“If there’s any left, I’ll save you a piece.”
“Maybe you could bring it to watch me practice tomorrow? I wrote a new song I’d like you to hear. It needs something, and you always seem to know exactly what will make us better.”
I snortled, which is a cross between a snort and a chuckle. It’s not a ladylike noise, but I wasn’t going to pretend to be someone I’m not.
I do critique the band’s performances, and now that they know me, they take a lot of my feedback into account. Except they still ignore the part where I insist they need more vocals. “Probably needs backup singers. I don’t see why Gavin and Levi can’t join in. Or Daisy. She has a great voice. You guys could do a couple of duets.”
“No, it’s something else. And I do agree with you about the backup singer thing. I’m hoping they’ll all try it in practice if you’re there.”
“Sorry. I’m spending the day with my mom and her husband.”
We’d made it back to the narrow part of the path. He held on to me a little tighter. “Her husband? That would be your stepfather?”
I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my mom or John to Dylan before. We keep our conversations to larger topics like continental drift or the evolution of AFI’s music.
“I don’t call him that.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I love him,” I said. “He’s one of my favorite people.”
“What do you call him?”
Dylan had put on his counselor hat. I wanted to knock it off his head. “John.”
“Are you close with your dad?”
I stumbled. Dylan caught me, pulling my back against his front. He held me for a few seconds, as if he’d realized how uncomfortable his question was for me. Because I held the flashlight, and a basic instinct wouldn’t let me release my grip, I couldn’t rub my hands together to simulate washing them. I rubbed my wrist instead. It kept a gruesome flow of images from manifesting.
“He died when I was little. I didn’t really know him.”
For all intents and purposes, John is my father. I hate the word and all the emotional baggage that comes with it, so he never forced the issue. He never sought to adopt me because I don’t want to have that association with him.
Dylan hugged me a little tighter. “I’m sorry.” He lost his parents. Of course he thought he knew what I was feeling. He didn’t.
“Don’t be. I’m not. I have John.” I’m not sorry my father is dead. I have a lot of other emotions wrapped up in that mess, but sorrow isn’t one of them.
I liked that Dylan was perceptive enough not to push the issue. I talk about my father with exactly one person: John. Nobody else gets to hear my thoughts or feelings about the man who nearly destroyed my life.
Chapter Seven
I RANG THE DOORBELL. If I wanted, I could’ve gone inside without knocking. But I didn’t want to. When I moved out, I stopped using my key and treating this house like it was my home.
My mom doesn’t like it, but John has assured her that it’s a normal part of me asserting my independence. My mom does like when I assert my independence. For so many years, I was a little phantom clinging to her or John, hiding behind them until they forced me to stand on my own.
John answered the door, pushing open the screen and pulling me into a hearty embrace. John is a good hugger. He has a knack for finding the perfect pressure and placement of everything, and you can tell he means it. He held me for a few seconds, and then he kissed the top of my head. He’s a tall man, a little on the skinny side, and he dwarfs me. I felt like a little girl again, safe and secure.
“Hey, princess. Happy birthday. Come on in. Your mother’s in the shower. She just went up, so we have some time.”
My mother takes epic showers. When I was about twelve, John replaced the water heater with one of those on-demand things because he was tired of the rest of us having to take cold showers all the time.
I rose to the tips of my toes and rubbed his head. As long as I’ve known him, John has been bald. He takes great pride in making sure his pate is nice and shiny. It matches the sparkle he gets in his eyes whenever he looks at me or my mom. I like to think I’ve inherited that sparkling tendency from him.
We went into the living room. I settled into an oversized recliner, and he got comfortable on the couch. This is a familiar arrangement, the one we seem to favor for our discussions.
“We haven’t seen you much this summer. How are things going?”
I’ve been very busy with work, and I’ve been spending more and more time with Dylan. I told my friends and family about my job change, but I haven’t said much to anyone about Dylan, mostly because there’s nothing to tell. My palms suddenly became sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans. “I met someone.”
“Yeah?” John kept his tone mild, though I knew he had to be dying from curiosity.
“Yeah.” I didn’t quite know what to say from here. John is the person who’s put the most time and effort into convincing me I deserve more from men than I’ve been settling for.
He sat up a little straighter. “What is this young man’s name?”
“Dylan Day. He’s twenty-four. He’s a family counselor during the week, and he’s a singer in a band on the weekends.”
“Married?”
I expected this question, but it still stung. I shook my head. “His wife died in a skiing accident last winter. I’ve met his family.”
John considered the scant information I gave him. He knew it was huge for me to even mention a man I liked. He rubbed his thumb under his chin. “Is he boyfriend material?”
That was a great question. I wasn’t sure I had an answer. “Not yet. He’s still in mourning. We’re friends. We’ve been hanging out some this summer. Last night, he told me he likes me.”
“He likes you?” John frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I hoped it meant he was closer to getting over his wife. I shrugged. “I think it means he likes me. I haven’t told a lie in four months.”
Maybe that was a manipulative thing to say, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer many more questions about Dylan.
John took the bait. It was kind of hard for him to ignore. He sat forward. “Four months? That’s amazing, princess. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I might have blushed a little under his praise. John is one of the few people whose opinion matters to me.
“Are you taking meds?”
I shook my head. I’d gone several rounds with antidepressants, which were supposed to treat my condition but didn’t. John has done a lot of cognitive behavior therapy with me, and that seems to work the best. I should also mention that he did very much try to help me with my root cause. Unlike many people who suffer from OCD, I have a triggering event.
But we won’t get into that now.
My mom came into the living room just then. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek a dozen times. “I think I overheard you say you haven’t lied in four months. Is that true?”
Genevieve Zimmerman is the prettiest mother in the world, though I might be a little biased. She’s tall and willowy. Her long curly hair is a beautiful shade of auburn, and she has deep brown eyes that positively glow. She’s also a very intelligent woman. She knows the right questions to ask. To be fair, I’m sure John was getting ready to work that question into the conversation. They both know I’ll tell them the truth when asked directly.
“It’s true.” I gave her the date of my last incident, and then I felt obligated to tell her about the court appearance. The object of said appearance chose that moment to jump up on John’s lap.
Sadie is a smaller dog. She weighs in at about thirty pounds, so she’s the perfect size for John’s lap. Her short black fur is mottled with browns, and she has some white on her chest. She is thoroughly a mutt.
He stroked her head and patted her flank. “Hey, baby girl. I hear you’ve been causing some trouble.”
I couldn’t let Sadie take the blame.
“I’m the one who let her off her leash. She runs so much faster than me, and it makes her so happy.”
John grinned and let out an aggravated sigh. “I’m not sure it would do any good to say you should’ve told us. We would’ve gone with you.”
They would’ve kept me honest, is what he means. I blushed, still both proud and ashamed of my subterfuge. “I know.”
“But the important thing,” my mother interjected, “is that it’s the last lie she’s told.” She kissed my cheek again and patted my hand. “You’ve come so far, sweetheart.”
I looked down at her hand on mine, and warmth washed through me. It was good to be home. “Come on, Mom. That cake isn’t going to make itself.”
Jane and Luma dropped by at five to join us for dinner. I like this quiet birthday tradition. Over the years, I’ve celebrated in the usual ways—everything from big productions at the Pools and Fitness center to bounce houses to sleepovers—but I prefer a small dinner with those I love.
And my mother’s German chocolate cake recipe is to die for. I do not use that term lightly, and I know you’re wishing you were here with us for real.
It was a good dinner, even though Mom had a lot of questions about Dylan. I answered them the best I could, and I kept reminding her that we weren’t dating and I didn’t know him all that well. Jane and Luma added liberal doses of their opinions—they’d liked Dylan on the several occasions when we’d all hung out together.
I didn’t get home until several hours after Dylan’s practice was over. Right after I chucked my bra into the hamper and slipped into my sleep pants, my buzzer went off. I live in one of these apartment buildings with a security door and an intercom. In theory, I could push one button to talk to my visitor and another to let my visitor inside. In reality, there was a problem with the electrical system and pushing either of the buttons did nothing.
I frowned as I trudged out of my apartment, down a flight of stairs, and over to the building’s heavy metal door. The only person who ever stopped by unannounced was John, and he’d been yawning up a storm by the time I left at eight.
When I pulled it open, Dylan filled the doorway. He wore a teal shirt that worked with the light coming at him to make his eyes glow. My surprise must have shown on my face because he shifted nervously and shoved the fingers of his right hand into his jeans’ pocket.
He offered me a half smile. “Hey.”
I wasn’t unhappy to see him, but I couldn’t think of a reason he’d show up unannounced. I preferred announced visits. That generally gave me enough time to get dressed or put on a bra. I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping nothing had gotten embarrassingly pointy.
“Hi.” Then it hit me. “We ate all the cake.” I felt a little sorry, but I hadn’t promised I would save him some.
He offered a short, nervous laugh. “That’s not why I’m here.”
It didn’t seem like he was going to say anything substantive in the doorway, so I stepped back and inclined my head toward the stairs. “Want to come up?”
“Sure. If you aren’t busy.”
I gave a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t know. I had an exciting evening of watching TV planned.”
When he laughed this time, he sounded a lot less nervous. “Don’t let me stop you.”
I led him up into my apartment and locked the door behind us. Though he’d been to my building several times, I’d always come out to meet him. This was the first time he’d been inside my place.
It’s a small apartment. One person doesn’t require a lot of room, and I like the fact that I can clean the entire thing in one afternoon. The front door opens directly into a small dining area that’s separated from the kitchen by virtue of a short counter. I have a little table pushed up against the wall, but it’s piled high with file folders and unopened mail.
My laptop sat on the counter. At least that surface was clear.
Through the dining room, the space opens up to reveal my living room, which is filled with hand-me-down furniture. It’s in good repair, but nothing in my apartment is new. To the left of the dining room, a hallway leads to the bathroom and my bedroom. One day, I hope to have Dylan in there.
I swept my hand toward the sofa, and realized it was piled with throw pillows and laundry. I scurried over and threw the clean clothes back into the basket.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“That’s okay.” He grinned as he plopped down, and I knew he had to be thinking about my OCD and the fact that it apparently didn’t extend to my living space.
I chucked the basket into my bedroom.
When I came back, he patted the cushion next to him. “Come here. I want you to hear this.” He held an earbud in his outstretched hand.
I peered at it doubtfully. I don’t have a phobia about germs, but I hate having those things in my ears. “I have my own.”
No argument from him. He plugged my headphones into his iPod and touched the screen. Music filled my ears, and I recognized the song immediately. “You recorded ‘Kiss Me Goodnight.’ Wow. This is huge.”
I listened to the entire thing. Something about hearing the song in its recorded form made me realize exactly how good they were. My crush on Dylan hadn’t colored my perception of their music. They had real talent.
When the song ended, I unplugged my headphones and set them on an end table. “That sounds incredible. You layered in the backing vocals.”
“Yeah. Well, this incredibly awesome woman kept telling me we needed them. Turns out she was right.” He slid his iPod into his pocket and leaned back against the sofa. “I had to do them, though. I can’t get anybody else to sing.”
“But now that they’ve heard the song, how can they argue?”
“Levi has zero vocal talent. Gavin doesn’t think he can sing and play. Daisy won’t even discuss the idea.”
Daisy was a stubborn potato. I could see he wouldn’t get far by arguing with her. But Levi and Gavin had no excuse. “You’ll have to practice it that way. It makes a difference.”
“I know. I was hoping you might consider singing backup.”
My voice is okay for background noise, but there’s no way in hell I would ever get on a stage. I shook my head. “I’m not a performer. I’m happy to support you by watching and telling everyone I meet how wonderful your band is. I’ll even wear a T-shirt. But that’s all.”
He put on all the charm in his arsenal, which was considerable, and leaned closer. “Can I seduce you into doing it?”
I shook my head and delivered my refusal in my gravest tone. “Seducing me would only get you laid.”
I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected, but from the look in his eyes, he was no longer thinking about convincing me to sing backup. The distance between us vanished, and his lips claimed mine. It was a different kiss from last night. It wasn’t slow, but it wasn’t impulsive or desperate either.
It was calm and affectionate, an insistent exploration. He cupped my head in his hands, ran his fingers through my hair. He touched my cheeks and my eyebrows. He traced his thumb along the edge of my lower lip.
I’ve never felt so drugged. Time seemed to slow down and speed up. I lost all sense of the world. At that moment, he could have seduced me.
He didn’t.
After an eternity sped by, he ended the kiss. He leaned against the sofa and put his arm around me, pulling me back with him. He picked up the TV remote and surfed the channels with me snuggled against his side.
“Tell me something about you, Lacey.” His scratchy command powered over those coming from the television, laying waste to any products I might have considered buying.
As a rule, I don’t talk about myself too much. Of course, by writing this, I’m totally breaking that rule. But I don’t have much practice opening up. Under the weight of his arm, I gave a miniscule shrug as I searched for something of substance that wasn’t too revealing. “I was a band nerd through middle and high school.”
He played with a ringlet
of my hair. “I bet you were in the goth section.”
I tilted my head to see him. “Were you?”
“Nope. I played baseball in the summer and basketball in the winter. My musical activities were all extracurricular. I learned to play guitar my senior year because a girl I had a crush on thought guitar players were hot.”
I considered this. Our paths wouldn’t have crossed in high school. “What was the first song you learned?”
I expected something simple, like a nursery rhyme. That’s how I started out. This time, his shoulders rose and fell. “‘Endlessly, She Said.’ Turns out the girl wasn’t into AFI. That killed it for me.” He shifted so he could sprawl the length of the sofa with me tucked into his side. “Tell me a little about John. How old were you when you met him?”
I looked up at him again, checking to make sure he wasn’t analyzing me. His attention seemed to be on a commercial for a vacuum cleaner. I decided to take a gamble. “Six. He was my counselor. By the time I was eight, he’d married my mother. I guess having a crazy kid wasn’t a deal breaker for him.”
Dylan stroked my hair. “That had to be confusing for you. My parents were so in love with each other. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a stepparent.”
Relating, that’s what he’s doing. Not fishing. I can handle this. Though my hands tingled because of the topic, the urge to wash them hadn’t become pressing. “My parents’ relationship was over before it began. I never saw them do anything but tolerate one another. My mom and John are madly in love.” I think my father was in love with my stepmother, but I couldn’t be sure. That was too long ago for those memories to be reliable. They were tainted anyway, so I double-checked the locks on the door to those recollections and added another layer of reinforcement.
Dylan dropped that line of inquiry, and I was thankful. Too much pushing would have unintended consequences. He stroked a casual caress over my hair and down my arm. If we spoke again that night, neither of us said anything significant. I think it’s what we didn’t say that’s important.
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