by Amy Matayo
She smiles back. Her breath feathers my mouth and it’s all I can do not to take her lower lip between my teeth. Later. I’ll definitely do it later.
“Yes we do,’ she says. “But as for the why, wondering is a waste of time. The real question is now that you have me, what are you going to do about it?”
What am I going to do about it?
I know exactly what I’m going to do.
I move in closer. Thigh to thigh, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. And then I do the one thing I’ll never get tired of. I lower my head and cover her mouth with mine, nipping at her lower lip, her upper lip, claiming them both for myself along the way. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Peppermint. She tastes like all of them and suddenly I’m very hungry. Distract yourself, Minor.
So I do.
One…two…three…
I feel a little guilty for timing the kiss, but I do have a show to play and standing here with her will make me want to run away from it.
At five I break the kiss. Because if I keep going to ten my band will likely kill me.
“Better?”
Sam smiles up at me and releases my waist. “A little. But still not your finest.”
At that, I laugh. “I’ll make up for it later. Stay here and watch?”
She bites her lower lip. The sight is nearly my undoing. “I’ll sit right here on the steps.”
Feeling lighter than I have in a while, I run up the steps, ignoring the looks everyone onstage shoots me as I begin singing the words to our newest release. I swagger across the stage—par for the course—pretending as always that everyone loves me. Why shouldn’t they? I’m Cory Minor and tonight, this stage is mine.
Of course it’s all an act. It’s always an act.
But this time is different. I’ve been given a chance to start again by people who never should have believed in me—much less forgiven me. But they did. All of them. And one of them is waiting backstage like I’m the light of her life.
What she doesn’t know is that she’s the freaking sun and moon and stars in mine.
Everything that’s happened over the past year is because of her. And because of her, I am free.
Angela’s family—distraught from everything they learned over those two days last September—decided not to press charges. Her uncle is back behind bars, stubbornly maintaining his innocence while awaiting a trial that may take years to begin. I keep in touch with the family, I’ve paid all their legal bills and will continue to do so. I’ve offered more money just to make their lives a little easier, but so far they’ve refused. I’ll wear them down eventually; I owe them that much.
As for Kyle, things are more complicated with him. Years of resentment can’t be erased with a simple I’m sorry, but we talk occasionally now. I’ve even spent time with Millie—once taking her for ice cream and once to visit Santa Claus last Christmas—and she’s no longer afraid of me. It’s a start, better than tears, definitely better than the awful years of silence my family once endured from me. Our relationship may never fully recover, but we’re on the right road. And time…I have to believe that time has a way of working things out. Whether it’s over the course of a month or a year or decade—time usually manages to smooth things over.
As the first song leads into the next one, I stand at the edge of the stage. Sweat works its way down my lower back—by the time this show is over I’ll be drenched. A sea of hands reaches forward to touch my feet, my ankles, any part of me able to grab. There was a day I thrived on the frenzy of fans, but now I take a step back and walk toward the other end of the stage. Catching sight of Sam sitting on the steps like she promised, I smile. She smiles back and sways to the music, her head bobbing up and down in the shadows.
I reach for my guitar and shrug into it to join Mark in a musical duet. His bass goes one direction, my electric guitar goes another. Like always, both instruments blend together to make the best kind of music. The twenty-five thousand people in the crowd seem to agree.
I look back at Sam one more time. A few minutes ago, she asked me what I was going to do about it now that I have her in my life. Well, tonight I’m going to make my plans clear. The ring tucked inside my guitar case practically screams at me from the green room. Two hours to go, and I’m free to ask her what I’d planned that day in the park. All I need is a yes, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be the family she deserves.
I’ve already asked her father. Of course, he didn’t respond and in his rapidly ailing state I might not have much longer to spend with the man, but I did respect him enough to ask. Phyllis answered for him in the form of a crushing hug and a sloppy kiss on my forehead that I will no doubt never forget. At least the woman likes me. The feeling is definitely mutual.
I step to the microphone as the song segues into a slow one. The crowed is loud, I have to shout. “How is everyone doing in Dallas tonight?” The fans roar their approval. “It’s been a great night so far, but I have a feeling it’s about to get even better!” They scream, because they know. I step back and play the opening riff to He Might Look Good, But My Money Looks Better, the first single off our new album. Such a pretentious title, but everyone seems to like it. The energy in the arena swells as the crowd jumps up and down.
As always, I study as many individuals as I can see, trying to remember each face…each expression…each smile. I know how this job works. One day this will all be a memory, and I want to file away each moment while I can. I skim the front row in a final pass through when I see her. My breath catches. A guitar string pops. I flub a line of lyric. She smiles up at me from the left side of the stage.
Short red hair. Yellow shirt. Tall, lean, the build of an athlete. Her eyes sparkle even in the darkness. I know that face. I’ve memorized that face in a hundred different dreams. I will never forget that face. It looks so much like Sam’s.
Flustered, I blink. I look away to compose myself, then look back again.
The girl is gone. I scan the crowd but see nothing. Maybe she wasn’t real. Surely a figment of my imagination.
Or maybe she’s been here the whole time. Maybe…just maybe…she never left at all.
Feeling slightly bewildered, I step to the microphone and begin to sing.
But I can’t get my mind off that girl. That face. That smile.
I remember my grandfather’s Bible.
I feel free.
And slowly, I smile too.
I’m pretty sure I just saw the face of an angel.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I first wrote this book almost seven years ago. It’s a story that means a lot to me because of the nature surrounding the circumstances that gave me the idea in the first place. I won’t go into the details, but the memories are in my mind, and if you’re reading this, now—in some way—they’re in yours. This rewrite was challenging at times, fun at times, irritating and annoying pretty much all the time, and a confirmation of something I’d long suspected: rewriting an old book is a lot harder than writing a new book from scratch. But I promised my daughter I would rewrite this one—this book is her favorite. So here you go. The Whys Have It (originally named Don’t Ask Why) is a work that took years to see through. And now it’s here. And now I’m finished. And I doubt I’ll ever do another rewrite again (do I have to Mom?). Still, for me it’s a study in never giving up on anything…in finding value in the ugly things…in doing your best to somehow turn them into something beautiful.
With that in mind, I’d like to thank the people who never give up on me—even when I’m ugly.
To my sweet writer friends that make me feel a little more understood: Nicole Deese, Tammy L. Gray, Jenny B. Jones, Christy Barritt, Connilyn Cossett, Christa Allan, Varina Denman.
To Kristin Avila—the best editor in the world.
To Jessica Kirkland—the agent and friend who keeps me in line and on schedule, and for that holy Sonic ice machine you keep in your back yard. Invite me back to your house. Like, right now.
T
o Stacy Henagan, Lilly Matayo, and Jan Millsap for reading reading reading.
To my neighbors and friends at home who make living in the real world a nicer place to be. You know who you are, and I’ll love you forever.
To my mom and dad—the greatest parents ever.
To my sisters—you’re pretty cool too.
To my husband and kids—I like you guys most of the time. Or always. Whichever.
To my dog—thanks for never leaving my side.
To Stephen King—thanks for taking a picture with me and for teaching me how to write. You’re the best at the craft.
To Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations—please never stop designing covers. There’s no one better, and I don’t know what I would do without your creativity.
If I forgot anyone, it’s my sisters’ fault. They might be cool, but they’re super-forgetful.
Please consider leaving a review of The Whys Have It on Amazon and Goodreads.
Other books by Amy Matayo
The Thirteenth Chance
The End of the World
A Painted Summer
In Tune With Love
Sway
Love Gone Wild
The Wedding Game
Amy Matayo
Represented by Jessica Kirkland at Kirkland Media Management
amymatayo.com
Amy Matayo is an award winning author of The Wedding Game, Love Gone Wild, Sway, In Tune with Love, A Painted Summer, The End of the World and The Thirteenth Chance. She graduated with barely passing grades from John Brown University with a degree in Journalism. But don’t feel sorry for her—she’s super proud of that degree and all the ways she hasn’t put it to good use.
She laughs often, cries easily, feels deeply, and loves hard. She lives in Arkansas with her husband and four kids and is working on her next novel.
Twitter: @amymatayo
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