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by Stephanie Lawton


  Dave stays for three entire days. He makes me lunch, doles out my bevy of new pills, keeps me company, and lightens the mood when I slip into darkness. I tell him everything. I’ve never had a friend I could tell everything, except R.J. And Dave listens. Sure, he flirts a lot and makes plenty of dirty jokes, but more often than not, he just listens and nods. If I ask, he tells me what he thinks or gives advice, but he doesn’t offer it if I don’t want it.

  There’s something that’s bothered me these last few days. I want to ask him about it, but I’m afraid he’ll get mad, and the last thing I want to do is offend him. He leaves for the airport in a couple of hours, but for now he’s still in full nurse mode.

  “Where’s your lotion?” he asks.

  “Like, hand lotion? There’s some in the cabinet next to the microwave.”

  He trots into the kitchen, returns to the sofa in the den and pulls my feet onto his lap.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I figure your feet are about the only parts of you that don’t hurt right now, so why not make them feel fabulous?”

  “Fabulous?”

  “Fabulous, darling.”

  Hmm, it’s now or never.

  “Can I ask you something, without you getting upset?”

  “Go for it.” He warms the lotion in his hands and picks up my left foot.

  “Dave, are you…I mean, it seems like…have you ever thought you might be…”

  “Gay? No, though you’re not the first person to ask me that.” He works his thumbs up the middle of my foot, loosening the arch.

  “It just seems like, well, you’re awesome. You actually listen to me, and now you’re massaging my feet, for crying out loud. You’ve been so…fabulous these last few days.”

  “I also look great in an apron.”

  “Yes, you do.” I giggle. Yesterday at lunch, he found Mama’s apron and grabbed a wooden spoon to do an impression of the Swedish chef from The Muppet Show. I almost snorted milk out my nose. “So, you’re not mad?”

  “No. But you have to remember that I have three sisters, two older and one younger. Then there’s me in the middle. The older two tortured me. They only let me play with them if they could dress me up—barrettes, balloons up the shirt, lipstick, the whole nine yards. I guess you could say they put me in touch with my feminine side.”

  I groan when he shoves his knuckle into a knot.

  “Then there’s my younger sister, Madison. I’m closest with her because she was my baby doll. My older sisters were witches, but Maddie let me snuggle her, tuck her in at night, and read her stories. When we got older, I screened her boyfriends, helped her with homework, and went with her to pick out prom dresses. She’s married now to a great guy and has a little boy. I’m his godfather.”

  I bet Dave’s really good with kids.

  “But no, back to the original question, I’m not gay. I just have a healthy appreciation for women. That includes the one right here.”

  There goes that theory. I thought maybe I could salvage a little of my pride after his refusal in December at the beach. Maybe he’d say It’s not you, it’s me. And I’d be totally cool with that, but I’m back to square one. It’s still my fault. Something about me is flawed beyond redemption.

  “Dave—”

  “Listen, Juli, I need to tell you this. Not just because I’m trying to hit on you, which I totally am, but because you really do need to hear it. You don’t take compliments very well, which makes me think you didn’t get enough of them growing up.”

  He finishes the left foot and starts on the right one. I squirm.

  “You’re obviously talented. You’re strong. You’re resilient. You’re loyal—even when you shouldn’t be, it seems. You’re pretty mature for your age. I think that’s why it’s easy to forget you’re seventeen. Probably because you’ve had to deal with a lot more serious shit than the average teenager. And I get the feeling you’re alone a lot. I’ve seen it the last few days. Now I know why you throw yourself so whole-hog into your piano. It also helps explain why you weren’t able to connect with the music on an emotional level.”

  “Are you done, Dr. Dave? You sound like my shrink.”

  He stops rubbing. “Say that again.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Dave. I really, really like that.”

  “Shut up.” I smack him on the shoulder.

  “No, I’m not done yet. Something you said at the beach in December stuck with me. Maybe you don’t remember, you were a bit tipsy, but when I tried to compliment you, you called yourself a freak.”

  Oh, God, here it comes. I cover my face with my hands. I want to sink into the couch cushions.

  “Don’t.” He drops my feet on the floor, gently grasps both wrists and pulls my hands away from my face.

  My cheeks flame like five hours in the sun. He moves closer.

  “I said you had amazing legs, smooth skin, and gorgeous hair. I still think that’s true. But now I know you’re just as gorgeous on the inside, which is why I have to tell you this.”

  Dave moves even closer so his thigh presses against mine. He drapes a possessive arm over the back of the couch. My stomach tightens.

  “I don’t mean to sound like an after-school special, but I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen girls like you who have everything and don’t know it, so they look for it in other places, from other people. The wrong people. It’s not healthy.” Dave shakes his head. “You don’t need to go down that road.”

  “You lost me.”

  He loops one of my curls around his finger and for just a second, I wonder what the hairs at the back of his neck would feel like on my fingertips. “You’re a people-pleaser. A bit volatile, but still. You’re like Stella. Can you guess who Stanley is in this equation? Like I said, I’ve seen this before, and the ending ain’t pretty.”

  Oh. This close, I can see flecks of green in his brown eyes.

  “Now, because I’m more of a Mitch than a Stanley, I couldn’t kiss you properly in December. You were a little drunk and it wasn’t right. But I’d like to make up for that now.” He leans in and, just before our lips touch, he whispers, “May I?”

  I part my lips in answer, but a memory floats to the surface.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Not after what happened at the beach. I’m no older now than I was then, and you pushed me away.”

  “Juli, that’s not—”

  “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done the last few days. You’ve been fantastic, and you’re my best friend. Truly, I love you as much as I love R.J., but I really don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to set myself up again just to have you find some other reason for it to be wrong. I don’t want to be strung along like all your other girlfriends between here and Boston.”

  For a long time, he doesn’t say a thing. I guess no one’s ever told him no before. The back door slams open and shut, and Daddy breezes in. I can’t decide if his timing is perfect or terrible.

  Dave clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I was saying goodbye to Julianne, sir. My plane leaves in two hours.” He stands in front of Daddy to shake his hand, just like he did when I came home from the hospital. “I hope I’ve been a help this week, Mr. Casquette. Please give your wife my regards.”

  “Will do. And thanks for your help. It took guts to jump on a plane and show up here. I respect that. Safe travels.”

  With a peck on the cheek for me and a promise to call when his plane lands in Boston, Dave’s gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The door creaks a little and the musty smell of disuse hits me as I enter my studio. My audition is just weeks away, and I have no idea if I can play a scale, let alone an entire collection of pieces.

  I can use my arm again, but my range of motion is limited. I need to be able to extend my shoulder parallel to my body, both left and right, to go up and down the keys. If I don’t lift my fingers too far off the keyboard, I’ll be okay
.

  I start simple with a slow, three-octave scale. The middle octave is no problem because I can hug my arm to my side. It’s the upper and lower octaves that are a challenge. When I move up the keys and my left arm crosses in front of me, I stumble. White heat radiates up into my neck, across my back and down my arm. For a second, purple stars burst in front of my eyes. The lower octave isn’t so bad.

  “I wondered when you’d give it a try,” Daddy says from the doorway. “You able to do anything?”

  “It hurts. Really bad. I think I need a few more days for some of the soreness to go away.”

  “That’s what I told Isaac Laroche just now.”

  The mention of his name sends my heart into overdrive.

  “He was here?”

  “No. I called him. I figured you’d want to start practicing again ASAP. Your audition’s in a couple of weeks, right?”

  “Yes.” Like I need a reminder that the most important day of my life will be here in three weeks and four days.

  “Then you’ve got a lot of work to do, and you’ll need help.”

  “Does he know about…?”

  “I called him the morning after you went into the hospital. Told him you’d been injured and couldn’t play for a while. I didn’t go into details. Said I’d call when it looked like you were up to practicing again. I can’t believe you stayed away this long.”

  “Neither can I. And he said he’d be over?”

  “Tomorrow after therapy.”

  Wow. Um, okay. Does that mean he knows he falsely accused me of being a two-faced bitch and Marcie Swann’s stooge? I wonder how much he’s talked to Dave.

  Dave. Another complication. I’ve tried not to think about it, but while Isaac was mauling me at Felix’s, he did say he’d thought about me. That way. If he knows now that it wasn’t an act…

  Looks like tomorrow’s practice will be more painful than my arm.

  ***

  “Still think I’m pretending?”

  Isaac’s eyes go wide as he takes in my appearance. His gaze travels quickly to take stock of the damage. My shiners are more yellow today than green. There are still some bruises and scrapes on my arms, and I’ve lost fifteen pounds. A stomach full of mood stabilizers and pain pills sent my appetite into a death spiral. Granted, I had a few pounds to lose, but now I look a little gross. A little like her. I wonder if she’d be proud that she’s had this effect. I wouldn’t know since I haven’t gone to see her. Daddy bugs me about it, but I can’t. Not yet.

  Isaac reaches out a hand to touch my face, but I recoil.

  “I deserve that. Thought Dave exaggerated. I… Jesus.”

  “Isaac, why are you here?”

  “Your daddy called.” He stares at his shoes.

  “Is that it?”

  “You know it’s not.”

  “No, Mr. Laroche, I don’t know anything.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger.

  “Didn’t…I don’t…not very good at this sort of thing.”

  “What, apologizing? For being a complete jerk?”

  “Yeah, that. Don’t usually care enough about people to bother.”

  “Let me guess. You’re only here because you need the money from Daddy, and you feel like you owe him for what he did all those years ago. Yeah, I know about that. What I don’t know is how you could think I would side with Marcie Swann.”

  “You’re right. I do need the money. And I do owe him.”

  I grit so hard my teeth squeak. “Bastard. Get out.”

  “Let me finish. What I’m most sorry about is I didn’t see this coming. Should have guessed about the scratches on your arms and bruises, and I knew you lied when you said you got mugged outside of Felix’s. I was there that night. You weren’t. I knew it was a lie, but I didn’t ask the right questions. I was too freaked out when you...” The tops of his ears redden. “Half expected Marcie Swann to jump out of your closet. And then at the New Year’s party.”

  “That’s dumb. I don’t think she’s been to our house since I was little. Well, since your case.”

  “I didn’t know that. I know how the Mystics are. They stick together. Unless your daddy dies and leaves you without a huge life insurance payout and an inheritance. Then you’re a poor relation twice removed.”

  “Or unless your family sticks up for someone who was unfairly accused by the most powerful family in the Mystics. Not the most popular move my daddy ever made.”

  “I was gone. Didn’t know how it all turned out.”

  “Now you do.”

  “Now I do.” He hangs his head and buries the toe of his shoe in the carpet pile.

  I clear my throat. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Leaves me to apologize. For being a dick, and an ass, and any other vulgar body part you care to compare me to. Sorry I didn’t believe you, and sorry if I scared you at Felix’s. If I’d known what you’d come home to.... Dammit, I—” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “All those times we argued and you flinched or cried. Thought you were being dramatic to get my hackles up. But you were scared, weren’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “Julianne. Please look at me. I am so, so sorry. It was not my intention to scare you or hurt you. There’s no excuse, but I hope you know I was only trying to get you to do your best. Music requires passion, and I forget how young you are.”

  I can’t get past the shape of his mouth and the intensity in his eyes when he said “passion.” I’m trapped in his gaze, and I go all wobbly. After a deep breath, I ask what I really want to know.

  “What about the other stuff?”

  “Other stuff?”

  “The, um, stuff you said before you asked how much she was paying me?”

  His face turns crimson. “Think it’s best if we leave that alone. We have major work to do in the next couple of weeks, and I won’t fail you.”

  I’d love to leave it in the past, but it surfaces every time I’m not thinking about Mama, or the audition, or Dave, or, you know, not breathing. Now that I’m a week or so removed from the incident at Felix’s, and I know he never planned to hurt me, I have to admit it was something. Thrilling? Perhaps it’s a sick, Freudian side-effect of my “hostile dependency” and “passive-aggressive tendencies”. Why can’t I be satisfied with someone nice, like Dave? He does all the right things, he’s funny and smart and talented.

  And vanilla. Wonderful, but still vanilla, at least compared to Isaac. There’s something about Isaac’s massive presence and the challenge of winning him over. I like that I have to earn his attention and praise. There are so many musicians who’d kill for a minute with Isaac Laroche.

  My ruminations come to an end when Isaac asks me to sit at the piano and show him what I can and can’t do with my injury. The results aren’t promising.

  The next day, I walk into physical therapy and Isaac’s deep in conversation with my therapist.

  “A little overkill, don’t you think?”

  “Need to know how quickly you’ll regain your range of motion and if there’s anything we can do, any adaptations we can make, to get you through the audition,” Isaac says.

  I’m impressed. Daddy’s never come to one of my therapy appointments, not that I’m surprised. He chooses to spend his spare time with her, at her appointments, bringing her things at the treatment facility.

  I’m on my own, as usual.

  ***

  Something’s up. When I pull into the driveway after therapy, Daddy’s Lexus is in the garage. I shove open the back door, and he’s setting the table for three.

  Not two, three. Which means…

  My bag thumps when it hits the floor, and the room tilts a little to the left. My breath comes in short gasps.

  “You okay, sweetie? I got a surprise for you.” Daddy looks up and turns pale when he sees me gripping the counter.

  “W-why are there three plates?”

  “Well, that’s the surprise. In fact, here he is.”

  He? I turn to the kitchen windo
w and see a tall, solid form approach the back door. When it bangs open, I throw myself into his arms.

  “Now that’s what I call a homecoming. Glad to see you, too, Sis.”

  I squeeze his neck as hard as I can and grab fists full of his shirt in back. I don’t even try to control my sobs. “I thought…three plates. I didn’t know.”

  “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he says, smoothing my hair.

  Behind me, Daddy groans. “Juli, it never occurred to me you’d take it like that. Thought you’d be happy R.J. was home for the weekend.”

  R.J. plucks my arms from his neck and looks me in the face. “You okay? I thought I’d surprise you. Daddy made fried green tomatoes, your favorite. Let’s have a nice dinner, all right?”

  I nod but hover close to him.

  An hour later, I find out the real reason R.J. is home. He rinses while I load the plates into the dishwasher. He flicks me with water.

  “Have you talked to Daddy at all today?”

  “No. No other day either. Why?”

  He twists the washcloth in his hands. “They diagnosed her.”

  “So?” She’s been diagnosed with so many things that I’ve lost track.

  “She’s seeing some new doctors, not Dr. Beatty again.”

  Dr. Beatty is the unofficial doctor of the Mystics. He was alive during Reconstruction, I swear, and still believes in mustard plasters and ground ginger root tonics. He prescribed rest and a soothing atmosphere for Mama when she first started her moods. Eventually, he recommended wine before bed. Then he finally gave in and put her on antidepressants, increasing the dosage every few years. Then he’d add another. And another. The windowsill looks bare without them lined up like little soldiers.

  R.J. wipes his hands on a towel and slings it over his shoulder. I shut the dishwasher and wipe down the counter.

  “Well? What can we blame this time?”

  “They went back and did her whole history. Remember when we were little and she wouldn’t get off the couch to make lunch? They think that was lingering postpartum depression. Daddy says it started when she had me but got really bad after she had you.”

 

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