Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  I slouch in my chair. “He’s never dealt with it.”

  “No,” she says, reaching across the table for my hand. “He just survived it. Now he’s getting remarried, and I think we both know how heavily that decision weighs on him.”

  My eyes begin to water, and Evelyn lets go of my hand to pass me her cocktail napkin.

  “My point is,” she says, “if he’s under pressure at work too? That’s a lot for one person to carry. And for someone who has a track record of not dealing, it may be too much.”

  “I want to help him, but he won’t let me. I’ve tried to get him to talk to me, to let me in.” My voice quivers as the words tumble out. “But like you said, he’s stubborn.”

  Evelyn laughs and it’s loud and boisterous. “As a mule. Always has been.” She puts an empanada on each of our plates and takes a small bite of her own. “So if the two of you are just now speaking, why are you here with me instead of home with him?”

  “Because he’s not there. He went with his ‘COO’”—I say her title with air quotes—“to check out some band.”

  Evelyn’s lips twist in amusement and I realize I’m scowling.

  “Amanda?” she asks. “I don’t know her personally, but I know of her.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like a jealous girlfriend, but he got dressed up for her. He wore cologne.” I sink back in my chair and rub my temples. “And when he left, I got a peck on the cheek. Not an actual kiss, but a peck.”

  “Ouch.”

  I pick at the crust on my empanada. “Good. Then it’s not just me.”

  “He’s being insensitive, but knowing Darian, I’m sure that’s all it is,” she says gently. “Oh, honey. He probably just wanted to look smart for the band. Do you know where they went?”

  “Somewhere in Coconut Grove to see ‘Rapid something.’”

  Evelyn pulls out her phone and begins typing. “Rapid Confession?”

  I shrug. “Beats me.”

  “Must be. That’s the only band with Rapid in the name playing anywhere tonight.” Her brows arch. “They look…fun.” She turns the screen toward me and giggles. “Check out the drummer’s blue hair.”

  That is not a teen pop band.

  “Maybe you should go,” she says.

  “To the show?”

  “Why not? Unless you think your presence would be a distraction.”

  “He invited me, but…”

  She sighs. “I’m going to ask you again, why are you here with me?”

  The club, Jezebel’s, is the last place I’d expect to see a band like Rapid Confession—or any band without a vibraphonist. The walls are curtained in billowy white fabric, and bar-height black lacquer tables topped with candles surround the stage. It’s swanky, which Darian must have known.

  Duh, Frankie. He wasn’t dressing for Amanda; he was dressing for the venue.

  I walk the perimeter of the room until I spot them, but the moment I do, the relief I was beginning to feel vanishes because of their proximity.

  They’re here for the band, I remind myself. They have to sit close together if they both want to see the stage.

  I make my way to their table with feigned courage and a forced smile. Amanda notices me first, but Darian’s gaze is quick to follow. And when he stands to intercept me, his impassive expression makes my chest feel heavy.

  “What are you doing here?” His tone is accusatory and catches me off guard. I cock my head in answer.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just surprised to see you. Where’s Evelyn?”

  “Dinner ended early, so I thought I’d come find you.” I twist my ring nervously. “Luckily there’s only one band playing in Coconut Grove tonight with Rapid in the name.”

  The already dim lights dim further, and Darian glances at the stage. “Come on. They’re about to start.”

  Despite wanting to sit as far away from Amanda as possible, I’m seated right beside her, in between them both. Not ideal, but at least their arms are no longer touching. During the set, however, not ideal becomes awkward and uncomfortable. The tension is so heavy, it feels like it’s holding me in my chair.

  A couple songs in, I order a dirty martini to continue the buzz started by the caipirinha. It helps with my unease but nothing more. Despite Rapid Confession being exactly my thing, I’m not feeling it, and I just want them to wrap it up so we can go home.

  Both bored and restless, I order a second drink. Darian doesn’t even seem to notice. He and Amanda are focused on the stage, studying the band like they’re sitting in a college lecture, taking notes and whispering back and forth across the table—correction, across me. After the fourth time, Darian requests his original seat beside Amanda and I’m edged out of a conversation I was never invited into.

  When the set finally ends, Amanda stands and angles her body toward Darian. “Backstage?”

  “I need to get home,” he says. “I’m fine with whatever you decide.”

  She turns to me and smiles. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Me too.” My gaze cuts to my fiancé. “I love teen pop.”

  Fucking vodka!

  Amanda’s unnaturally smooth brow furrows in confusion, and she nods. “Well, goodnight.”

  Darian doesn’t say a single word to me on the ride home, and with the vodka swimming in my veins, I can’t say that I care. The alcohol has made me pleasantly indifferent.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” I say, brushing past him for the stairs once we’re inside.

  Even with the water running, I can hear his noisy shuffling around our bedroom—drawers opening and closing, the closet door striking the frame. After a few minutes, he charges into the bathroom and leans against the vanity with his arms crossed. I sink lower in the tub and wonder why the hell I didn’t think to lock the door.

  “Were you checking up on me?” he asks.

  Sort of.

  “Checking up on you?”

  “You said you didn’t want to go.”

  “I most certainly did not.” Stretching my leg, I turn off the water with my foot. “You said it wouldn’t be my thing.”

  “Francesca, please. Don’t patronize me.”

  Martini-fueled laughter bursts out of me and I sit up quickly, hugging my knees to my chest. Water splashes over the side of the tub. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Darian, I miss you. I hate it when we argue. We were finally on speaking terms and you made plans with someone else.”

  An Amanda-shaped someone else.

  “Because you had plans.”

  “That I would have canceled in a second if I thought you wanted me to.”

  He sits on the floor beside the tub, his elbow propped on the edge. “You don’t have to miss me. I’m right here.”

  “Physically maybe, but your head is somewhere else, somewhere I’m not allowed to be.”

  “I’m trying,” he says softly.

  “Are you?” I squeeze his hand. “I know you’re used to dealing with things on your own, but you’re not on your own anymore. And when you shut me out…” My voice cracks. “It’s lonely, Darian.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “I know you don’t, not intentionally, anyway.”

  I lean forward to turn on the faucet, adding hot water to the quickly cooling bath. The sound is soothing. Darian glides his hand over my back and I feel my eyes grow heavy.

  “After your birthday,” I say sluggishly, “I want us to talk—really talk. I need to know what’s going on with you.”

  His hand stills and he clears his throat.

  “I’m serious, Darian.”

  “I agree,” he says, his expression pinched. “It’s not that. I…fuck.”

  “Fuck what?”

  “I have to go to Austin Friday.”

  “Again?” My heart sinks. “But your birthday…”

  “Is Saturday,” he finishes. “I’
ll be back.”

  “What’s the problem this time?”

  “There’s no problem; we have a few interviews scheduled. That’s all.”

  “On your birthday weekend,” I say bitterly. “On a weekend we had plans.”

  “I’m sorry, Francesca. I didn’t schedule them. I didn’t even know about them until earlier tonight. Stuff gets added to my calendar and if I’m not paying attention… I should’ve blocked off the weekend. But,” he adds, sounding hopeful, “I’ll be home on Saturday, so we can still do something. Or stay in and do nothing.”

  “Do nothing? My birthday was an event, Darian. How is that fair?”

  “It’s fair because I get to do what I want, and what I want is to be with you.” He picks up my hand and links our fingers. “Stay home, turn off our phones…talk.”

  Talk. Hope flutters with a single word. “No more hiding?”

  “No more hiding.”

  I purse my lips. “I suppose I could make chicken fried steak again.”

  He smiles and tucks a damp lock of hair behind my ear. “Thank you for wanting to make my birthday special,” he says, “and at the risk of sounding corny, every day with you is special. I don’t think you realize that—and that’s my fault.” His olive eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Francesca. I’ve really been fucking up lately.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You really have.”

  The Spy

  R. Cline: You still in Austin?

  Darian: Headed to the airport now.

  R. Cline: Think you better get to LA.

  Darian: Shit.

  R. Cline: Yeah.

  Darian: OK. I’ll call you when we board.

  Frankie

  The pocket watch I had engraved for Darian—my father’s pocket watch—is wrapped in bright blue paper and tucked inside a white gift bag on the counter. The kitchen is decked out with balloons and streamers. The mashed potatoes and gravy are finished and warming, and the chicken fried steak just needs a final dip in the fryer to crisp it up. I made biscuits from scratch and my mom’s homemade Texas sheet cake. I went a little crazy with the frosting, and what was supposed to be multicolored music notes looks more like an acid trip from the sixties.

  All I’m missing is the birthday boy, who should be landing any minute.

  At four p.m., I pop open a bottle of wine and pour myself a small glass. At five, I pour another. Darian’s officially late. I go to grab my phone to call him, then remember that I left my purse in the car when I brought the groceries in earlier. Shit.

  In the garage, I jerk open the driver’s side door and grab my bag, my spirits sinking at the sight of the message indicator light blinking inside.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Darian: Leaving for the airport. See you soon.

  Darian: Call me as soon as you get this.

  Darian: Something came up and it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it back tonight. Call me.

  I dial his number and lift the phone to my ear.

  “Francesca, thank God,” Darian says when he answers. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  His panicked voice makes me wince.

  “I know. I left my phone in the car and just realized it was missing. So?” I ask, hopeful, even though the late hour on the clock above the stove tells me it’s hopeless. “Are you coming home?”

  “Not tonight, baby. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  I hear a rush of voices followed by a door closing and then it’s silent again. “Okay,” I say, deflated. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “Francesca…”

  “Happy Birthday, Darian.”

  He sighs softly. “I love you. See you tomorrow,” he says and ends the call.

  I set my phone on the counter and reach for my glass. Angry tears collect in my eyes as they scan the kitchen. It’s not the wasted effort that upsets me. It’s the disappointment. I hate looking forward to something and having it ripped out from under me. And that seems to be happening more and more. Darian’s mood swings make him unpredictable, and if it’s not that, it’s his unreliable schedule.

  It doesn’t help that you’re homesick either.

  I think that’s a lot of it. I’m homesick for Texas, and in the past two weeks, Darian’s gone twice—without me.

  Maybe you should go on your own.

  I toss back the last of my wine and set the glass in the sink. The food won’t keep, not really, and I have zero desire to eat it. I briefly consider inviting Evelyn over, but the truth is, I don’t want her to know I’m upset again. And it’s a lot easier to feel sorry for yourself when you’re alone. I serve myself a gargantuan piece of acid trip cake, grab the three-quarters-full bottle of wine, and head upstairs.

  “At least you like my chicken fried steak,” I tell the trash bin as I scrape the uneaten pieces off the cooling rack. In an act of defiance, I left the kitchen mostly untouched last night, and now I’m paying the price. The stuck-on breading will be a bitch to clean.

  I set the rack in the sink to soak, then slump over the counter and rest my head. Despite not getting up until noon, I’m exhausted. Darian woke me at eight with a text to let me know he’d just boarded his flight and to expect him home by two. I replied with a passive-aggressive “thumbs up” and went back to sleep. I don’t mean to be snarky, because I know it’s not his fault, but last night’s pity party left me bitter and hungover.

  It takes me another hour to get through the dishes and wipe off the counters. Two o’clock rolls around, and I’m pulling down streamers and popping balloons when I hear the garage door open.

  What do you know? He’s actually on time.

  Play nice, Frankie.

  “Jesus,” Darian says, taking in the mess of decorations and haphazardly stacked dishes scattered around the kitchen. “You went all out.”

  “Yep,” I reply, then stab the balloon I’m holding. Pop.

  Darian flinches. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You said that already.” Pop.

  He drops his bag and begins pulling down the streamers I had to use a stepladder to put up. “Let me do this.”

  “Clean up your own birthday party? I don’t think so.” Pop.

  “Francesca, stop. Can you talk to me for a second?”

  Pop, pop.

  I turn around with my arms crossed, the steak knife I’m using fisted in my hand. “Believe it or not, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the situation.”

  “That’s good…I guess.”

  “Yep.” Pop.

  “Why don’t we leave this for later and go do something. Anything you want.”

  “It’s your birthday weekend.”

  “Yeah, well, I kind of fucked that up.”

  I set the steak knife on the island. “I feel like shit,” I say, gesturing to the empty wine bottle sitting beside what’s left of the cake on the stove. “I was hoping to have this mess cleaned up before you got back, but getting out of bed today was a struggle. What I want is to knock it out and take a nap.” I peer down at the chocolate stain on my tank top. “A shower would probably be good too.”

  Darian homes in on my “guys suck” pajama pants. “You’re really not mad?” he asks dubiously. “At me, I mean?”

  “Nope.”

  He crosses the kitchen to where I’m standing by the door. “Is there anything I can do?” His large hands cup my face and tilt my chin up. “Do you want some ginger ale? Crackers? Maybe one of Drew’s famous BLTs?”

  The thought of food right now—even crackers—turns my stomach. “Thanks, but no. I just want to sleep it off.”

  “Okay.” He glides his thumbs under my tired eyes, likely removing the mascara I didn’t bother to wash off last night. “I’ll be in my office if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  On Monday, I wake to a sunlit room and Darian still in bed beside me. I don’t need a clock to tell me he’s late, but I raise my head and check the time
anyway.

  “Darian,” I whisper, gently shaking his arm. “The alarm didn’t go off.”

  A sleepy smile spreads over his lips and he reaches for me. “I didn’t set it.” One eye cracks open. “How do you feel?”

  I nestle against his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. “Much better,” I say, lazily tracing the line of his collarbone. “Sorry about yesterday. I know it wasn’t intentional.”

  He pulls back just enough to kiss my hairline. “It wasn’t, but it still sucks. I’m sorry too.”

  “How do you feel? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I thought we could spend the day together.”

  “You’re taking a day off? Now?” My tone is skeptical.

  “Not so much a day off as a day away from the office. I’ll have my phone on, but unless I get called in, I’m all yours.” He gives my waist a playful pinch. “My only request is tacos.”

  I perk up. “Terrill’s Tacos?”

  “What do you think?”

  Darian dresses quickly in gray shorts and a Velvet Underground T-shirt, then goes downstairs to make a call while I finish getting ready. I decide on the denim cutoffs he seems to like and a blue and white striped tank. My hair’s out of control from sleeping on it wet, so I brush it out as best I can and tie it in a messy bun.

  Darian’s still on his call when I enter the kitchen. He’s facing the backyard, but his head is down, and if I couldn’t see the phone pressed to his ear, I’d assume he was deep in thought.

  “No, stay there,” he says. “I’ll cover your expenses. … Then I’ll cover that too. … Okay. Call me if anything changes. I don’t care how late it is. … That’s fine. … Yes, I have my ringer on.”

  He ends the call and lets out a deep sigh as he turns around. I’m met with dark, heavy eyes that lighten as they take me in—blaze when they take in my shorts. His downturned lips quirk up as he digs his keys out of his pocket. “You ready?”

  His reaction makes me laugh. “Ready and starving.”