Becky Wicks - Before He Was A Secret (Starstruck #3)

by Becky Wicks

  ‘How sick is he?’ I ask.

  ‘They think it’s prostate cancer,’ she says, putting a hand to her mouth now. Conor lowers his head into his own hands, puts his elbows on his knees.

  ‘Does my mom know?’

  ‘No. I didn’t tell her. When I realized she didn’t know… that’s when I asked about you, and she told me you were here. I wanted to tell you first. It shouldn’t come from me, Conor.’

  I reach a hand to his back. I can feel Grace watching my every move, just like I am hers. ‘I know he’s been a bastard,’ she says, ‘but I think he’s really scared. He’s afraid you and your mom won’t want anything to do with him. He’s been spending a lot of time with my dad. My dad says he’s never seen him like this.’

  ‘Is it treatable?’ he asks her in a tight voice.

  ‘I don’t know, that’s all I know. I’ve barely spoken to my father either since I left Jamaica. But he’s trying his hardest to come to terms with my life. NYU is great. I like it here in New York.’

  ‘So do I,’ I tell her absentmindedly. My head is reeling with all of this. Prostate cancer is the worst kind, I already know that. There's no treatment, not if he's had it a while without being diagnosed.

  ‘Listen,’ Grace says, putting a hand to his hair. She seems to think better of it and retracts it quickly. ‘I know you have a new life now.’ She flashes her green eyes at me. ‘I’m so happy we set each other free, but please just think about forgiving your father now, too, before it’s too late. Parents are so easy to lose. You can still work things out.’

  I’m nodding my head now in agreement and when she sees me, she shoots me a watery smile. The funny thing is, maybe in another life, I think Grace is the kind of person I might have been friends with. She gets to her feet, clutches her purse to her chest awkwardly. ‘I just came to tell you what my dad told me, OK, I didn’t mean to stir up the past.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ I say. My heart is bleeding for Conor. He still hasn’t looked up.

  ‘It was nice to meet you,’ she says, touching my shoulder. Then she turns around and heads for the door and just like that, she’s gone.

  24.

  Conor

  I can honestly say I never expected my spontaneous trip to New York to pan out like that. I can’t get the image of Grace out of my head, seeing her after all this time; let alone what she said.

  Of course my father’s been a total asshole but the thought of him dying… man, that’s a whole other story. I barely remember my ride to JFK, or the flight, or even the drive back from Memphis once I collected my car. I even managed to forget about Travis; the way his stupidly punchable face scrunched up as he actually tried to thank me for keeping my mouth shut over what he’s done.

  There’s too much to think about.

  I realize I’m shaking as I pull up outside my aunt’s house. Mom opens the door, opens her arms out to me as I step up to the porch. I might be twenty-four, but sometimes a mom hug is the only thing that helps. I try not to break down as she ushers me inside and my aunt fusses over making us all tea. ‘Any news about Micah?’ she asks me hopefully.

  ‘No, but Grace found me in New York.’

  She looks at her hands. I sit down next to her on my aunt's ancient floral patterned couch and my eyes catch a photograph of me and my parents on the shelf above the fireplace. It was taken at the cabin. It makes my insides tangle with anger and fear. Yes, he's been an asshole, but he's still my father.

  ‘You told her which hotel I was at?’

  'She said she had to tell you something.'

  'She did. It's dad,' I say before I can stop, and when I tell her everything Grace told me her eyes fill with tears and my aunt sits down beside her, wraps her arms around her. She's forgotten the tea.

  'Mom, you said before, he hit you when he was in pain,' I say, remembering our conversation. I was too angry then to think much beyond the fact that he'd laid a hand on her, but it did occur to me on the way over here that if there really was pain behind his sudden lack of self-control... not that it excuses it, obviously, but it crossed my mind that maybe he's been scared and confused and hurting for a while without telling anyone.

  'He told me he'd been to the doctor,' she says now, mopping her eyes on a Kleenex my aunt hands her, 'but then he told me everything was fine.'

  'When?'

  'A couple months ago, I guess.'

  I bite my cheek. This isn't good. 'It doesn't seem fine, mom,' I say, staring at the white gem in her golden wedding ring. I've only just realized she hasn't ever taken it off. 'You should ask why the Pastor didn't tell you when he found out.'

  My aunt scowls, one arm still around my mom. 'You know what your father's like, Conor, damn stubborn old bastard,' she says, as I watch more tears slip down my mom's pale cheeks. 'He probably told him not to say anything. He also probably thinks if he ignores it, it will go away, like all his other problems. Like you and Micah.'

  I wince at the truth coming from her usually pleasant mouth. I know she's right. I also know Grace was right when she said the two men wanted me to find this out from her. It was one last-ditch attempt to get us to talk and patch things up, or to cause more drama in front of Stephanie. They both knew I was there in New York for her. The thought makes me grind my teeth. He's playing with my fate at the expense of his own now, the idiot.

  'It doesn't matter now,' I say anyway, putting my hand to mom's knee over her dark cotton pantsuit. 'We know he's sick, but he's clearly still too stubborn to approach either of us about it. You're the one who left him, mom, so what do you want to do?'

  We don't say much on the drive to Fret. Walking inside after all this time away is kind of surreal but at the same time, it feels like I was just in here yesterday. The smell of the wooden instruments, the soft whisper of two college kids discussing songbooks by the stand. I see my father, arms crossed, deep in explanation of an electric Gibson. He sees us approaching, lowers his head and makes his excuses.

  Before I know it he's ushering mom and I out the back, past the cash register to the storeroom. We're surrounded by brand new guitars and keyboards in boxes, ready to be delivered. For a second I wonder who's making the deliveries these days; who's keeping up the friendly family business facade now that we don't have one.

  He stops with us by the water cooler and couch, then pulls my mother into a sudden embrace. 'What are you doing here?' he asks her. I notice right away that he's lost weight since the last time I saw him. My heart jumps, watching his arms folding around her in the middle of the room. He looks older and weaker, too, and I haven't seen my father hug anyone in a long, long time.

  'What do you think we're doing here?' mom sniffs, stepping back from him and dabbing the handkerchief to her eyes again. 'We had to hear from Grace what you've been hiding. Are you dying, John?'

  My dad's thick gray eyebrows shoot up at her brazen question. He almost smiles. 'Probably,' he says, motioning her to sit on the small two-seater couch and sitting beside her. He still hasn't acknowledged me. 'I wasn't expecting you to come, Lucy.'

  'Dad,' I say now. He closes his eyes at my voice. I swear I almost hear a growl emerge from the back of his throat. 'Dad, you can't honestly think we would let you go through this alone.'

  'I don't expect you to do anything, Conor. It's quite obvious you have other priorities,' he says coldly.

  'Leave him alone, John, you've made him feel bad enough,' my mom snaps. Both of us look to her in surprise. It's the first time I've heard her actually speak up, in front of me at least. 'You're a stubborn old fool,' she follows, sounding just like my aunt, but I watch her put a hand to his shoulder. He places his big hand on top of it, lowers his head in her direction and lets out a deep sigh.

  'I didn't want to worry you,' he tells her now. His voice is softer, concerned.

  'Bullshit,' I say. 'You wanted us to find out. You just didn't want to tell us directly.'

  He turns to me. 'Do you blame me?! You both just left...'

  'I never went any
where, dad, you told me never to come in here again!'

  'You left me for that girl, you left Fret for that girl, you knew the consequences, you know the community doesn't stand for...'

  'Her name is Stephanie,' I snap, banging my fist against the wall and making a framed poster of Kitty Wells tremble. It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels, it reads - the name of her biggest hit. I only just realize the irony. 'I'm not here to play another game of who's right or wrong, dad. Is this really what you want to do right now? You just told us you're dying!'

  My mom lets out a sob. 'This has nothing to do with the Hearts Community,' I continue, pacing between the delivery boxes.

  'Yes it does. That's our family...'

  'This is our family! This has nothing to do with anyone but us. For once in your life will you just stop with all the bullshit!'

  'That bullshit is all I have!' He goes to stand up but my mom puts a hand to the back of his neck, over his shirt collar. He stays where he is, does his best not to rage at me but I can see the anger still boiling up underneath.

  'It's not all you have, John, it never was,' she tells him. She sounds pissed at him but I know she's terrified. I can see by the way she's gripping his shirt now, crossing her legs towards him. She loves him, no matter what. She doesn't want to lose him.

  'I put my faith in the Lord to see me through,' my father says as she moves her grip to his lapels. He presses his forehead to hers. His eyes are red too now. 'But the Lord's made up his mind, Lucy. The doctors say I have seven months, maybe less.'

  'John...' my mom trails off as he pulls her to him. The golf ball in my throat makes it hard to breathe. I lean against the wall, watching them.

  'I want you to come home,' he tells her now. His nostrils are flaring. He's gripping her forearms and she's cupping his face. 'I'm so sorry,' he tells her. 'I was wrong to lash out at you, Lucy, I was wrong. I've been begging forgiveness, trust me. Will you forgive me, too?'

  'I forgive you,' she tells him, taking his hands. 'You were afraid and that's OK. But John, you have to promise we'll be a family. To the end. You can't keep driving a wall between us! People make mistakes. People fall in love, like we did, remember?'

  My father shakes his head, then closes his eyes again.

  'John,' she says. 'Conor's been looking for Micah.'

  'We think he's still in Memphis,' I tell him, putting my boot to the wall behind me. 'But he's not easy to find. You made damn sure of that.'

  My father's quiet for a moment, his face tight. Showing any sign of weakness has never been his specialty; he'd still rather show hatred and push people away. 'He cut you off, too, don't forget that,' he throws at me.

  'You're unbelievable!' I kick at an empty box as anger torpedoes through me. 'You know, maybe when you're praying to the God you love so much more than your own family, you should be asking that Micah forgives you too. You should be out looking out for him! He's the one you should be seeking forgiveness from!'

  His nostrils are still flaring. 'I don't need his forgiveness, and I don't want you to bring him here.'

  'My actions aren't yours to dictate.'

  'And Fret is still not yours! I'm selling it.'

  I feel like I've been punched in the guts. Is he deliberately trying to hurt me, even now? 'Your mother will need the money...'

  'I'll give her all the money she needs,' I interrupt, balling my fists and stepping closer to the couch. 'It might come as a surprise to you but as much as I loved this place, I love making music more. I always did. And now I am! People are buying it!'

  'So I hear.'

  'It was Micah who wanted Fret more than me. You're not punishing me if you sell it, dad, you're just punishing yourself! It's a family business, and you have a family. You still have another son out there!'

  My father goes to reply but seems to stop himself. I watch as the cogs turn in his brain.

  'Conor's expecting big royalties,' mom tells him, trying to keep things civil. I don't miss the pride in her voice. 'A song on Noel Lockton's album...'

  'Noah,' I correct her, resting my arm on the top of the water cooler, scraping my hand through my hair. Even on his fucking deathbed he's an asshole.

  She waves a hand at me. 'Noah Lockton's album, thank you. It's a big deal, John. And Stephanie's playing on his tour at the Ryman next week. I'm going to watch.'

  'Why anyone would want to watch Noah Lockton is beyond me,' my dad says gruffly. But I register a flicker of intrigue and dare I say it... respect in his eyes as it hits him I might have actually made something of myself without him.

  25.

  Stephanie

  Walking onto the wooden boards of the Ryman stage, staring out at the old church pews sloping down under the lights, it’s not even about me up here. Not really. I’m well aware how I'm continuing a history that’s echoed in these walls since the 1880s. Nobody but the best gets to grace this stage, and the knowledge that I'm expected to live up to the impeccable standards... I'm freaking out.

  Even Travis looks anxious. He's barely said a word since we got here. In fact, the closer we've come to this date, his usual swagger has morphed into some kind of nervous shuffle. He puffs out his chest anyway like a peacock when he sees me looking.

  'What's wrong with you?' I ask him now. He's zoned out on the stage director, who's telling us where we'll stand for our last song.

  'Nothing at all,' he says, a little too chirpily, springing into action and following me into the marked circle at the end. 'I'm just psyched to be here on this stage, aren't you?' He gestures around him. 'Harry Houdini, Charlie Chaplin, Katharine Hepburn... Taylor Swift. And now, Stephanie Jackson.'

  'And Travis Flynn,' I add. But he doesn't meet my eyes, just adjusts his guitar strap and re-tunes it. I sigh to myself. I am so over Travis and his weird moods.

  'You're going to blow them away, Jackson,' Conor said this morning as he curled around me in my bed. We stayed up late writing a song and I told him again for the millionth time how I wish it were him about to do this with me and not Travis.

  'It's him they wanted,' he said coolly. 'And it's him they'll get. It'll all work out the way it's supposed to, I have faith in that.'

  'You've been reading The Secret again, haven't you?' I said, arching back against his naked body till he spooned me even tighter. I felt him sigh into my skin. I loaned him the book to give to his mom, who's having a hard time coping with his father's cancer. She's moved back into the house, but apparently his father is still insisting on working at Fret every day, in spite of being drugged to the eyeballs on pain medication. Conor says he's being even more stubborn than ever, refusing to give him any shifts or let him make deliveries. 'It's because of me that he won't let you back in the store,' I said, feeling guilty all over again.

  'It's because of you I found something better to do with my life than bow down to his every command,' Conor replied wearily. 'But if he doesn't want my help when I offer it, I don't know what else to do.'

  'Just carry on being you, keep writing your songs. Keep loving me... I like when you do that,' I told him, and he smiled into my hair and kissed me, and made love to me slowly in our spoon shapes.

  'OK,' Travis says now, putting his guitar back on the stand once we've been dismissed. 'Four hours till we need to rock this place. How 'bout a drink?'

  'Travis, I don't think we should...' I start but I peter off as he walks off the stage without me. I turn to the front again, feeling the lump rise up in my throat. Camera guys and sound check guys and cable guys and a million other kind of guys are scurrying around but soon it will just be us, and the crowd. And the eyes of America watching me while they wait for Noah Lockton.

  I feel sick.

  Denzel still thinks we can win without anyone rigging it, but I don't trust a word from his mouth. The publicity we got from the launch party show, plus all the photos and rumors still circulating about us have got tonight trending on Twitter, but I swear it was Denzel who tipped the press that me and Travis were a couple in the
first place. Tal handed me The Tennessean the other day on a double page spread. They covered my time on Deserted, right next to a similar profile about how Travis won songwriter of the year. They drew a heart around our faces with the long headline, 'Fame calls again for songbird lovers in new HotFlush sponsored talent competition.'

  'You're freakin' famous!' Tal screeched, jumping on the couch with it and causing Pete's coffee to wind up on his shirt.

  'That's not the kind of fame I want, Tal!' I told her as the text messages piled in from Mel and Denzel and a hundred other people wanting to say congrats. And it's not. Ever since the launch party it's like I've been living some crazy flashback of the time I was on Deserted. I don't want a repeat of that, or fame for the sake of fame. I want people to like my music.

  I head off the stage, leaving my guitar behind. I need to make sure the backstage passes are ready for Conor and Poppy. He's giving her a guitar lesson, then driving her here to see the show with her sister, and Sue. They can't wait to meet Noah Lockton. It's so freakin' surreal that I can even arrange these things for them. My phone buzzes as soon as I reach the dressing room. It's Alyssa:

  Hey girl, me and Joshua are sending our love for tonight. We're live streaming the concert from Cartagena. Good luck! I told u The Secret would bring u good things! xx

  I have a bunch of other good luck messages too, from old friends, from my aunt, Cory and David, and Gretchen, who's said I can swap as many shifts around as I like if I can play a special set at The Nice Rack to get the customers in next week. My sudden notoriety is good for business, at least.

  I'm just thinking how I haven't heard from Conor since this morning when a scream from outside hits my ears. Then another, then what sounds like an entire pack of shrieking people. I race for the door, yank it open, but instead of seeing a fire or a zombie attack I see a mob of teenage girls being ushered along the corridor by a security guy in ray bans. Noah Lockton must have arrived.

  I shut the door again before they can reach me, lean up against it, taking huge gulps of air. Holy crap. I remember now, the producers saying they were filming some kind of meet and greet for his YouTube channel.