“Mr. Berny gave it to me. Though he’d probably deny it if you asked him.” Mr. Berny has been the church’s custodian for almost twenty years now. “The night my stepdad kicked me out, I drove straight here. I figured if I had to sleep in my car, at least it would be somewhere I knew was well lit.” He leads me between two of the buildings and down a hidden sidewalk. “Mr. Berny tapped on my window at five-thirty the next morning. He took one look at all my things stuffed in the back and told me to get up and use the bathrooms before anyone got here. I later found this key in my duffel bag.” Bryson pulls silver metal from his back pocket. “For a week, I’d wait until all the staff went home, then let myself in to shower and crash on one of the Shop couches.”
I feel relieved to know Bryson didn’t spend a week in his truck, though it pierces my heart to imagine him sneaking inside the building just to use the bathroom.
He slides the key into the lock and pushes the door open. “Voilà!”
“You’re telling me that they haven’t changed the locks on this building in over a decade?”
“Nope. Only the security code.” He mashes four buttons on the keypad by the door. “But I have friends in important places, so I know that, too.”
Bryson closes the door behind us and turns on the lights down the hall and into the old youth room.
I walk ahead of him, eager, terrified, excited, and enter the room that consumed most of my teenage years. They’ve painted it all black. The walls, the floors, the stage. A collage of old records covers an entire wall, giving it a retro vibe I admittedly kind of like.
Bryson settles next to me and rests his forearm on the doorframe. “It’s pretty cool, huh?”
“Of course you’d like it. It’s your signature color.”
He grins and slides into the room. “You’re just jealous that a generation half my age wants to be like me.” He winks, smug and arrogant, and darn if it doesn’t make me swoon just a little. He tosses the foosball into the air and catches it. “You up for a game?”
“Heck yeah. But a warning . . . I can be ruthless.”
“Can you?”
“Yep. Cam found this old game store in college. They’d let you pay a cover and then play board games, pool, and foosball all night long.” I take a spot on the other side of the table. “You have no idea how many free dinners I got that month.”
Bryson’s smile falters. “Only a month, huh?”
“Yeah. Cam’s the worst at strategy and doesn’t have the best attention span, so his desire to keep getting beat waned pretty fast.” I drop the ball through the serve feed and quickly try to match Bryson’s movements. “We later found this coffee shop that had open-mic nights. That became our go-to.” I move my goalie a half inch too far to the right, and the ball rushes past into the goal. “Dang it.” I look up and see Bryson smirking at me.
“You said the wager is dinner, right?”
“Not if you keep slamming in goals.” I slide the ball in again, determined to talk less this time and pay more attention. I focus and spin, move, spin again, and barely get past his goalie for a score. “Yes!” I hop up and down, fully embracing my inner teen.
“You willing to wager dinner now?” There’s challenge in his eyes, and I instinctively know it’s about more than this simple game. Yet at the same time I find myself wanting to play along. Really just wanting to do anything that feels as good as I always seem to feel lately when Bryson’s around.
“Now . . . you’re on.”
We go back and forth, each taking turns scoring on the other, until Bryson makes a play that challenges all rules of physics and scores.
“No way!” I scream, staring at the winning point sitting in my goal. “That was an impossible shot.”
He lifts both arms above his head in victory. “The impossible is what I do.”
I pick up the ball and throw it softly at his chest.
“Ouch.” He rubs playfully at the spot. “Talk about a sore loser.”
“Oh please. I didn’t throw it that hard.” I lean over and pick up the ball from the floor. “So what’s next? Pool? Ping-Pong? You have to give me a chance to redeem myself.”
“I think we need some music first.” Bryson’s mood has changed, much like mine has in the last twenty minutes. He’s energetic, funny, and a version of himself I didn’t even know existed. “What are you in the mood for?” He connects his Bluetooth to the sound system receiver and scrolls through his playlists. “I have just about every genre you could possibly want.”
I glance at the stage, where an acoustic guitar sits ready for just this moment. “Why don’t you play that song you’ve been working on? The one Bentley liked so much.”
Insecurity is an odd look for Bryson, but it’s etched all over his face with that request. As if I’m not just asking him to play a song, but inviting myself into his life, his hurts, and past that shield of armor he’s carried so proudly since we were kids.
“I still don’t have any lyrics.”
“So? It’s beautiful, even without all that.”
He hesitates, then concedes, though his gait around the sound booth looks more like a man about to face a firing squad, not play for an eager fan.
I pull a chair close and watch as Bryson slides the guitar strap over his torso and sits on one of the stage stools. He checks the tuning and, when satisfied, begins his first strum.
Strings fill the room, enveloping me with the rich sound. He changes chords, speeds up, then slows again, all while humming in that dark, silky voice of his. Then he moves to a new part, one he hadn’t written the last time I heard him play, and my heart seizes at the agony of the sound. It’s not angry like so many of his other songs. It’s pain, real and authentic. It’s a place one only finds after the rage is gone.
He hits the side of the guitar, then strums, creating a tempo that’s unique and hypnotic. And then it settles back into rich, lengthy chords. If peace were a song, this last part is what it would sound like. He slows as it ends, pulling me along, tearing away any defenses I may have left. And then the room goes silent.
Bryson runs a hand through his hair and smiles tentatively at me.
“That was . . . incredible.” More than incredible. It’s a completely new sound for him. “Have you written more like this one?”
He shrugs. “Ballads don’t make rock stars.”
I think back to the night before. The energy and spark and sheer violence that came pouring off that stage and know he’s right. Still, it seems like a waste that his song may never be heard by anyone but me.
“What’s it feel like?”
He sets the guitar back in its stand. “What do you mean?”
“To be onstage. To have the whole crowd screaming at you like they did.”
“Want me to show you?” He stands and waves for me to come forward.
I glance around the room, confused. “How can you show me without people?”
“Come here and you’ll see.” There’s that spark in his voice again. That edge between daring me to step out of my comfort zone and a certainty that I won’t.
I hop up onstage, more for myself than to prove something to him. “Okay. I’m here.”
He smirks and gently clasps my arms, turning me until we both face the empty chairs throughout the room. My breath catches when I feel him press into my back. “Close your eyes.”
I do as he says, trying to steel my rising pulse. Music begins playing around me, pouring from every hidden speaker, quietly at first and then louder, until I’m sure he’s turned his phone all the way up. “Let everything else out of your head and feel the music.”
Maybe it’s the darkness my closed lids have created or the way his chest vibrates against my back, but Bryson suddenly turns into that captivating man onstage. Confident, demanding, and so incredibly hypnotic that I can barely breathe.
“Let the chords dance over your skin.” The tip of his nose brushes against the side of my cheek. Intentional, unintentional, I don’t know, but I melt
into his body, our shared heat penetrating through the thin material of my shorts. His fingers skim my skin, and it’s such a sensational tickling that I begin to wonder if it’s the music making my body hum or just the tender way his body has melded into mine, like he wants to experience every sensation I’m feeling.
“Feed off the drums, the beat slamming against your chest.” Bryson angles his head, his mouth so close to my earlobe that his lips graze the sensitive skin as he speaks. Pleasing goose bumps form along my neck as his breath dances against the surface. “Now picture the crowd. Imagine that pulse of energy that soars from them to us and fills the air with power so intoxicating, it drives out exhaustion, hunger, thirst, whatever, and makes you just want to play until your fingers bleed.”
I suddenly feel the same way about Bryson’s breath on my skin. I want more contact. Want his arms to wrap around me and his lips to graze my jawline.
And then he stops talking but doesn’t let go. I breathe in when he does, out at the same time. I don’t know how long we stay there, it can only be seconds, but I feel as if we’re journeying to an alternate universe where Bryson and I together might actually make sense.
He backs away, and my body suddenly turns cold.
I spin around, feeling like I’ve somersaulted into a world I’ve never seen in real color. “Wow.”
“I know. It’s addicting . . .” He glances at the floor and back up again, this time with a smile that’s soft enough to send an army of tingles down my spine. “It’s like an escape from every part of the world, including my own head.”
“Well, you’re lucky. I’ve spent the last month trying to find something that can get me that kind of escape, and being inside the Shop tonight is the first time I’ve even come close.”
“Why do you think that is?”
I fiddle with the microphone cord. “Because it reminds me of life before the divorce. Before my dad abandoned our family. Before my mom started dating. All of that.” My voice thickens with the anger that always seems to come when I think of my father and the bomb he detonated in my life. “That probably sounds really dumb coming from someone my age.”
“Not at all. I have a place just like that. On the hard weeks, I go out there more often than I care to admit.” He glances at the walls, the ceiling, and the couch that looks very similar to the one we had when we were in high school, and then back at me. “It makes sense that Grace Community would bring you peace. You always did fit here.”
He says it like he didn’t, and I guess I can see why he would feel that way. Bryson has a way about him that makes you want to know the deepest parts and yet feel certain he’ll never share them with you. It makes it easier not to try. I know. I didn’t bother for most of our lives, but that’s not the case anymore. “Is your place nearby?”
“Somewhat. Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t have anywhere to be right now, and if you don’t either, I thought maybe you could take me there.”
Hesitation comes again, along with the same insecurity he showed when I asked him to play for me. “It’s nothing special.”
I doubt that. If it wasn’t important, he wouldn’t look so afraid. “If you’re willing to show me, I’d really like to go.”
He comes closer, but there’s restraint in his movement. A stiffness in his stride. A holding back. “Why?”
“Because it’s important to you, which makes it important to me.” I glance down at his hand. The same one I held the night before. I look back up at him and wait to see if he’ll open up or if he’ll bolt like he did the last time we shared a moment of intimacy.
Of course, last time I was drunk, and he was being a gentleman. This time I’m one-hundred-percent sober.
“You should know something about me.” His eyes burn into mine and I see a hundred questions behind them. “I don’t easily let people in.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” I smirk, trying to clear the heaviness that’s fallen between us.
Bryson will have none of it. “I’m serious here.” He rakes back his hair, hesitating. I know with that small movement he’s struggling to give me what I’m asking. “I’m an all-or-nothing guy, Darcy. I can’t exist on the surface. I’m not programmed that way.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because if we take this step. If I take this step with you, everything’s going to change. There are some doors that don’t close again once they’re opened.”
My heart does the same fluttering it seems to do more and more when in Bryson’s presence. Heat creeps up my neck and flushes my face. I don’t know what he’s asking of me, but I know I want to say yes, especially if behind that door is the man I’m only just starting to really see.
twenty-two
When Bryson admitted to having a special place, I was certain it would be something related to music. Never would I have guessed that it would be a baseball complex.
Bryson parks his truck, and I pull in right next to him and cut the engine. The parking lot that can easily hold two hundred cars is empty, and the sun is beginning its slow descent to the horizon. I exit my truck and wait for Bryson to meet me on the sidewalk. He seems rooted in place, and I wonder if maybe I asked too much of him this time.
Finally, his door creaks open and his leg appears. He’s obviously in no rush to start this tour, as it takes three times the normal length to completely emerge from the vehicle.
“You play baseball?”
He shifts on his feet, glancing down for a moment. “I did . . . a long time ago.”
We walk side by side up the long sidewalk separating two different baseball fields. A concession shack waits at the end, its window covered in wood and locked tight. There are remnants of an active Saturday in and around the trash cans, but not a soul lingers now. It would feel eerie if not for Bryson next to me, and I find myself inching closer as we get deeper into the heart of the complex.
He still hasn’t said anything, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to fill the silence or let him think. The whole experience seems to be new for both of us.
“This is it,” he says when we reach the farthest field. It’s smaller than the others, the bases closer. He walks through the nearest dugout and onto the field, me close behind. “I played here when I was six.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling the air around us. “Even now, the smell of the clay dirt and that touch of hot breeze on my neck brings me back to that spring.” He glances my way and smiles. “It’s the last time in my life that I remember feeling completely secure.”
I picture him as a little boy in tiny cleats and a baseball cap, his dark curly hair poking out under the brim. “What position did you play?”
“Dirt digger.” He laughs out of nowhere and grabs my hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I have to jog to keep up with him, until we’re standing on the right side of the field where the dirt gives way to a big stretch of grass that, upon closer inspection, is mostly weeds and the kind of stickers that will cling to your socks and never let go.
“This is what I’d do, every game.” He squats down and runs his fingers through the hardened red soil.
“What happened if a ball came your way?”
“It never did. Kids from all over the field would descend on the ball like ants on a jelly bean. There wasn’t any point in trying to be one of the many.” He stands and slaps his hands together to brush off the dirt. “Honestly, I thought the game was pretty boring.”
“If you didn’t like playing, why is this your favorite place?”
“Same reason you like to sit in the playground at Grace Community. The field reminds me of before. Before my stepdad came around, before I was old enough to realize I was never going to have a father.” He stares off toward the dugout and words fade into silence. I see the struggle, his search for the apathy he’s always painted on his face. It’s beyond his grasp now. “I had the best coach.” His voice turns soft, nostalgic. “Coach Tucker, but we all called him Tuck.”
I step closer and gently touch his back. “Tell me about him.”
A tortured smile pulls at his lips. “He was kind and chubby. I remember because my mom has always been super thin, and when he’d pick me up, it’d feel completely different, like being held by pillows.” He turns and my hand falls away. “He was in love with my mom, poor guy.”
“She didn’t love him back?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, but that didn’t keep her from leading him on. She liked being adored, and he certainly adored her and me.” His voice catches, and the same anger that flows through each of his songs wraps around every word. “Until Charlie, he was the only example of a father I’d ever known, and she shattered his heart.”
“What happened?”
“She met my stepdad.” He pauses, a deep breath filling his chest, his nostrils flaring. “And because she didn’t want to ruin their budding relationship by having me tag along, she kept me a secret and used Tuck as a fill-in babysitter whenever she’d have a date. Only she didn’t call it a date. Mom told Tuck she’d decided to go back to school, so he was very understanding whenever she needed to study.”
I flinch at the cruelty. “That’s terrible.”
“She’s a shrewd woman, my mom. And now that I know my stepdad like I do, she was probably right to keep me a secret. He would never have willingly raised another man’s child.” I hear the disgust in his voice and feel equally sickened. “Meanwhile, Tuck and I got closer and closer. He even brought me to pick out the ring. We both thought we were one yes away from being a family.”
I cross my arms against my chest, my heart squeezing as if it can already feel the heartbreak that’s coming in this story.
“He asked her to marry him on a Friday night. By Sunday, Tuck was out of our lives and I was meeting the man who stole my mom away. A man who only stuck around because Mom was already pregnant with Zoe.” Bryson sighs. “I guess in some ways, the two of us never had a chance. From the very beginning, we both resented the other’s existence.” His voice catches, and the pain in it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and kiss away all the hurts he’s ever suffered.
Love and the Silver Lining Page 18