by Allen, Dylan
Hmm. That’s not like her. But I’m not going to question that random bit of good luck. Not when it’s in such short supply lately.
“Won’t you miss her?”
She’s stroking a hand along the gleaming black curved body of my piano.
Looking at it hurts. I miss her already. I haven’t played anything since that disastrous night at the show house.
The chaos that has taken over my apartment reflects the state of my soul. And it’s starting to feel normal. All of that is due to no longer having my piano as my outlet.
“What does your therapist say?” She picks up a dishcloth and starts drying the small stack of things that didn’t warrant throwing away.
“That I should try to find something other than my dad to associate the piano with. It’s not dad. I still love the piano. I love to play, but the music…”
“Play different music, then. You loved jazz and pop when you were younger. I know your father pushed you toward classical. But, maybe you can get back to what you really loved.”
“That feels like a betrayal.” My father wanted me to be the next great virtuoso, and he died without ever seeing that. The guilt of that reality is crushing. I want to do right by him.
She sits on the edge of my unmade bed.
“Watch where you sit on there,” I warn her.
She scowls at me and stands up like the bed is on fire.
“That’s how you know I’m tired. I stopped sitting on your bed when you were twelve.” She walks over to the small loveseat and eyes it the way she would a rickety bridge.
“Have you ever had this thing cleaned?”
I lean my hip on the edge of my counter and eye her impatiently. Small talk isn’t her thing. She’s got something else to say, and she’s stalling. So, I put a little fire under her.
“My car will be here in twenty minutes. I need to shower. Can I call you on the way to the airport?”
It works. She turns to face me, her jaw set.
“I’m putting the brownstone on the market.”
It’s the very last thing I expect her to say.
”I thought you said you’d leave there in a coffin or not at all.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and tenses, like she’s preparing for a fight.
“That’s when I was sure your father would outlive me. He’s the one who ran marathons, slept well and ate like an elite athlete. I didn’t think I’d have to live there all by myself.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She looks so tired. She lost everything, and now she’s leaving the home she loves.
She smiles, but it’s forced.
“It was too big for us already, but now it’s just me, and I hate it. There are just too many memories. I know this sounds selfish, but…”
“You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you?” I finish for her.
She gives me a pained smile.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” she asks.
“No, It’s not. I’m sure there are things you gave up when you married him. Maybe you can do them now.”
Suddenly she walks across the room, her expression fierce with tenderness. She cups my cheeks and pulls my face down to hers. Her eyes are bright with tears.
“I know that you are not my child biologically. But there are so many things about you that remind me of my father. I know it’s because I passed on the things he taught me--his wisdom and his compassion and his capacity to forgive--to you. Thank you for saying that. My mother and your siblings think I’m selfish for selling the brownstone. If my father was still alive, he would have said what you just did. I raised you. Yes, maybe the way you respond to things is hardwired by DNA. But the way you manage those responses is what matters. You aren’t capable of deliberately hurting someone who is defenseless. Carter, you fought a lot in school, but you were fighting assholes who tripped girls and stole lunches from the theatre room. You are a good man.”
“I'm broken,” I say.
Her eyes fill with tears as she speaks to me. Her words seep into me; they’re just a few drops of certainty into an ocean of doubt, but I feel the effect of them instantly.
“We all are. But that’s called being alive.”
“I guess.” I shrug.
“Thanks for your support over the brownstone.” She says as I walk away.
“You loved him. We all know that. You deserve to have someone in your life. And unlike me, you have a track record of getting people to stick around for longer than a night,” I say and laugh to mask how vulnerable saying that aloud makes me feel.
Nothing gets past my mother, though. That look in her eyes is back.
“Oh, baby. It's amazing how soft your heart is under that unaffected exterior of yours. You fell so hard for her, so fast. Maybe this trip you two can work things out. There was so much stuff going on last year. Maybe now that you’re both a little removed from your grief--”
I put a finger on her lips to silence her.
“Mom, it was a week, hardly enough time to fall in love.”
“Are you kidding? I fell in love with your father in an hour.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s called infatuation.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m telling you, I walked out of that first lecture and called my mom and told her I’d met the man I was going to marry. We hadn’t even said hello.”
“I’m happy for you. But, it takes two to tango and Liz made her feelings clear.”
“Did she?” She raises an eyebrow and I decide that I’ve had enough.
“I gotta get dressed. My car should be here any minute.”
She sighs deeply. “Maybe you’re right. I could have misread things.”
Even though she’s only agreeing with me, I feel annoyed by her choosing this moment to lose hope, too.
I secretly liked her optimism about that situation. It allowed me a vicarious reprieve from my pessimistic view.
“The change of scene will be good.”
“It’s true. You’re a homebody in a city that doesn’t sleep. Winsome might be more your speed. Just don’t get any ideas about staying there.”
I walk her out and feel a tremendous sense of guilt for not telling her what I’ve found out about my brother. The PI got a hit on some names and said that three of them were last listed as living in Winsome. None of the names mean anything and none of them have a social media presence I can confirm. So, I’m headed down there tonight.
If there’s a chance that I have a sibling out there, I’m desperate to meet him. To see if we look alike. I’ve always envied Nadia and Jack for their similar laughs, and nearly identical smiles.
Excitement replaces my guilt. If it all works out, I’ll tell her about him. I just know the minute I say anything, she’ll ask me a million questions I can’t answer. And…I kind of want to have this to myself.
When we come out of the tunnel on my way to the airport, my phone buzzes with a voice mail. It’s from Mick.
“Hey man. Hope you get this before you catch your flight. I got another hit, and this one is a dead ringer. Top of my list, I think this could be him. He’s got an IG profile. I sent you the link. Check your IG DMs. Since you don’t follow me back, it’s in the request.”
I open the app and open my requests. I have hundreds. God, these are the days I miss my old life. Having an assistant to do this shit made life much easier.
I'm about to open the one from @PIMike when another handle catches my name.
@EWolfeWings.
Could it be?
I stare, frozen by indecision and surprise.
My finger hovers over the name and my heart feels like it’s attached to a highspeed motor. But, there’s a flare of hope in my gut, too. Maybe, just maybe, this trip back to Winsome is happening for more than just one reason.
It’s dated four months ago.
I let out the breath I’m holding and start to read.
Carter, I just heard about your father. I am so sorry. I haven’t ha
d my phone for six months. I’ve run into some trouble. No time to explain in detail, but if you get this, maybe we can figure out a way to call each other on here. I pray to God you haven’t given up on me… I miss you. So, so much. The days we spent together were the best of my life. Please write back.
I blow out the breath I was holding and sit down at the edge of my seat.
My ears are ringing. My blood rushes through my head at a million miles an hour.
Oh my God. She sent that months ago.
So, who sent that text?
Why has she not had a phone for six months?
With those questions ringing in my head, I go to the account it was sent from and for a second I’m sure I have the wrong profile. The woman in the profile picture is blonde. But there is no mistaking those eyes. It’s her.
There’s only one post and it’s less than a month old. It’s a picture of a young man. His blue eyes, the mirror of hers. This must be her brother. He’s seated at a table, awash in sunlight, smiling in surprise at the camera. Her post reads, “Blood of my blood. There is no space or time between us. Nothing can keep us apart. #LiveFreeOrDieTrying. I’ll miss you forever.”
I feel a pang of sympathy when I remember how her face lit up when she talked about her brother. She must have spent the year dealing with so much grief on top of whatever else is going on. Hungry for a glimpse of her, I look to see if she’s been tagged in anything.
Regret pierces the bubble of something that was starting to feel like happiness and it bursts. There’s a picture of her hand. A hand I’d recognize anywhere, encased in a man’s. With the caption, “She said yes” and the hashtags #DukeandLiz #Power couple.
Duke?
As in the guy she was with that night? The one who laughed while she drank a bottle of liquid Molly, took her phone, and didn’t bother to look for her when it started raining?
She’s engaged to that motherfucker?
Then I remember her telling me, in a vague but meaningful way, that his family was powerful. Maybe a girl like that, family pedigree was important. Maybe the revelations about my adoption…
I force myself to stop that train of thought. The only person I’ve yet to meet who is bothered by my adoption is me. Clearly, she just changed her mind.
It’s dated a month ago. Three months after her message asking for help. Did he step in when I failed to?
Does it even matter?
Once she knows who my biological parents are, who I am, there’s no way we could have been more than what we were.
I’ll avoid her when I’m there. Do what I need to do, find my brother, and leave.
With the same ruthless discipline that made me a success as a pianist, one that I haven’t summoned in months, I shove away the sentimental moment and press block.
I go back to my PI’s message and with my nerves back on high alert, but for completely different reasons this time, I press the link in his message.
Duke’s profile populates again.
I curse my big ass fingers and being forced to look at Liz’s engaged hand again.
I go back to my inbox, double check that I’m in the right conversation.
It goes to the same profile.
My blood runs cold.
I text my P.I.
“What was this guy’s name? I think you sent the wrong profile.”
His response is swift and damning.
“Duke Tremaine.”
THE STORY CONTINUES IN BETWEEN NOW AND HEARTBREAK.
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About the Author
Dylan Allen is a Texas girl with a serious case of wanderlust.
A self-proclaimed happily ever junkie, she loves creating stories where her characters chase their own happy endings.
When she isn’t writing or reading, eating or cooking, she and her family are planning their next adventure.
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Acknowledgments
This small note cannot possibly convey the depth of my gratitude, it is fathomless.
To my betas readers, Chele, Elizarey, Korrie, Sarah, and Weronika, you saved this story. It’s what it is because you pushed me to get it here. Thank you for everything.
To my tribe of author friends who walk this very unique path along side me, I’m glad to have you in my life and am grateful for your constant support.
Weronika - What a blessing you’ve turned out to be. Thank you for keeping me sane, for curing my PTSD and for being such a great friend, too.
To Sarah Ferguson you are amazing and I don’t know how you manage to keep your head on straight, but I think you are remarkable and I am so grateful to have you on my team.
To Jenn AKA The Watson, you are the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time. Social Butterfly PR is a dream to work with. But you, my dear unicorn of a friend, are the magic that makes it so. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for keeping me calm and thank you for sharing your unbelievably big heart with me. I love you.
Tina - I don’t know how to express how I feel about you and our relationship. Nothing suffices. But I love you, I’m grateful for you and I will be clutching the bumper until my fingers fall off. Diet Cokes and Turkey Legs go so well together, right? Who knew?
To my Day Dreamers and My Dream Team, I LOVE you ladies! You make my day, every single day! You inspire me to keep writing and I am so thankful for the parts of your day that you spend with me.
To all of the blogs who have tirelessly and graciously read and then promoted my work— you are my heroes. I couldn’t do this without you.
To the readers who buy my books, who email, message and tweet me! Thank you SO much for everything. You’re amazing and I write with your wind at my back every day!
To my family—my parents, my sisters, my brothers-in-law and my cousins—you are my TRIBE! Thank you for being wonderful and loving.
And to my husband and my children. You are the heartbeats of my life. Thank you for inspiring me, loving me and supporting me. I love you all more than anything else in the universe!
Love,
Me.
Also by DYLAN Allen
Symbols of Love Series of Standalones:
Rise
Remember
Release
Rivers Wilde Series of Standalones:
The Legacy
The Legend
Complete Standalones:
The Sun and Her Star
Thicker Than Water
I love to hear from readers! email me at [email protected]
Are you on Facebook? Come join my private reader group, Dylan’s Day Dreamer. It’s where I spend most of my time online and it’s a lot of fun! Click here.