The Risks We Take

by Barbara C. Doyle

I swat his arm. “Don’t be stupid. I planned on ordering pizza and then reading to her. We’re almost finished with the first Harry Potter book.”

  “And you haven’t skipped to the end?”

  “I may have skimmed …”

  “I can tell you how it ends. Offer still stands.”

  “Why aren’t you encouraging me to break my old habits? To embrace the idea of experiencing life without spoiling it?”

  He chuckles, gesturing for me to come over to him. I eye him carefully, then slide over so his arm is back over my shoulders. I lean against him, my head resting on his shoulder.

  “I know you’re too stubborn to change, and I wouldn’t want you to. Plus, literature is an escape from reality. You can’t spoil your life, because you don’t have the control to. Might as well choose what to take control of.”

  I think about what he says.

  “So you think I’m unchangeable?” I question quietly.

  His hand brushes down my arm. “I don’t think that at all,” he promises. “I just think that when you set your mind to something, you refuse to let anyone discourage you. It’s not a bad thing.”

  Jake used to the be one who told me that I was fine the way I was. Not perfect, because we know there’s no such thing as perfect. But not once has he questioned my motives enough to make him want to change me.

  I should be happy about that. I am happy about that.

  Liar.

  “I told Taylor I’d read the series with her without spoilers,” I finally tell him. “That means not spoiling it completely.”

  “You said you already skimmed,” he reminds me, brushing his lips against the top of my head.

  I lean into the sensation of his lips, trying to feel anything. A surge of emotion. A promise. The emotion that I felt with his touches before.

  Before what?

  I close my eyes, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it aloud.

  After the movie finishes, Jake leaves to see his mother at the diner. I go downstairs to greet Taylor as she gets off the school bus. She comes running over to me in her blue cheetah print leggings and yellow T-shirt. She was proud that she dressed herself, and I thought she did a good job. Although her rainbow shoes and mismatched socks were something I would have changed.

  She’s stubborn, though, like me.

  “Sissy, look!” For the next thirty minutes, she tells me all about the picture she drew in school. It looks like a dis-formed fish, but she insists it’s a dog. Not only a dog, but the dog she wants us to get.

  I want to tell her we’ll get one―make a promise to her that we’ll have everything we ever wanted―but I can’t, because breaking promises is something I refuse to do.

  “We could get a kitty,” she says, biting into her pizza.

  “Tay, we can’t get an animal. Not right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the building doesn’t allow pets,” I explain. It’s not the total truth, but not a lie either.

  For now, it’s the easiest way to explain.

  “But why?”

  I crack a smile at her inquiry. “Because pets can be messy, and we don’t own this place.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …” I take a deep breath. “Just because. Now eat your pizza before it gets cold.”

  “But it’s good cold.”

  I put my slice down. “Taylor, please just eat your supper. Once you’re done, I’ll help you get ready for bed and then we’ll read.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She nibbles on her pizza again.

  My cell buzzes on the table next to my plate. I peer down at it, thinking Jake’s name will greet me.

  Unknown: Hey

  I stare at the number, unsure of who it is. Thinking it’s a wrong number, I don’t bother replying. I busy myself putting the leftovers away in the fridge, and pouring myself another glass of water.

  I come back to another text.

  Unknown: I decided it wasn’t just up to you, Kay. And I won’t apologize for it, like you never apologized for what you said.

  Only one person would dare call me that, still knowing I hate it.

  Ian.

  I stare at the three little bubbles wiggling at the bottom of the screen, knowing he’s typing something else.

  Taylor is humming to herself, picking pieces of pepperoni off her plate.

  I debate on answering him, my fingers tingling to type any message back. Instead, I shake myself out of temptation and watch Taylor finish her dinner.

  Seeing her in her element―smile on her face, brown eyes twinkling―makes my heart constrict, like a rope is tied too tightly around it and somebody is pulling.

  Not just somebody. Dad.

  He’s the only person in the way of getting Taylor full-time, and no matter how many people tell me not to worry, I will. If Taylor isn’t with me, I can’t ensure she’s happy. What if Dad wants her and then chooses to ignore her after the feel-good moments or reuniting are over? I can’t be there to pick up the pieces.

  He’s not Mom.

  I mentally flick the little voice off my shoulder, because its commentary isn’t needed. I wouldn’t know if Dad is like Mom, because I haven’t seen him. I haven’t tried looking him up. I haven’t even bothered asking around town about him to his old friends.

  The temptation to try finding him at first was intense, like if I asked enough he’d come back. If not to stay, at least to visit. For me. For Taylor. For Mom. Mom is who needed him the most, and he broke every promise to her that he made.

  His vows. His loyalty.

  Maybe he is like Mom, just without the drug addiction. It’d be a shame if both my parents decided they liked the hard shit more than their kids.

  “What you doin, sissy?” Taylor asks, breaking me from my internal rampage.

  I glance down at the torn-up napkin in my hands. A bad habit that I figured out I had years ago. If I don’t absentmindedly tear up something in my hands, I bite my nails. Mom used to scold me for it.

  “You won’t look like the other girls if you do that, Kay. You have perfectly good nails, but you insist on ruining them. Why do you destroy them?”

  Destruction isn’t the only thing she accused me of doing. Ironic, considering she’s the wrecking ball of the family.

  I could blame Dad for his part in the madness, because maybe if he hadn’t left, she’d be fine. Her depression wouldn’t have gotten so bad that she needed medication. She would be happy for a change.

  But in reality, I had to accept that it wasn’t, and isn’t, his fault completely. Everything she’s done is her own fault. There’s no way I can change the things she said and the bridges she’s burnt, and I’m done trying to help the helpless.

  Blaming Dad led to so much hate … so much doubt.

  Like somebody else you know.

  I really want to smack my inner conscious, but damn if it didn’t have a point.

  “Sorry, Tay,” I apologize, putting down what’s left of the napkin. “I was just thinking. Are you ready to get washed up and changed?”

  “Then we read?”

  “Then we read.”

  She hops off her seat and runs into her bedroom. I can hear her going through her dresser for her pajamas, and I see articles of clothing flying everywhere. I know for a fact that, even after looking for something new, she’ll come out with the same Olaf pajama set she always wears. Ever since we watched Frozen for the first time a month ago, she’s wanted to watch it at least once a week. I know every word to every song in it, and she makes sure I sing along with her.

  But it’s not what gets me about the movie. It’s how she relates to the snowman.

  “I wanna be Olaf when I’m older,” she tells me.

  “Why is that?”

  “’Cause he offers warm hugs even though he’d melt, and I wanna love like that.”

  The memory melts my heart every time I think of it. I worry that she’ll think she can�
��t love the way I’m sure I can’t, but she’s already proven to have the biggest heart of anybody I know.

  I can’t help but look at the phone laying on the table, and something inside of me shoves my feet forward, and my hand out. Slipping into the bedroom, I hit the call button.

  “Didn’t think you’d answer the texts, much less call me,” he greets, his voice friendly.

  “If I killed somebody, what would you do?” I blurt out, without so much as a second thought.

  My mind doesn’t think to say hello, or double check to make sure it’s Ian. I can hear it. The proof is in the text. Kay.

  And as pointless as it may seem, I need to know the answer.

  There’s a long pause of silence between us, which I expect. It’s an odd question, after all. Part of me wonders if he’ll ask me if I’m crazy, or side step the question and move on to something else.

  But, he doesn’t.

  “I suppose I’d help you get rid of the body.”

  My lips spread into a wide smile, baring my teeth. Something as simple as this shouldn’t make me happy, shouldn’t clear any sort of confusion that my heart is drowning in, but it does.

  He curses. “Kasey, is there a reason you’re asking? Are you in trouble? Do I need to come back, because I think I know somebody who can give me acid that will burn everything—”

  “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Okay. That’s good to hear.”

  There are certain things I could say now. That I was sorry. That I missed him. That I was an ass for treating him the way I did. But I see Taylor walking out of her bedroom in her pajamas—Olaf, as anticipated. She’s holding the book in her hand, ready for me to read to her.

  So instead of continuing the conversation, I opt for, “Goodnight, Ian.”

  His response is smooth, a promise for another conversation to come. “Goodnight, Kasey.”

  IAN

  The crowd’s cheers help drown out any lingering thoughts, and when the band starts playing it’s just me and the music. But the isolation isn’t the same, because I’m not playing for hundreds of fans. I’m playing for somebody who isn’t even here.

  The more I thought about what Tessa said before I left, the more I realized that Kasey isn’t the only one who gets to choose who is or isn’t in her life just because she’s scared. Sometimes, you have to admit that the people you never thought would be there are the exact people you need.

  I’m not stupid enough to think Kasey needs me, but I do think that she wants me, and it’s an important distinction. If I’m going to get her to believe that, she needs to trust me. The real me, which means revealing every piece I can to her.

  By the time we finish our last song, I’m covered in sweat from the moving around so much. One by one, we walk off the stage, waving to the crowd one last time as they scream for more. It’s after midnight, and while most of Belgium is probably still in party mode, I’m ready to crash.

  In our dressing room, we grab bottles of water and drop on the furniture scattered around the room.

  “Are we ever going to get used to this time difference?” I groan, downing half the water.

  Bash rubs his face. “Probably not. And if we do, it’ll be time for us to head home again.”

  We all nod in agreement.

  “We’ve got one more show here, right?” Ben asks.

  I yawn loudly, leaning back on the couch to stretch out my legs. “Tomorrow night. Then we’re flying over to London.”

  “I still think it’s bullshit we’re getting cut from half our locations,” Dylan grumbles from the corner of the room.

  Bash shrugs. “Not much we can do about it. I’d say two months isn’t bad. We’re lucky we had the chance to see this much.”

  “We were signed to do the full six,” Dylan points out. “We always get preached to about honoring contracts.”

  When we were offered a six-month tour overseas it was because the original solo act got sick and needed time off. Or that’s the story that the press got. David was actually forced into rehab after his little cocaine addiction nearly killed him when he overdosed. But that wouldn’t have flown with the label, so giving him time off to deal with his illness was what the publicists went with. At least it got us on tour.

  Ben looks at Dylan. “We had no fighting chance to stay on once David Andrews made a full recovery.”

  “Plus,” I add, “our contract stated that we would step down if he came back. He was cleared, and he’s ready to get back into his tour.”

  Dylan doesn’t relent. “I don’t see why we can’t just both do the tour.”

  “There’s not enough time. The concerts aren’t set up for two different performers. Just drop it, dude. Bash is right, we’re lucky we’ve been able to do what we’ve done as is.”

  Ben asks, “What does that mean for us when we’re back in the States then? We just got back from break, I don’t see us taking another one.”

  Dylan eyes me, like taking a break would make us revert back to our fight about how to treat the band.

  I shrug. “Tom mentioned working on the album during the Skype call earlier. I guess we work on some music, maybe book some local gigs.”

  Ben accepts the answer, and pulls out his phone to text someone. Bash is already on his, ignoring the conversation, and Dylan is still staring at me.

  “Just say it,” I tell him, sitting up.

  “Where are we going to record?”

  “I assumed at the studio in New York.”

  I know it’s his way of asking if we were moving locations, specifically closer to the Vermont border. Even though he sees my dedication to Relentless, he still sees my struggle to find what I’m looking for. We all know what I’m looking for isn’t in New York.

  Whether we want to admit it or not, the band isn’t everything to me anymore. It scares more than just him, but it’s something I have to acknowledge. But the fact is, we were all bound to make additions to our lives eventually.

  I look at the clock on the wall. “You guys all set to go back to the hotel? Driver should be ready by now.”

  Since the meet-and-greet was before the concert, we have the chance to leave right after. All I can think about is going to my room, taking a shower, and talking to the one person who still consumes me.

  Bash and Ben are already walking outside, with Dylan and I bringing up the rear. He clasps my shoulder and gives me a nod. “The new song went over well,” he states as we make our way toward the car.

  “I think previewing it now will help boost sales,” I agree, voice void of the emotion I know he’s looking for.

  “You going to call her when we get back?”

  His question surprises me, because he’s been avoiding bringing up any conversation involving Kasey. It’s like saying her name will cause some big blowout between us.

  I nod. “Yeah, was thinking about it.”

  He presses his lips together, before opening the door for me. “I hope it goes well.”

  I tilt my head to study him.

  He sighs. “I can tell you’re not all with it, man. So if this is the chick who makes you start focusing again, then why I should be pissed at that?”

  I’m taken aback, but smile. “I’m glad I have your seal of approval.”

  He rolls his eyes. “We both know you don’t need it.”

  I clasp his shoulder back. “I know, but it’s nice to know when I have it. What my friends think means more than it probably should, but I don’t mind admitting that.”

  “Are you getting in, or going to make out right there?” Bash calls from inside the car.

  I snort. “You’re just jealous I don’t give you more attention.”

  He laughs. “I’m all set with Opal, but thanks.”

  Dylan chuckles. “Poor fucker doesn’t even have the girl yet, and he’s already claimed her as his.”

  “You’ll find that someday, too, you know.”

  He winces. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  Dylan is one
of the few of us who loves everything he has. He doesn’t want to change, because he doesn’t think the old version of himself was worth anything. Maybe one day he’ll see how untrue that really is.

  After my shower, I plug my phone in, and take about a minute to debate whether or not I want to go through with the call.

  It’s only six in the morning there, but I know that six is usually when she gets up, so I shouldn’t be bothering her. And we haven’t done more than text twice since we talked. I asked her how she was, and she replied. No deep, soul-baring conversations.

  But I’ll take it. I’ll take anything she’s willing to give me, because it means she is trying. And knowing how busy she is, what time she gives me means something.

  I dial her number before I chicken out.

  On the fourth ring, she picks up.

  “It’s early.” Her voice sounds rough, what I image I sound like before coffee in the morning. Not a pleasant thing.

  “Am I safe to assume you’re not a morning person?” I guess, chuckling. If I could picture her right now, it’d probably be messy hair and pajamas. I remember the ones she wore the night she came to tell me to turn my music down.

  My memory recollects the tiny shorts she wore.

  “I’m just not a getting-up person,” she grumbles into the phone. “Why did you call?”

  Straight to the point.

  “I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. See how you are.”

  Part of me wants to ask about Taylor, but I don’t know if that’s a sore spot. Even though I asked Pop to keep me updated, just like I asked him for her phone number, I know he wouldn’t give me any information he didn’t think fit.

  There’s silence for a long moment.

  “Oh,” she finally answers. “Well that’s nice, I guess.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. So …”

  She clears her throat. “So … how is everything?”

  She sounds nervous, like she’s trying to figure out what to say and what to avoid. It isn’t a very Kasey thing to do, so I shut it down.

  “You can be real with me, you know.”

  “Uh …”

  “You were real with me before I left. You threw me out.”