The Risks We Take

by Barbara C. Doyle

  There’s a difference between them—what you want is something your mind tries convincing you of. But what you need? That’s based on your heart.

  After clearing the last two tables in my section, I make my way toward the kitchen. Determination must be on my face, because Rosie takes the tray of dirty dishes from me and gestures toward Ian.

  He’s still nursing his coffee, an empty plate in front of him.

  I stop just short of him. “Hi.”

  “Thought you were going to avoid me the whole time,” he admits, setting down his cup.

  “I was.”

  He chuckles. “I respect your honesty.”

  I just shrug.

  “Listen, what you said the other night …”

  I press my lips together, braced for whatever it going to come next.

  He seems calm, unnervingly so, and it’s irritating.

  Stop being petty, I silently scold.

  “I didn’t know,” he says slowly. “My parents never told me anything. The only thing I knew was that my father got a new job in New York, and we had to take it before it was offered to somebody else.”

  Part of me was expecting the news to be bigger than it was, but maybe Ian is a better person than I am. I destroyed so many relationships once I found out.

  I gnaw on the inside of my cheek for a solid ten seconds. “You didn’t notice anything strange going on between your parents? No fighting? No tension? Mine were always making the house awkward. They thought they were being quiet when they fought, but they weren’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” It’s not your fault. The words would be bitter if I say them, so I refrain.

  He sighs. “What happened is messed up. I wanted to call my mom and make her admit it, but I couldn’t. It seems like after all these years, digging up old bones isn’t worth it. So I get it, Kasey. I get why you don’t want me in your life. But …” He takes a breath. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to accept it.”

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m only here for about three more weeks. Less than that, actually. I don’t want to leave with enemies.”

  My heart drops a little. “We’re not enemies.”

  “We’re not friends either,” he points out.

  “We’re acquaintances.”

  “But we’ve known each other for a long time,” he counters matter-of-factly. “Calling ourselves something as little as that is like taking a hundred steps backward. We’re going in the wrong direction.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Rose pops up beside me. “I hate to mention this, but we’re kind of busy here, boy. Unless you’re going to order something else, you should probably pay and go home.”

  I don’t know if she’s saying that for my benefit, or just because we are busy. Although, the lunch crowd has cleared so we probably won’t pick up again until dinner time. By then, I’ll be gone.

  “I like pie,” he states.

  “Pie?” I repeat.

  He nods once. “Pie. Apple. Blueberry. I can make a kickass strawberry rhubarb—”

  Rose sighs. “So do you want pie or to impress Kasey with your culinary skills?”

  Ian clears his throat. “Pie please.”

  “Chocolate good for you?”

  He nods.

  When she walks away, he gives me a look. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  “That’s just Rosie.”

  He cocks his head. “Seems like it’s more.”

  I look over at her. “She’s protective of me. Always has been.” I smile a little. “Plus, she’s tried getting me and her son to date. Even back in high school.”

  His face screws. “Who’s the son?”

  I lean my hip on the counter. “Jake. You met him the other night.”

  He doesn’t hide his distaste. “Him, huh?”

  “He’s a good guy, Ian.”

  “I saw him around town. He’s a cop?”

  I nod.

  “Are you two friends?”

  “Yeah. We got close in middle school. Never like … never like you and me, but pretty close. We’ve been in touch the whole time.”

  I don’t know why I feel the need to add the last part, but I do. My mind is still a vengeful bitch, even if I’m trying to let it go.

  He doesn’t comment on it. “I’m glad that you had somebody. I mean it.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  Rosie comes back with the pie and a can of cool whip. “Want a topping on it?”

  “I’m not really a—”

  Rosie puts some on anyway. “You can’t have pie without whipped cream.”

  Ian clears his throat. “All right then.”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s got a point, Ian.”

  He puts up his hands. “I’m not arguing.”

  Rose eyes him. “Smart boy.”

  With that, she walks away.

  We’re surrounded by silence.

  “So …”

  “So,” he mimics.

  “Did you make friends?”

  “Do you actually want to know?”

  “I’m trying to make conversation,” I grumble. I look away from him. “But, yeah. I really want to know. The idea of an old friend being lonely doesn’t sit well with me. I know what that’s like.”

  “You had Jason.”

  “Jake,” I correct, knowing damn well he remembers his name. “And I didn’t really speak to him until a year or so later. I stayed to myself for the most part right after you moved.”

  “Why?” His pie is forgotten.

  “We were our own group,” I remind him. “I should say pair, because it was only ever the two of us. We were the misfits of the school, and I was fine with that, because we had each other. When you left, I didn’t feel like I fit anywhere else. I was the chubby, shy girl. You were one of the few who didn’t tease me about my weight or how I never talked much in class.”

  His eyes dull. “Did kids tease you when I left?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Kasey,” he warns.

  I meet his eyes. “You were the only reason they never said anything. They knew you’d stand up for me. Report them. So yeah, Ian. I got bullied a lot after you left.”

  “Shit, Kasey. That sucks. I’m—”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” I cut him off.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted from me?” he questions. “You’ve disliked me for so long, it seems like that’s what you want.”

  My eye twitches. “I don’t want, nor do I need, your apology. What happened in the past is in the past. But if we’re talking about what I want, I already told you the other day.”

  I cringe internally at how bad the lie is, and how easily it slips off the tongue.

  He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a deep breath.

  “No. This is what I’m talking about. We’re going in the wrong direction again.” He combs his fingers through his hair, making it messy. “You don’t want me in your life, but I already told you that I’m staying in it. I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to be friends. To hang out. To catch up. Whatever went down when we were separated shouldn’t matter. We should move past that, because it’s all we can do. Don’t you agree?”

  I want to say no, but I do agree.

  It’s what I’ve been telling myself this whole time. If we live in the past, we’ll never move forward. We’ll never find hope, or some reason to look forward to the future.

  I don’t want to be trapped anymore.

  “I did make friends, by the way,” he murmurs, cutting his fork into the pie.

  “That’s good.”

  He nods. “You’d like them.”

  “I think you’d like Jake, too.”

  There’s a pregnant pause. Finally, he answers, “Maybe. Clearly the guy has good taste in women.”

  I snort. “Yeah, whatever.”

  He gestures with his fork toward the pie. “This is pretty good. Want som
e?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably get back to work. I still have a few hours left before my shift is done.”

  He nods in understanding. “Are you going to avoid me again, or is this weirdness over between us?”

  I look him over, thinking about how to answer. “We’ll always be weird, Ian.”

  He cracks a grin. “True.”

  I sigh. “Like I said, we’re not enemies. And I suppose it’s weird to consider us acquaintances after being so close back in the day.”

  He eyes me hopefully. “So we’re friends?”

  “We’re … us. And I think that’s a good place to start, because time does change people, Ian. It doesn’t always change us into people we still like.”

  “Who’s to judge that?”

  I shrug. “Both of us. We liked each other when we were kids, but that was before the world took over and we became adults with responsibilities. Our aspirations are more than being first in line for pizza day at school.”

  “Or dairy day at Pops.”

  I laugh lightly. “Yeah, or there. You get my point though. We may not like how we changed. We’re not that similar anymore.”

  “How do you know?” he challenges.

  “Our music taste has changed.”

  He snorts. “That’s all you’ve got? I like a lot of different music. Even listen to Disney soundtracks, but if you repeat that to anybody, I’ll deny it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever you say.” I pause. “What if you regret getting to know me? You’re clearly hanging onto an image that doesn’t fit anymore.”

  His answer is smooth. “There’s no way to avoid regret, Kasey. It’s how we deal with it that makes all the difference.”

  I look at him. “What does that even mean?”

  “Make choices. Make regrets.”

  “With you?”

  “Always.”

  “What if I regret you?”

  There’s no hesitation. “What if you don’t?”

  IAN

  There’s buzzing near my ear that wakes me up, and I swat the air hoping it’s a bug that’ll go away. Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky.

  My phone screen lights up the dark room, burning my eyes when I crack them open to look at who’s calling me.

  “It’s three in the morning,” I groan as soon as I answer it.

  “Look at our fucking Instagram,” Dylan growls.

  Our what?

  “At three in the morning?” I quip groggily.

  He sighs, “Just do it.”

  I sit up tiredly, feeling my limbs slowly wake up from sleep.

  Sighing and switching over to the app once my eyes adjust to the light, I blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing the right thing.

  And I stare. And stare.

  Then a laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “Christ,” I snicker, rubbing the heel of my palm against my tired eyelids.

  “What did I tell you, man?” He’s clearly not as amused as I am by it. “You left a fifteen percent chance for Tess to do this!”

  “It's kind of funny.”

  “How the hell is that funny?” he blasts. “She put her cat everywhere! And is he supposed to be us?”

  Tessa has five posts of her cat in our different band tees, with a link to online store to buy merchandise. It’s actually a good idea.

  I scroll through them, because the damn cat has a different wig on in each picture.

  I snort when I get to what I assume is Dylan. It’s the mop-looking hair that does it. “It does kinda look like you.”

  He swears. “That wig is an insult.”

  I don’t see why. He always sports the messy hair look. Somedays I wonder if he even brushes it or just runs his hair through it and calls it good.

  My eyes narrow in on the caption. “She’s actually doing something smart. Look at the bottom captions.”

  He grumbles profanities.

  “Just do it and quit bitching.”

  On two of the posts were places to donate to animal shelters, with Relentless as a spokesman for the businesses both at a local and national level. She’s giving us good PR. The tactic is smart.

  Although something tells me that she did it partially to piss Dylan off.

  He swears again. “Why does she have to be smart about it?”

  “Does the wig offend you that much?” I muse, staring at the picture again.

  “She could have at least put one of those fake muscle shirts on him. I’ve got abs!”

  I roll my eyes. “She’s promoting our store and charity work. Can’t you just praise that?”

  He lets out a heavy breath. “You said she wouldn’t post shit about her cat, dude.”

  “I assumed she wouldn’t. I was wrong.”

  He grunts in agreement.

  I shake my head. “I’ll call her in the morning if you really want me to.”

  A pause. “No. Just … tell her she needs to run it by us first whenever you talk to her next. And while you’re at it, tell her not to dress her cat up like us. It’s appalling.”

  Typical Dylan. A flair for the dramatic.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever you say, man.”

  “So what are you up to?” he asks, his mood doing a complete 360 and giving me whiplash.

  I look at the alarm clock. “Uh … sleeping?”

  “You were seriously sleeping?”

  “It’s three,” I remind him.

  “You usually just get home at three.”

  “There aren’t a lot of parties in the middle of nowhere Vermont, Dylan.”

  He sighs. “Sounds like it’s boring as shit there.”

  “It’s not so bad.” And I mean that.

  Partying is fun once in a while, but the parties we go to are all the same. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. It’s the same bad music, and the same bad alcohol, with the same chicks trying to get your pants off the second you’re alone.

  It’s suffocating.

  This is a vacation that I know Dylan won’t understand, because despite the stories, we’re not all that alike. Maybe once, but not anymore.

  People change. Kasey is proof of that.

  “You still there?”

  I yawn. “Yeah, man. But I’m actually about to go back to bed. Was that all? Or were you going to tell me how lost and devastated you are that I’m still gone?”

  He snorts. “Oh, kiss it.”

  “Aw, you do miss me,” I bellow.

  I can picture him rolling his eyes. “I’m just sad you’re not here to tame Tessa.”

  “Tame Tessa?” I repeat, laughing. “Nobody can tame that woman. Plus, it wouldn’t be my job anyway. Tell Will to distract her if she’s being such a pain in the ass.”

  “That woman is always a pain in the ass.”

  Couldn’t argue there.

  “Plus,” he adds, “Will can’t tame her, because the sucker loves her too much to say no.”

  That makes me smile. “He’s a fool in love, Dylan. Maybe one day, you’ll be like that, too.”

  “Please,” he jeers. “That day won’t be anytime soon, and you know it.” There’s a pause. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  I sigh. “I’m not in love, if that’s what you’re asking. Far from it.”

  “But you’re smitten.”

  “I’m … me.”

  We’re … us. And I think that’s a good place to start.

  Kasey’s words ring in my head, knowing we’re restarting it all. Our friendship, relationship, whatever she wants to consider it.

  And something that Tessa told me over the summer reminds me of this moment, because I once believed I loved Kasey. And in a lot of ways, I did. As a friend, a best friend. Something like what Will and Tess have.

  But loving her in any other way isn’t what I felt, because I was too young to feel something as strong as that. To understand it on a level I could now. But it was a feeling I held onto, even afte
r all this time.

  “You with me?” he asks, breaking my thought.

  I blink. “Yeah. Sorry, man.”

  “You want to be in love,” he notes.

  “I want to feel loved.”

  “You are. Not to get sappy and shit, but you are loved by people. The band. The fans.”

  And I know it, but I don’t say so. Because it’s not the same. Not when our fans see a different version of us than who we are outside the press.

  He sighs. “But you want more.”

  “Yeah,” I find myself saying, “I do.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  The smile wavers on my face, because doubt floats in my mind. I have limited time here, with somebody I want to know again.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever love Kasey, and based on the way she looks at Jake, I highly doubt that she would love me in any way that I want.

  “Maybe,” I finally say.

  But I don’t even think he believes me.

  By the time the sun is up, I’m wide awake. My guitar beckons to me from where it rests against the wall in the corner of the room. I promised the guys I’d write at least two new songs while I was away.

  Personally, I don’t see why Dylan is so worried about me not showing up. I started the band—craved success. It wasn’t about the girls or the money, although they were definitely an added bonus. It was about playing music that meant something to people, a connection. A feeling.

  A lot of people say you can’t fall in love easily, but I do it every time I hear a song that tells a story worth listening to. The game changes when it’s music, because you can tell a love story in a three-minute lapse, and it can be a story that you become obsessed with or loathe from the get-go. It depends on the artist—if they feel that emotion when they perform it.

  Being in love isn’t a nuisance like Dylan seems to think it is. I wouldn’t know, but I could get an inkling of understanding just looking at the woman Kasey has become.

  Feeling something as strong as that can make a song that much stronger.

  I throw the comforter off my body and grab my notebook from where it sits on the night stand. Walking across the room, I wrap my hand around the neck of my guitar, sitting down on the couch.

  I’ve been scratching out lines left and right every time I sit down to write, because nothing seems like it works well enough. Probably because I don’t know what I’m feeling. How can I draw from the unknown?