Hold On To Me

by Taylor Holloway

  Rosie had been blushing and stuttering and broadcasting loud and clear that she was every bit as interested in me as I was in her. Every time she flashed a glance at me, I could feel it. She was telling me without telling me that she wanted me to touch her, to make a move, to say something to cut through the awkwardness and get to the point.

  But I never got to the point as we stared at each other in my guest room. Instead, I found myself gazing up at the ceiling half an hour later and wondering what Rosie was doing across the hall. Was she asleep? Brushing her hair? Was she reading on her phone? Texting? Doing homework? Was she wondering what I was doing, twenty feet and two closed doors away?

  I couldn’t remember ever feeling so overwhelmed and disarmed by a pretty face. I halfway resented Rosie for doing it to me. It seemed unfair somehow.

  I found myself daydreaming about her more than was probably healthy. Was she a virgin? I wouldn’t be surprised if she was. I wondered how far she’d ever gone with a guy. Had she ever even been properly kissed before? Touched before? Had a guy ever gone down on her? Had a man ever made her come? I could. I could be the first.

  I shook my head and covered my face with a pillow. I was officially a pervert. She was nineteen. My body was telling me that it was no obstacle, and my heart was being persuaded, but my mind knew better.

  I remembered being nineteen perfectly well, even if it was a near decade in the rearview mirror. It had been an extremely frustrating and exciting age. I’d been going to college, working my tail off, and wondering when my life was going to start to feel less out of control. I remember wondering desperately when I’d feel like I was halfway in control of anything. I remembered wondering when I would start to feel like I actually knew what I was doing. The sad truth was that the answer, at least in my case, was never. I was still just stringing the days together, trying my best, and pretending that I knew what I was doing. At almost thirty, I was beginning to suspect that everyone else did the same.

  No one really knows what they’re doing. We’re all just pretending. Luckily for me, I’m pretty good at pretending. It had gotten me through college, law school, the horrific and tragic death of my college girlfriend, my brother’s addiction—it was safe to say I was a champion of pretending to have my shit together at this point. I’d fooled almost everyone. Sometimes I even managed to fool myself. My experience had prepared me well, for the most part. Unfortunately, none of it had prepared me to fall instantly into lust with my boss’ teenage daughter.

  Since I couldn’t let myself go knock on Rosie’s door and invite her into my bedroom, I tried to distract myself. I planned. I thought about how I would go about getting Rosie’s apartment livable again. I opened my laptop and read the response from Rosie’s landlord and started composing an extremely mean, legalese-heavy reply. A text from my brother roused me from the haze of threatening legal action about twenty minutes later.

  Ian Conroe [12:57 a.m.]: You up?

  Ryan Conroe [12:57 a.m.]: Seriously?

  Ian Conroe [1:oo a.m.]: Thought so. Hey, so do you think I should ask out Victoria Priestly?

  Victoria, who I guess qualified as an ex-of-a-friend, was trouble. The leggy singer had cheated on not one, but two people that I knew and liked. She was an objectively verified, known cheater. Victoria was also a talented musician. A talented musician and an even more talented heart-breaker. Her indie band had recently fallen apart, and she was now headlining a new as-yet-unnamed group that also happened to include my unfortunate brother Ian as it’s drummer. I didn’t hate the woman or anything—I owned her albums and thought she was clever and funny—but I didn’t want her anywhere near my brother, either.

  Ryan Conroe [1:00 a.m.]: No. Definitely not. She’s bad news.

  Ian Conroe [1:01 a.m.]: She is not. She’s super hot.

  Ryan Conroe [1:02 a.m.]: I’m not debating that she’s hot, but she is trouble. Why are you even asking me if you aren’t going to listen?

  Ian Conroe [1:02 a.m.]: I’m listening. I’m just not agreeing.

  Ryan Conroe [1:02 a.m.]: Well, for whatever it’s worth—and I understand it isn’t much—I don’t think you should ask Victoria Priestly out. She’s human kryptonite.

  Ian Conroe [1:03 a.m.]: I think I’m gonna ask her out.

  Of course, he was. Ian never learned. He never listened. No matter how good my advice was, no matter how well-reasoned, it flew right over his stubborn head as usual. The man was on a one-way collision course with disaster.

  Ryan Conroe [1:04 a.m.]: Just don’t let her be the reason you relapse.

  Ian had finally, finally sought treatment for his raging alcoholism and gotten sober. He’d been doing really well. If Victoria was the reason he relapsed, I would find some way to wreck her. And given the proper motivation, I was vindictive enough, clever enough, and well-connected enough to do it. Perhaps reminding Victoria of that was not a bad idea…

  Ian Conroe [1:04 a.m.]: Ok. Ugh. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  Ryan Conroe [1:05 a.m.]: It isn’t you I don’t have confidence in. It’s her.

  Ian Conroe [1:06 a.m.]: What, you think she’s going to force-feed me booze? Like a foie gras?

  I wouldn’t put it past her. She admitted to being a party animal. Hell, she reveled in her bad reputation. I’d learned the hard way to hate alcohol. Anyone who loved it as much as Victoria made me nervous by definition.

  Ryan Conroe [1:06 a.m.]: The foie gras is just the distended, fatty liver of the goose. You mean a goose destined to become foie gras.

  Ian Conroe [1:06 a.m.]: Pedantic much?

  Ryan Conroe [1:06 a.m.]: Please just be careful with Vicky.

  Ian Conroe [1:07 a.m.]: Oh man, she really hates being called Vicky.

  Ryan Conroe [1:07 a.m.]: All the more reason to call her that.

  Ian Conroe [1:07 a.m.]: You know I’m the older brother, right? It’s my job to boss you around.

  Ryan Conroe [1:07 a.m.]: Feel free.

  Ian Conroe [1:08 a.m.]: I can’t. You’re too perfect all the time. I never get to give you reasonable advice. What am I gonna tell you? Take your vitamins?

  Ryan Conroe [1:09 a.m.]: I take my vitamins.

  Ian Conroe [1:10 a.m.]: Exactly. It’s no fun if you have no real problems.

  Ryan Conroe [1:10 a.m.]: You couldn’t be more wrong. Especially not today.

  Ian Conroe [1:11 a.m.]: ??? Do tell.

  Ryan Conroe [1:11 a.m.]: You want to boss me around? Fine. How about you tell me why it’s a really bad idea not to pursue my boss’ nineteen-year-old daughter that’s staying with me tonight. Tell me not to go knock on her door right now.

  My phone rang two seconds later. I picked it up reluctantly.

  “What the fuck, man?” Ian sounded way more excited than he ought to be. I chalked it up to him never getting to give me advice. Well, it was his lucky day.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. “I know, Ian. Trust me, I know how bad this sounds.”

  “Nineteen?” He was practically squealing with laughter. I could all but imagine him rubbing his hands together excitedly and hopping up and down. It had been years since I’d done something so stupid.

  “One-nine. Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s much better than one-seven.”

  “And significantly less illegal.”

  Ian snorted into the phone. “And this, um, nubile nineteen-year-old creature… she’s staying with you?”

  I just hated the word nubile. It sounded extremely gross. Kind of like the word moist. I cringed. I was such a pervert.

  “Yep,” I choked out.

  “In your bed?” His voice was curiously neutral.

  I winced a second time. “What? No. In my house.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.” My voice was halfway muffled by the pillow I’d laid back over my face in shame, but apparently Ian could still hear me since he laughed again.

  “I’ll bet it is. What’s her name?”

  “Rosie Ross.”

&nb
sp; “Does this Rosie know you have the hots for her?”

  “She’d have to have Hellen Keller’s powers of perception if she didn’t.”

  “Nice. Can I give you my sage, older-brother advice now?”

  “Don’t you want to hear the worst part?”

  “Oh my god yes.” He laughed some more. “There’s a worst part? I mean, worse than you being into your boss’ teenage daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “So, I mentioned that she’s my boss’ daughter, right?”

  “Yeah. You said that.” He really didn’t seem to care about that part very much.

  “Well, he’s actually asked me to do him a favor concerning his beloved daughter Rosie.”

  “Is that favor deflowering her? Because that’s a really weird fucking favor to ask of you.” He was snickering again. It was probably good he wasn’t sitting next to me, because I really wanted to hit him.

  “Of course not. Don’t interrupt.”

  “Sorry, this is just really exciting for me. Go on.”

  I sighed deeply, feeling depraved and cruel. “He wants me to convince her that she should go to law school rather than pursuing a career in music. He wants me to crush her dreams.”

  “He what?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well you obviously aren’t going to do that.” Ian’s voice was resolute.

  I paused. “I’m not?”

  “No! That’s bullshit, and you know it. She’s nineteen. The last time I checked that’s a legal adult. She’s free to make her own decisions about what she wants to do with her life.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But nothing,” Ian replied. He sounded as firm and serious as he ever did, which wasn’t very, but it still made an impression. “You don’t get to crush her dreams. You, Ryan Alexander Conroe, don’t have the right. The world will do that anyway. If you think about it for two seconds, you’ll know I’m right.”

  I sighed again. He was using my full name, just like our mom did when she was irritated. “But what if she’s not cut out for the music business? What if it does eat her up and spit her out? Wouldn’t it be better to prevent that? Put her on a different path?”

  “She’ll learn those lessons for herself,” he told me. I could almost see him frowning at me, although he was clear across town. “She’s a grown woman, man. If you like her then you should respect her enough to let her make her own decisions about what she wants.”

  Ian was making sense. It hurt to admit it, since making sense was usually my job, but he was. So, I changed the subject.

  “That doesn’t solve my immediate problem,” I complained.

  “Your boner problem?”

  I winced again. “I’d prefer if you not call it that, but yeah.”

  “My advice on that is same.”

  “That I should be honest and let her make her own decisions?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But she’s nineteen man. I’m—”

  “Twenty-nine,” Ian interrupted. “I know. I remember you being born.” His voice was long-suffering. And insufferable.

  I shook my head although of course he couldn’t see it. “You were three. There’s no way you remember—”

  “I remember!” Ian interrupted again. “I remember being really, really pissed off that you weren’t a girl. I wanted a little sister. Instead I got your bossy ass.”

  “I could have been a bossy girl,” I suggested.

  “I’m sure you would have been. But listen, give the woman some credit. She’s not a child. Don’t treat her like one and it’ll work out fine.”

  Ian always made everything sound so easy. The truth was far more complicated. Even if I didn’t treat Rosie like a child, and I didn’t want to, it didn’t change the facts. She was too young for me. She deserved someone her own age, someone who could experience the same care-free college days along with her. Those days were gone for me. They’d been cut short by a car accident and the death of the only woman I thought I’d ever want.

  Even after the conversation ended, and I was once again alone with my indecision, I felt no better. Rosie was two closed doors away from me, but there might as well have been an ocean between us. I was no closer to figuring anything out.

  8

  Rosie

  I awoke in a strange place. It took me a few long moments to realize where I was and remember why I was there. Oh right. The ceiling was raining in my apartment, so I called my dad and he sent Ryan to help me. Ryan took me home with him. Now I was sleeping in his guest room until my apartment was livable again.

  Ryan’s home was nothing like my own. For instance, in Ryan’s house, I couldn’t hear Sasquatch stomping around upstairs like he was testing the integrity of the floor joists. I couldn’t hear the pipes whistling and banging as they struggled to deliver water to tenants. I couldn’t hear my neighbor Maria’s colicky twins crying in the next apartment. I couldn’t hear Rebecca, my downstairs neighbor, practicing the oboe or whatever the hell it was that made a dying-duck noise in the early morning. Here, all I heard was the pre-dawn wind knocking branches against the window and the twittering of little birds outside.

  I stretched out in the bed and stared around myself. It was early, just before seven a.m. Last semester I’d had an eight a.m. math class and it had trained me to rise early. Now, even on a Sunday, I was incapable of sleeping in. I itched to text Trina, but I knew she was still probably asleep.

  Ryan was probably still asleep too. This early on a Sunday, anyone reasonable would be. I tiptoed down the stairs in my pajamas as quietly as I could. Downstairs, I felt a bit less nervous about waking Ryan. I peeked around at my surroundings with interest. I hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the house the night before, but now I could spy unsupervised.

  And spy I did. In the hallway, there were a number of signed photographs. It took me a second to fully digest the faces and realize that I was looking at a rock and roll hall of fame. The names were all household ones. How the hell did Ryan have a signed picture of himself shaking hands with Bono? Or getting chummy with Eddie Vedder? Or one of Stevie Nicks giving him a kiss? My favorite was definitely the one of Dolly Parton gesturing at her ample bosoms while a much-younger Ryan stared bashfully at the ground. I snapped a picture of it with my phone.

  My father was the senior, founding partner of one of the most famous Hollywood talent agencies. He called himself the ‘lawyer to the stars’. It made sense then, if Ryan worked for him, that he’d know a star or two (not to mention his brother’s connections). But my father focused on film, not music. Was it possible that Ryan was a music agent? The possibilities danced in my minds’ eye. He was smart, sexy, and a talent agent? What were the chances of that?

  But the thought of asking Ryan for help made me feel surprisingly insecure. I’d been trying, and failing, to get representation for myself. The problem was that I didn’t have any connections outside of those my father could provide. I’d played a few coffee houses, a charity event or two, but breaking into the business wasn’t exactly easy. Knowing someone like Ryan could change everything for me.

  Or maybe it would change nothing, because he wasn’t here to help my career. He was only interested in me (if interested is even the right term), because my father asked him to bail me out of my drowning apartment. Despite the way he looked at me, Ryan probably only thought of me as his boss’ daughter. Even if he was interested in me physically, and he did at least seem to be, he probably didn’t know, or care, that I wanted to sing for a living. There was no chance that I’d be the one to bring up the subject, that was for sure.

  It was with feelings of insecurity and frustration that I threw open Ryan’s fridge and realized that the man had no food. Seriously. There were a few eggs, some milk, and almost nothing else in the refrigerator. He could hide the fact that he was a bachelor by purchasing a pre-decorated house, but his fridge told the real story. It seemed that Ryan—hot shot lawyer to apparently every big-name
musician—lived off of bagel bites, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The pantry was almost totally empty as well, unless you counted junk food. He had a lot of junk food.

  But in-between the microwavable trash and junk food, Ryan had a small amount of real food. I found eggs, flour, milk, baking powder, baking soda, butter, salt, and maple syrup. That meant he was about to have pancakes. I dumped the ingredients in a bowl, stirred, and heated up a pan. I was halfway through my whisking when I found myself relaxing.

  Cooking has always been soothing for me. It’s almost like therapy, or maybe more like meditation. I’m not an amazing cook, but I make do. It doesn’t matter what I’m making or how well I’m making it though; it’s the act of cooking itself that makes me feel better. It reminds me of my mom, and of being a little girl standing on a chair over a pot while she showed me what to do.

  Soon, I found myself humming as I drizzled the batter over the hot pan. The tune came from nowhere, but I didn’t fight it. Ryan was upstairs. He’d never hear me.

  9

  Ryan

  I woke up to the sound of Rosie singing and the smell of something delicious being cooked downstairs. Like someone had cast a spell on me, I drifted out of bed and down the stairs in a trance. Usually it takes me eight hits on the snooze button to wake up. Not today. Apparently, all it took to cut through my bear-like nightly hibernation routine was a beautiful woman singing and cooking for me.

  The night before, I dreamed about Jen. I’d been sure that it would be Rosie who would haunt my dreams, flashing seamlessly between soft vulnerability and imperious quips all while being frustratingly, unbelievably sexy, but it wasn’t. It was Jen who appeared there. It had been a long time since I’d seen her in my dreams. I appreciated the visit. It was always nice to see her.

  I wondered what Jen would say about me lusting after a teenager. She’d almost certainly find it hilarious, just like Ian did. She’d be jealous too, of course, but I think Jen would give me a pass considering that she was dead. I smirked at myself. Jen would not only think it was hilarious that I was attracted to Rosie, she’d tell me to go for it. I could almost hear her saying that if the genders were reversed, I wouldn’t be thinking this way. It was just my ‘latent sexism’ and ‘societal conditioning’ that had me hesitating.