Sliding Down the Sky

by Amanda Dick

  “Guess it was pretty easy after that,” she said. “Even with my hair being different. Can’t really hide this, can I?”

  She held up her left arm, then she tucked it down beside her thigh, away from me.

  “Why do you think you’re a coward?”

  “What?”

  “Outside, earlier, you said you were a coward.”

  She breathed out slowly, then shrugged, her shoulders barely lifting before they dropped again.

  “I’m scared. That reporter showing up, digging everything up again. I’m not ready for that.”

  She lifted her mug to her lips, and her hand trembled as she held it there, taking a sip before lowering it again.

  “After the accident, they wouldn’t leave me alone,” she went on, her voice low, her gaze fixed on the mug she now rested on her thigh. “They hounded me – coming out of the hospital, rehab, my apartment. I couldn’t get away from them. I tried to just carry on as normal, even after everything, but I made a real mess of it, and they were right there the whole time, taking photos, posting about it online. There was no privacy, no peace. The fans were great, for the most part – they understood. But the press – they didn’t give me any space to… grieve, I guess. They wanted news, they wanted an exclusive, they wanted me to open up to someone I’d never even met, for God’s sake. I couldn’t even open up to my own family.”

  She took a shuddering breath, before finally looking up at me.

  “I don’t think I could go through all that again. I just want them to leave me alone.”

  Was she trying to tell me to back off? I wanted to, but I couldn’t, not entirely at least. I’d come too far for that, but I wanted her to be able to trust me, too. The line I was walking was getting thinner by the second.

  “You’re not a coward,” I said. “Not for wanting to keep your private life private. I can’t say I’ve ever really known that kind of fame, but I don’t think you sign away your rights as a human being when you get labelled as a celebrity. If you don’t want to talk to reporters, they should understand that.”

  “Yeah,” she said, huffing out a breath. “Well, reporters aren’t known for their humanitarianism. Misery sells.”

  That pissed me off. She shouldn’t have to be subjected to this bullshit.

  “Y’know what?” she continued. “Fame is an illusion. It’s fleeting, like a flame – it changes and shifts, subject to wind and light and who’s watching. It’s fickle – it means nothing. I chased fame my whole career – I wanted it so badly, to stand out, to be noticed. Now, I can’t think of anything worse than standing up on stage, people looking at me. I just want to blend into the background again, I want to be just like everyone else, but I can’t even do that. I don’t miss the fame, at all. If I could play and no one could hear me, I wouldn’t care.”

  She glanced over at the piano, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I could hear everything she didn’t say. It was like she’d just shoved a red-hot poker into my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, staring at the carpet. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  “You don’t have to apologise.”

  “No?” she smiled tightly, glancing up at me. “I just took a perfectly nice day and ruined it by complaining about shit I can’t do anything about. Seems to me that apologising is the least I should be doing.”

  I held my hand up.

  “You think you’re the only one with problems? Please. I could talk your ear off, believe me.”

  “I dare you,” she said, testing the water.

  Shit.

  “A dare? Are you serious? Well, that’s not even fair. You know that any red-blooded male can’t refuse a dare. It’s in the handbook – page one, rule one.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Some of the light came back into her eyes.

  “Stop beating around the bush. Prove it.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” I said, hedging.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Tell me about you,” she said. “Tell me something, anything, I don’t care. I just don’t want to be the only one talking.”

  “Anything?”

  I wanted to be as honest with her as she had been with me, but that was a can of worms I wasn’t sure I wanted to open.

  Part of me wanted to tell her the truth, in all its miserable glory, just to prove my point.

  Another part of me wanted to lie to her, pull her closer, reassure her that she was in safe hands, that I was a good bet even if I wasn’t sure of that myself. One thing I was sure of, and that was that she was changing me. Slowly, surely, I could feel it happening.

  The two sides warred silently with each other, until my mouth decided to go for it. I didn’t even know what I was going to say until it came tumbling out.

  “You’re lucky to have family around you, who care about you.”

  She cocked her head slightly to one side, quietly evaluating me. Inside, I was cringing. Where the hell had that come from?

  “Tell me about yours,” she said, as I suspected she would.

  I had opened the door, hadn’t I? I rolled my eyes and set my coffee mug down on the table in front of the couch. I wished it was beer, or maybe even whisky. But it was too late, I’d said it and now she wanted details. My instinct was to skip over the details – always. No good ever came from rehashing that shit, which was why I never did. I’d been trying to bury it for so long that talking about it felt dirty somehow. Like I was breaking a promise I’d made to myself a long time ago. I blew out a ragged breath, slowly, to give myself time to think.

  “Okay,” I began. “It’s such a long, sordid, miserable story, so I’ll give you the cliff notes. My Dad was an alcoholic who spent most of his time either drinking, yelling at me and my Mom, or breaking shit. When I was sixteen and finally bigger than him, physically, I threw him out. Mom moved out of town a few years later, leaving all the bad memories behind, I guess. I stayed, because to be honest, I felt more at home with Jack’s family than I did with her. I mean, I love her and everything, but my home – such as it was – was here. I spent more time here than I did with her. To her credit, she never pushed the issue.”

  I gave her a tight-lipped smile, shrugging off all the bullshit in between. She didn’t need to know any of that.

  “And your brother?” she asked gently.

  “My brother. His name was Robbie. He died when I was six.”

  She got all dewy-eyed – that look that girls get when they’re trying not to cry. I didn’t want her to cry, not over this, over me. If she did, it’d feel like Dad had bagged another victory.

  “Was he younger or older?”

  “Younger. He was four when my Dad killed him.”

  I should’ve softened the blow a little, but it just came out like that, because that’s how I always thought about what happened, in my head. And I wanted to make sure Dad never won anything, ever again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt about it.”

  “Is that... is that really what happened?”

  I nodded.

  “Factually, yeah. Dad came home one day – he’d been fired. He’d gone straight to the nearest bar, because, y’know, why not right? Never mind going home to your wife and kids and working through it. No, he wanted to get hammered, and then he drove home. Only he was so smashed, he could barely see straight, and he drove right over Robbie, who was playing with his toy cars on the driveway because it was four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  I blew out a breath, my heart pounding. It was a memory that continued to haunt me, even almost thirty years later. I was standing by the front door and saw it happen. I saw Robbie go under the car. I saw his face disappear, as if the car was devouring him, swallowing him whole.

  It took years for the nightmares to stop.

  Mom ran out the front door, screaming. Dad almost fell out of t
he car, completely oblivious. He hadn’t even seen him in the driveway. He had no idea what all the fuss was about. It was the only time I ever saw Mom hit him back. She attacked him like a banshee, screaming and pounding on him with her fists. Neighbours came rushing over, there was yelling and crying. I saw it hit him, the moment he realised what he’d done. He fell to the ground, crumpling like a piece of paper.

  Our house was so quiet after that. My room, the room Robbie and I shared, absorbed the silence and stored it up inside. I remember looking over at Robbie’s empty bed and wondering if things would ever be the same again.

  They weren’t.

  Sass leaned over to place her mug on the coffee table, then she reached for my hand. Her long fingers wrapped around my fist, clenched tight on my thigh. She was cold, her hand trembling. I didn’t look up at her but I could feel her desire to say something, to try and make it better.

  “See?” I said, flashing a quick, empty smile in her direction, trying my best to let her off the hook. “Told you I could talk your ear off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I looked up at her properly.

  “No more apologies. That’s how we got into this mess in the first place, remember?”

  She smiled, a ghost of a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then she squeezed my hand and let it go. She tucked her hand in between her thighs, sighing.

  “I don’t think I would’ve made it through the last year without Leo,” she said, almost to herself.

  I was grateful my train-wreck of a family was off the table, at least for now.

  “You guys are close, I can see that. Is it just the two of you? Do you have other brothers, sisters?”

  “No, it’s just us. We were always close growing up, but we drifted apart a little when our careers were taking off. Travel, y’know. You have to try harder to keep in touch when you move around a lot. It’s not so easy to just pick up the phone and chat. Then our parents died, and suddenly it was like a wake-up call. We only had each other.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, about your parents.”

  “It’s been almost ten years, but sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday. Especially since my accident.” She took a sharp breath, as though it hurt to say it. “I’ve never wanted my Mom so much as I did immediately after. Crazy.”

  It made perfect sense to me. I watched the emotions flit across her face. Sadness, mostly.

  “It’s not crazy,” I said gently.

  She shrugged, staring at the floor at my feet.

  “Yeah, it was. Even if she was here – if they were here – it wouldn’t have made any difference. It still would’ve happened. It’s not like they could’ve stopped it. I remember waking up in the hospital and seeing Leo there. When he told me what happened, I just wanted my Mom. I felt like I was ten years old again. I just wanted her to magically appear at my bedside and tell me that everything was gonna be okay.”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like.”

  Instead of fobbing me off, or dismissing it as an off-hand remark, she looked up at me as if trying to guage my reaction, to figure out whether it was sincere or not.

  “It was hell,” she said, her voice catching. “Some days, it feels like it still is.”

  I reached for her hand and squeezed it gently, hoping that would be enough. After a few moments, she carefully pulled her hand away. It felt like a rejection, like a slap in the face. I needed her to know how serious I was, about her. So far, it had all been innuendo and vague hints. I needed her to know what my intentions were. I needed to go old-school.

  “I should check on Aria,” she said, standing up before I could say anything.

  Not so fast.

  I stood up too, catching her gaze and holding it. I reached for her left arm, and her gaze fell as she pulled it gently away from me. Discomfort radiated from her, as if we were suddenly standing under a heating vent.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked. “When I do that?”

  She shook her head, but she refused to look at me.

  “You don’t need to hide it from me,” I said.

  I reached for it again, taking the smooth, prosthetic fingers in mine as she looked up at me finally. My heart hammered against my ribs.

  “It makes people uncomfortable.”

  I wanted to call her on that, to tell her that was a pretty big generalisation, but she withdrew into herself. I was walking a tightrope, and I recognised it as one of those moments when actions had to speak louder than words. I was so close to her I could smell her, that sweet, sensual, uniquely feminine scent that was all her. Her cheeks flushed lobster-red against her pale skin and I swore I could hear her heart pounding over the sound of my own.

  “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

  Her eyes were locked onto mine, and I could see the hesitation, not just feel it. She was trying to decide whether or not to trust me. I wanted to show her that she could, and there was only one way I could think of to do that.

  I reached up and stroked her jaw, gently running the back of my finger along its smooth curve. I’d been waiting so long to touch her like that, it was as if time had slowed down, even stopped. I cupped her face in my hand and drew her closer. I could feel her leaning towards me slowly, as if her mind was telling her to fight it, even as her body surrendered. Her prosthesis was firm and cool beneath my hand, but her face was on fire.

  I stopped for a moment – just a nano-second – to take in her lips, her eyes, her exquisitely smooth, pale skin, like porcelain. Then I leaned in, my lips tasting hers. Her lips were as soft as they looked, full and sensuous and humming with need. They trembled against mine and I could feel her whole body vibrating with nervous energy. I soaked it up, pulling it down inside me and letting it feed the desire I had for her. The kiss deepened, and I was gone.

  In that moment, she placed her trust in my hands, and I was hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their

  feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is,

  but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing.

  People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous.

  How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel?”

  – Jim Morrison

  Sass

  I lay in bed after Callum had gone home, my fingers on my lips. I could still feel his lips on mine, like some kind of ghostly reminder. My body didn’t feel like my own anymore, not the one I was still getting used to anyway. He’d made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Whole.

  It was just a kiss, yet it changed me, even though I kept telling myself that was impossible. Regardless, I felt like a different person to the one who had sat outside with him and Aria and drank juice from plastic teacups only hours before. It was frightening, the speed at which things could change. My emotions were all over the place. I didn’t know what was going on from one minute to the next. I’d pretended to be asleep when Leo and Gemma got home, because I worried they’d be able to tell that something had happened, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. I had to figure it out for myself first.

  The house settled into a quiet rhythm around me. It felt as if the entire world was sleeping, yet my brain would not allow me that luxury, not yet.

  Callum was like an invading virus, humming inside my body. I could feel his hands on me, large and gentle. He wasn’t afraid of my arm, or of me. He didn’t back off when things got personal. He listened. He reassured me when I was frightened. He seemed to know exactly what to say. He didn’t back away when I snapped at him. He stood up for me, and he stood up to me. He didn’t let me hide. He came looking for me. He pushed me to the edge of what I thought I could handle, then he pushed me further. I was constantly nervous around him, because I knew this. It should’ve made me want to run, but it didn’t. It made me want to stay, with him, to see what would happen next.
Some part of me, some deep-down, long-buried part of me, craved the attention. His attention.

  I couldn’t imagine the pain of not having a loving, supportive family behind me. It seemed he was close to his Mom, but losing his brother at such a young age must’ve been horrific. As for his father, I could tell from the brief description he gave that he was carrying that with him too, in some form or another. No child should have to put themselves physically between their parents. Maybe that’s what made him so sensitive to the plight of others. He put on a brave face, but behind the mask he was bleeding, although I got the impression he tried like hell to make sure no one saw.

  I’d opened up to him tonight, about things that I’d kept locked up inside myself for so long that it physically hurt me to think about them, yet he hadn’t shied away. He’d listened with grace and compassion.

  Why?

  Why did he want me? Me, physically and emotionally wrecked, lacking direction and enthusiasm and in a generally dismal state – what could he possibly see in me?

  I rolled over in bed and pulled the pillow over my head. Tomorrow was Sunday, and I had a barbeque to get through. I had meals to plan, preparations to make. While Gemma was worrying about what food to serve, I wondered if I could get Leo to cut my meat for me inside, where no one would see. I was seriously considering becoming a vegetarian, but even slippery lettuce wasn’t a safe bet.

  I tossed and turned until daylight filtered through my window. There was no point keeping up the charade any longer. I lay there for a moment, but the house was quiet. Good. I wanted coffee and peace, preferably in that order.

  I got up, threw my robe on and left my prosthesis beside the bed. The marks on my arm had disappeared now, which was one less thing to worry about – one less thing in a very long list. Still, I didn’t feel like getting fully ‘dressed’ yet. The robe would suffice, long sleeves and all.

  Leo was already up when I went into the kitchen. He shot a brief glance at my empty left sleeve, but other than that, he didn’t comment, which might’ve surprised me had I been fully caffeinated.