by Lee, Nadia
I seem to have made things worse by saying that, though. Her eyes flash dangerously as she stands up. “I’ll do what you want, Tony. I’ll stay in Tempérane and give myself some time to think. You go see your friend alone. And you’d better hope I don’t follow your advice. Don’t come crawling back if I think it over and decide I’ve made a mistake getting the tattoo. Because it’ll mean I don’t love you after all…and by then it’ll be too late!”
Fear closes around my throat. I jump to my feet. “Ivy, wait.” Don’t abandon me.
“No. You finish the pizza. I’m going home.”
She steps away before I can reach for her and dashes out of the restaurant.
My knees slowly fold, and I land back on the seat. I hurt all over, like I’ve been pummeled by a pro boxer. The restaurant seems to undulate around me. This went so bad, so fast, that I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t lose her, but if I try to force things, our argument will only become bitterer and more volatile. We might even break up.
Give her time, I tell myself. Maybe going to see Ryder alone will give us a little breathing room. Once she calms down and starts thinking more clearly, she’ll realize I wasn’t being unreasonable. I’ll even offer to go to the tattoo artist she hired and put an identical tattoo on my own wrist, so she knows I consider our relationship anything but temporary.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ivy
When the alarm goes off, I hit it, then huff out a breath. I can’t believe Tony didn’t come by last night. I was so certain he would…and offer me whatever explanation he could about Katherine’s death.
Maybe he honestly can’t talk about it. I mean…I don’t know how I’d feel if I thought I had a part in my family’s death, even if it was an accident.
I shower, put on a T-shirt and shorts and go down for breakfast. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I see Tony. Obviously, pushing him isn’t going to improve the situation, and I hate arguing with him.
Just give him some space to think on it? I’m sure we can have a calmer and more rational conversation before the weekend starts. I wish I hadn’t gotten so nasty and told him to go see his friend alone. I was just devastated and upset by his reaction to my tattoo, especially coming so soon after my ugly talk with Aunt Margot. I just wanted him to see the tat for what it is—my love for him—and accept it, rather than acting like love vanishes as easily as, I don’t know, the morning dew or something.
“Good morning,” Harry says, holding a spoon carelessly over his cereal. Next to it is a plate with a few bits of eggs and bacon.
“Hi,” I say. “You look chirpy.”
“It’s a nice day.”
“Have you seen Tony?” He usually gets up earlier than anyone.
“Yeah.”
Ugh. Why is he channeling Jonas all of a sudden? “Aaand…?”
“He left.”
“Left? For where?” I ask, wondering if Tony’s decided to avoid me.
“Dunno. Had a suitcase, though.”
Panic leaves me breathless. Don’t come crawling back if I think it over and decide I made a mistake getting the tattoo. Because it’ll mean I don’t love you after all.
Oh my God! Is that what made him go? I never meant for him to just give up and leave!
I explode out of my chair and dash back to my room. I have to call him, tell him to come back.
His phone rings and rings. “Come on,” I mutter, waiting for him to pick up. When he doesn’t, I text, Where are you?
The moments I wait for him to respond feel like an eternity in hell. Pacing, I nibble on the tip of my index finger. I sometimes forget he can be exceptionally vulnerable, especially when it comes to his mother’s horrible attitude and treatment. What she put him through has to be child abuse, even if she never physically raised a hand against him.
“Tony, you better text me back right now!” I hiss at the phone.
Finally, it pings. At the airport.
Oh, good. He hasn’t boarded yet. What are you doing? Come back.
I thought you wanted me to go see Ryder by myself.
I double-check the calendar. Why? It’s only Thursday. He wasn’t supposed to fly out until tomorrow.
I decided to follow your advice and leave a little early. Give us some time to cool off.
My heartbeat slows, although not much. So he’s not leaving leaving. Just going to see his friend. I hate it that we’re going to be apart, and I wish I hadn’t said what I said, because he’s doing this thinking it’s what I really want.
I hesitate, dying to tell him to come back soon and that I only want to understand him better. But at the same time, I would hate for him to think I’m pressuring him again. He already knows I need to know what happened, and that I don’t want to be shut out. If he’s leaving earlier than planned, he must really need some space.
In the end, I don’t text him back. After tossing the phone back on my desk, I go downstairs again. Harry looks up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I give him a pat smile.
“By the way, are you free this weekend?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“A local quintet needs a pianist. They’re playing Dvořák or something this Saturday.”
“Aunt Margot mentioned it to me.”
“Oh, okay. So are you doing it?”
“I guess.” I don’t have anything better to do this weekend now…and it’d be a shame to cancel the concert when I can help make it happen. Besides, it’ll be something to keep me busy and not obsess about Tony every minute until he returns.
After the breakfast, I go find Aunt Margot. She’s in the library, reading, and elegant as usual in a pale pink dress.
“About the quintet you mentioned yesterday,” I begin, my voice stiff. “If they haven’t found anyone yet, I’ll do it.”
“You aren’t going with Tony out to L.A.?” she asks, her expression unreadable.
“No.”
“Did you have a fight?”
Is there a hint of glee in her eyes? I can’t tell for sure. Still, the muscles in my jaw and neck tighten. “I decided it’d be better if he sees his friend alone.”
Her gaze drops to my pendant, then back to my face. “I see. Well, I hope things work out.”
Despite the gracious words, I know she wishes for anything but.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthony
I wish I’d never left Tempérane. Ryder’s yacht party is being hosted by some big-shot Hollywood producer who just inherited a metric ton of money and wants to celebrate. When Ryder heard I was arriving early, he sent a helicopter to pick me up from the airport and bring me to the party, the bird landing neatly on the helipad.
The yacht is enormous, and alive with tanned and oiled bodies. A lot of women haven’t bothered with bikini tops, reminding me of Spain. The sound system blares out dance tunes nonstop. Top-shelf booze flows freely, and the intoxicated crowd is hopping and gyrating to the music, raising their drinks in the air. And it isn’t even five in the afternoon.
Happy fucking Hollywood life!
“This is the shit!” Ryder says, a fresh glass of scotch in his hand. A huge grin splits his disgustingly handsome face. It’s almost scary how good-looking the bastard is, not just facially but physically as well. And the craziest thing is he didn’t have any plastic surgery, contrary to what a lot of people think. He’s one hundred percent natural, and doesn’t have to use anything to look good—clothes, props, anything—because it’s him who makes them look good. I’ve seen him roll out of bed and still look like he could be on the cover of GQ.
But it’s impossible to hate the guy. He’s too fun, too easygoing. And instead of relying on his looks to cruise through life, he isn’t afraid of work.
“It’s nice,” I say, still nursing my first drink. I can’t knock back alcohol the way Ryder does. He’s impervious to the stuff.
“Why so glum, dude?” he asks loudly over the music.
“Because.” I miss the lovely hours I sp
ent listening to Ivy play Chopin and Liszt. Or the quiet hours when she napped with her head in my lap. Or the sizzling hours we spent in bed, exploring and figuring out each other’s bodies.
Ryder gives me a look, then elbows me lightly. “You miss your girl.”
I fake laugh, a laugh that says everything’s great in my world, really. “Yes. I do.”
“I was looking forward to meeting her. Sorry she’s sick.”
The lie makes me feel bad. But how do I tell him the truth, that Ivy’s too angry with me to fly out and meet my best buddy? Or tell him what she said about deciding she made a mistake, the possibility of which is haunting me?
She isn’t going to leave you, I tell myself. She wanted to know where you were.
But she never said anything else.
“Got a pic?” Ryder says.
“Ha.” I pull out my phone, which I’ve been carrying around in case she calls or texts. The first thing it shows is her face on my lock screen. I took the shot when she was playing Grand Galop Chromatique. I thumb through and show him more shots, most of them of her at the piano or napping. My favorite is one of her in the morning. She looks so tender and vulnerable and sweet…but that’s too private, so I skip it.
Ryder gives a low whistle. “She’s a babe. No wonder you’re crazy about her.”
“Ivy’s perfect,” I say, a smile on my lips as love swells in my chest.
“Cute dimple. Gives her face a little extra something.”
“That’s not a dimple, it’s a mole.”
He leans close to the phone, squinting a bit. “Oh yeah… Well, whatever. You’re done, dude. Totally whipped.” Ryder laughs, slapping me on the back. “Look at that shit-eating grin.”
Let him tease. I don’t give a damn. I do love her, and I don’t care if everyone at this party knows. “She’s amazing. Plays the meanest piano.”
“That’s awesome.”
“She’ll debut at Carnegie Hall one day,” I say proudly, because I know she will. She’s too talented, too hardworking not to.
“She can still come out, if you want. I could send a private jet over. That chick over there”—Ryder points out a tall redhead with a stunning body—“has one I can borrow.” He considers for a moment. “Actually…I’ll probably have to pay her.”
“How is it borrowing if you have to pay?”
“I mean with sex. But hey, no sacrifice is too great for a friend.”
It’s tempting, but I’m still not ready to tell Ivy everything…and she’ll expect that if I ask her to join me now. “Maybe next time. I don’t know how she’d feel about having to travel. Kind of a long flight…”
“Your call,” Ryder says, shrugging. “Just take her back something nice. Makes up for not bringing her, plus every girl expects a gift when her guy goes out of town.”
Ivy is definitely expecting something, but it isn’t a gift. I realize I won’t be able to return home without making a decision—either tell her everything and bear her disgust, or stay silent and bear her disappointment and anger.
Scylla and Charybdis. Either way, I’m going to be screwed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ivy
The quintet concert turns out to be a high school production with a donation box at the entrance to raise money for a local youth music program. We meet on Friday for a couple of hours to rehearse. The juniors and seniors are awestruck after hearing that I’ve been studying at Curtis for the last three years. It’s a little unnerving.
Surprisingly, no one is there to turn my music. It’s okay, though, since I have Dvořák’s Piano Quintet memorized from having played it before. I make it a habit to memorize the pieces I’m supposed to play. It gives me extra confidence that I’m really ready and prepared.
Saturday starts out ominously. The sky is dark pewter with rain-heavy clouds. The wind picks up, scattering leaves and tugging hard at the moss as it sweeps through the trees in the garden. Having spent five years in Louisiana, plus summer vacations and holidays from Curtis, rain and storms don’t freak me out like they do some of my friends who come from states like California. But goosebumps rise on my skin anyway. It stormed the day my parents died.
I wrap my arms around myself for a moment before driving out to the St. Agnellus Community Center. It isn’t raining yet, but the wind gets more vicious along the way, trying to push the car off the road. As I get out in the community center parking lot, it pulls at my blue dress—the informal uniform all the girls in the quintet are supposed to wear—and tangles my hair.
I dash into the community center and go to the practice room in the back. It’s large enough to accommodate about thirty people. An upright piano that hasn’t been tuned in ages stands in the corner, and all the members of the quintet are here—the two violinists, the violist and the cellist tuning their instruments and warming up. A lone strawberry blonde is hanging out in the back, her face stuck in a thick Harry Potter hardback. She’s also got the blue dress uniform on, so she must be the one designated to turn my music. The only boy in the group—the cellist—is in a suit with a neatly knotted sleet-gray tie.
“Awesome, you’re here now,” the violist says.
“I’m not late, am I?”
“You’re fine. Ready for the final run-through?”
I nod, and we start getting into position, taking our seats and arranging our music on the stands. The blonde comes over, pulling a chair up next to the piano, so she can flip music for me. Others are expected to deal with their own music, but not pianists.
I adjust the piano bench and toss my hair over my shoulders. Something snags it, and I wince. “Ow.” I tug, trying to free my hair. I can’t play with my neck bent the entire time.
There’s a snap and something metallic glides down my body and falls into my lap.
Crap. The medallion!
I twist around to look down on the floor. There’s a glint under the bench, and I grab it. This isn’t good.
I don’t consider myself especially superstitious, but I’m getting an uneasy feeling. Tony hasn’t called or texted even once since he left, and I can’t help but wonder if the broken chain is some kind of omen.
Don’t be ridiculous. It just got caught in your hair.
I put the medallion and chain in my purse under the piano bench. I’ll have them looked at later. I’m probably being oversensitive with Tony gone and the awful weather, and memories of the day when I lost the two people who mattered most to me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anthony
The sounds of partying outside pound the walls of Ryder’s cabin, making them throb, but we’re pretty well insulated. It’s huge for a yacht cabin, and luxuriously appointed with a king-sized bed, seating area, desk and two huge TVs.
Ryder’s looking at me with a slightly loopy and satisfied smile. From the way the sheets on his bed are all twisted and pulled, I can guess what he was up to last night. There are five different pairs of very feminine panties and three bras in various places around the room.
“Five? Really?” I inspect the seat of a leather chair by the desk. It looks to be free of bodily fluids.
“More like ten. I dunno. Kinda lost count.” Ryder yawns from the bed. He’s just finished doing a series of martial arts stretches and is wearing nothing but black boxers.
“Right.”
“Hey, those girls couldn’t find their rooms. And naturally, I didn’t want them to have to sleep in the passageway. Bad things can happen to pretty girls in passageways.”
His dramatic delivery makes me laugh despite my shitty mood. It’s only been three days since I got on the yacht, but I’m going stir-crazy. It has everything—two pools, a huge hot tub, a super-luxurious cabin for my use, not mention the spectacular ocean off Catalina Island…even a gym, which Ryder and I have made some use of, sparring a bit—but it doesn’t have what I really want.
Ivy.
Every moment since I got here, I’ve been wondering what she’s up to. Did she sleep well? What piece is
she practicing now? Has she made a triumphant recording to make her friend Yuna green with envy? Is she still mad at me? Has she decided she doesn’t love me? Does she even want me now?
Ryder heaves himself off the bed and comes over. “Want something to drink? I have scotch, whiskey and vodka. The girls killed all the wine.”
“I’m okay.”
He peers at me. “Jeez. At least look like you mean it when you say that. You look like shit.”
“Oh, come on. I’m fine.”
“The chicks were eyeing you like mad. You’re totally the hot, dark, brooding dude. Like the hero you see in one of those romance books.” He frowns impressively and lowers his voice. “It was a dark and stormy night… Suddenly, bright lightning split the sky, illuminating a dark and brooding man full of sexual menace.”
“What the hell are you reading these days?” The Ryder I used to know read manly-man books, with pictures. Lots of pictures, usually of naked women.
“Not these days. It was a while back. From Elizabeth’s stash.”
“Why were you reading your sister’s stuff?”
“To see what makes girls tick. It was a long time ago, but that opening stuck.” Ryder pours himself a scotch. “I’m just saying you’re the dark and brooding dude in that story. And the menace, too.”
“Menace?” What the fuck? I’ve been nothing but polite since I arrived. I even rejected the women’s advances—politely—although though a couple of them were irritatingly persistent. “I’ve been completely gracious and sociable here.”
“How can you be sociable when you keep saying no? The girls can tell you aren’t gay.” He downs half the glass in one long swig. “Ergo, you must be this brooding, tortured guy who requires the love of a good woman to bring him out of his downward spiral.”
My mouth falls open. “Who the hell are you and what have you done to my best friend?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been reading a lot of scripts recently. Chick flick stuff. Women usually decide what to watch on dates.” Ryder shrugs. What can a guy do? “But I overheard some of the girls betting on who could get you to sleep with her first. You’re the prize stud.”