk to his security team. Now I’m stuck alone with Sterling caught up in memories of the past. That coupled with the amount of whiskey I’ve drank can only spell trouble.
“I think Kai has gone the farthest of all of us,” Sterling says.
I might have agreed before I saw Sterling’s condo. I’ve watched Kai rocket to the top of the music industry since he left Valmont early our sophomore year. He’s doing well for himself, but it’s nowhere near the level Sterling’s achieved. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t hooked him up with a producer at a MacLaine-held record label,” I confess to Sterling. “It couldn’t have happened to a better guy, but it hasn’t been easy. He’s had his fair share of people that just want to use him to make a buck or get ahead.”
“That’s what happens when you’re successful,” he says.
“He got burned by a few fans. A lot of people look at them as a way to break in to the business. I’m not sure if I should have invited him to a blues bar. I don’t want him to feel pressured to sing.”
“Jack won’t do that,” Sterling assures me. “He’ll be the first person to hand Kai a guitar if he asks for one, but he doesn’t use people. He’s not even going to tell you he’s starting his own record company. I guarantee it.”
“What?” I look around the crowded bar. “How does he have the time?”
Sterling nods like he wonders the same thing. “He’s passionate about the industry. He wants to see artists treated with respect. The label is never going to be a huge source of income.”
“It doesn’t seem like he needs a huge source of income,” I point out shrewdly. Jack can’t be much older than us, but he owns one of the most established venues in Nashville. I’m as curious about the source of his good fortune as I am about Sterling’s. “Does he?”
“He’s doing alright.” The question rolls right off his broad shoulders.
Another non-answer. I’m not getting clues about either man’s wealth tonight. It only makes me question it more.
But maybe interrogating Sterling isn’t the route to take. He’s never liked answering questions, but he never minds telling a story if you nudge him toward one. “You two have the same tattoo.”
I’d noticed Jack’s inked forearm when he was feeding me shots. The art is the same. The location is the same. I know it can’t be a coincidence.
“We met in the Marines,” Sterling says. At last, an answer, but there’s a finality to his tone. He knows I’m angling to learn more about his past and he’s warning me to stop talking about it.
That doesn’t mean that I’m going to. “You never told me about your time in the Armed Forces.”
“That’s not an oversight.”
Before I can press him harder, he stands up and holds out his hand. “Care to dance, Lucky?”
“If you stop calling me that.” I counter his offer. I need to erect some boundaries—and quickly.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He sounds genuine.
That only makes it harder to resist the incessant tug of memories I feel when he’s around. I can’t bring myself to look directly at him. I’m not sure I can handle seeing his eyes. “Look, we can pretend for everyone else,” I say, “but let’s not fool ourselves.”
Sterling’s shoulders square, his jaw tensing before he tips his head with a terse nod. “Fair enough. We should still dance,” he says, adding, “for the sake of appearance.”
If he’s going to act nonchalant about this, so can I
. “Let’s go.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve been out dancing. Stilted waltzes at charity galas don’t count. This is dancing—letting loose, laughing. Even if my partner is Sterling Ford. I need more of this. There’s no sick father to care for anymore. Ellie’s old enough that I don’t have to worry about Ginny leaving her to cry in her crib. I might not be free of Valmont but my leash is finally lengthening. This is life. The music soaks into my skin, like the whiskey moving in my bloodstream, and leaves me no choice but to give in and feel good.
Poppy and Kai join us, him singing along to the song playing. That’s when it happens. A girl spots us and begins to shriek. “I knew it! It is him!”
Kai’s eyes close for just a moment as if gathering strength before he turns on his million-dollar smile. Pretty soon, he’s surrounded, signing napkins, and taking selfies. Jack’s guys move in to break up the impromptu autograph session, but Kai waves them off. We back away to give the fans more room.
“He claims he hates the attention,” Poppy says.
“Bullshit,” we both say at the same time.
The truth is, like any famous person, Kai wants privacy every now and then, but he totally feeds off the attention. It drives him, and no one deserves it more.
A chant begins in the crowd and it takes a moment for my whiskey-marinated brain to process they want him to sing. It’s about that same time that Kai’s hand closes over mine and he drags me to the stage. Sterling and Poppy begin catcalling my name. It’s easy to know it’s them since everyone else is screaming Kai’s.
“Have you lost your mind?” I hiss, trying to escape.
Kai plops his Stetson on my head. “I know you can sing, girl. Now don’t break my heart and tell me you don’t know my songs.”
“Of course, I know them.” I tilt the brim up and glare at him. Like I wouldn’t know every one of his songs! He presses a microphone into my hands, and I realize he actually wants me to sing with him. On stage. In front of everyone.
Oh my God. The first bars of the song start playing before I can chicken out.
Some blood is thicker than water…
I join in with Kai instinctively, belting his first number one hit.
And there’s whiskey hotter than fire.
I know you should treat me better,
But I don’t care if you’re a liar
Cause some love is sweeter than air.
* * *
I took you home to meet my family.
My mama cried when she saw you.
She said that boy won’t ever treat you kindly.
Son, some bastards can’t stay true.
I don’t mean to look at Sterling as the words surge from me, because my gaze travels to him like he’s magnetized. People think this song is sad. Maybe if it is if you know better.
I thought our love would last for always,
But you drank me gone one lonely night.
Now I’m drinking to our yesterdays
Cause some bastards can’t treat ya right.
* * *
Our love is water and it’s fire,
So pour another and lie to me.
I’ll drink to forget that you’re a liar
Cause I need your love to breathe.
There’s a reason I can’t stop looking at the man in the crowd. There’s a reason why no matter how hard I try to keep away, I can’t. There’s a reason I can’t separate desire from hate anymore. This is the only kind of love I’ve ever known.
And he’s the one who showed me it.
27
Adair
THE PAST
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I say for the hundredth time since I picked Sterling up in front of his dormitory. My hand taps the steering wheel, out of beat with the song playing on the radio. That’s how I feel: out of sync. I’m not sure that this is going to help.
“You can’t avoid it,” he says. He reaches and turns off the music.
I’m still tapping the wheel, trying to disperse all the emotions building inside me. “I know.”
His hand closes over mine, drawing it away from the wheel. Sterling weaves his fingers through mine and holds it. “It’s going to be okay, Lucky.”
For the first time his nickname for me doesn’t feel like an insult. It feels like a promise. I cling to it along with the rest of his words. Sterling knows because he’s been through this. He survived it. I can survive it. I don’t know why it comforts me to tell myself this over and over, but it does. I guess I need something to believe in.
“Distract me.” The drive to the cemetery is nearly as bad as what’s waiting there. I can’t stand thinking about it—imagining it—anymore.
He pauses, the pressure of his hand holding mine increasing. I dare a glance over and see his eyebrows knit together in concentration like he’s trying to find a safe topic. “In New York, there’s a place called Eataly that’s half a city block of Italian food and groceries.”
“What?” I can’t help laughing at his choice. He grins in response. A real smile from Sterling—not a smirk—is like a rainbow coming out from the clouds. Unexpected. Beautiful. Seeing it can’t help but brighten the day. “Italy? Like the country?”
“No. E-A-T-A-L-Y,” he corrects me. He begins to describe it to me. The fishmonger station piled with crabs and whole fish on ice. Across from that a butcher. The smell of baking bread rising over the crowd and tempting visitors to glass cases full of loaves of every shape and size. Restaurants for pasta and pizza and fish—relaxed or fancy—are tucked around every corner.
“What’s your favorite?” I ask. The warmth of his hand seeps under my skin just like the rest of him is starting to.
“I’ve only ever gotten the gelato and a loaf for Francie,” he says. His eyes dart to the window. I’ve asked the wrong question again, but I’m starting to find my answers in between the ones he gives me. He’s told me before that he’s poor. A foster kid. He wouldn’t have the money to buy all that imported stuff. But I know why he’s shared it with me. It wasn’t only to distract me. It’s because he knows the best distraction is desire. It’s wanting something you can’t have.
With my hand in his, I realize he might be the only distraction I actually need.
“We’ll go there sometime,” I find myself saying, “and eat our way through.”
“You think you can handle that? You just started eating pizza without a fork,” he says.
“I’m all in, baby.” I mean it. “So, who’s Francie?”
I’m a little scared to ask, because her name’s come up before and he didn’t like me asking about her.
“My foster mom,” he says quietly.
“She adopted you?” I ask.
“Nah.” He shrugs like this isn’t a big deal but he’s careful to avoid looking at me and his hand tightens a little around mine. “I’ve only been with her a couple of years. It’s too late to adopt me now anyway.”
Sterling might act like it doesn’t bother him, but it does. I have a million more questions I want to ask about how he wound up in foster care and what happened to his parents, but I know better than to ask. He might be relaxing his guard around me but he still has teeth. I don’t know what will cause him to bite.
“Well, if she likes good bread, she’s alright in my book,” I say, turning the topic back to the subject of food.
“Francie loves to cook,” he says. “She’s taught me how to cook a bunch of stuff.”
“Really? I barely know how to make toast.”
He arches an eyebrow, his lips twitching. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me, Lucky.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you really what me to answer that question?” he asks.
“Nope.” I laugh, shaking my head. We both know the answer. “You can teach me how to cook.”
“How about I just cook for you instead?”
“Deal.”
The rest of the drive is short and filled with more stories about New York. When I turn the Mer
cedes into Valmont Memorial Cemetery, my mind is on all the places I want to go now thanks to Sterling. The first headstone reminds me why we’re here, though. I fall silent and Sterling does the same. We don’t speak as I drive slowly down the narrow lanes toward our family’s section of the graveyard. There’s been a MacLaine buried here since 1810. The moss covered mausoleum bearing the family crest has been full since the seventies. I have no idea what to expect when we reach my mother’s grave.
It’s not this.
The gravestone is granite with magnolia blossoms carved across the top and a simple inscription:
Anne MacLaine. Beloved Wife and Mother.
It’s unlike my father to favor minimalism, but he’s done it here. No one consulted me on her tombstone or the funeral or any other arrangements. I don’t even know who handled them, honestly. Daddy hadn’t been available to do it. Maybe Malcolm?
Who thought they could distill her into six words? Where’s the monument she deserves? Or is this just another attempt to prevent unwanted attention? Did Daddy choose it so that no one remembers her? No one asks questions about her death? I want to kick it. I want to cry. I want to fall down and tear up the earth and take my mother back.
Sterling looms behind me, keeping a respectful distance. I need him here next to me. I need to know what to do now. “I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you feel like saying?” He moves closer until we’re side by side, staring down at the resting place of the woman he’ll never know and the woman I’ll never forget.
“Nothing,” I murmur.
“Then do that.” His hand finds mine and in his touch, I find strength. We stand there, leaves blowing all around us, autumn on the wind, until I find my voice.
“I didn’t know. You’re supposed to get to say goodbye. Life isn’t supposed to just snuff you out. She was here and then she was gone—and I don’t understand it!”