Just Sing: An Enemies-to-Lovers Rock Star Romance (Just 5 Guys Book 1)

by Selena

  My knees nearly buckled with relief. I couldn’t face Brody right now. I wasn’t ready to be a mature adult if that meant pretending I’d never loved Brody or even pretending he didn’t affect me anymore.

  Mom’s grip tightened on my arm, and an ache formed in my throat and behind my eyes. I held onto her arm like it was a life raft, knowing she was holding me up when I couldn’t hold myself up, that she was my strength when I had none. Mom wasn’t perfect, and she made excuses for Brody because she loved him and hoped we’d end up together. When I needed her, though, she was one hundred percent on my side, by my side, walking me across a room to say goodbye to a dying man like it was what she’d been put on this earth to do.

  People could say what they wanted about Southern women and traditions, but my mother was the strongest person I’d ever met. Strong enough to hold up her daughter when her world was shattering, say goodbye to a man who had been like family, and look like a true lady while doing it.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, even though I knew my mother didn’t need or crave acknowledgement for doing what she did. She knew exactly what it took to walk with her head held high in this world that wanted to stomp her into the ground.

  When we reached the bed, I took Othal’s hand. It seemed only yesterday I’d come to see him in this very bed in this very living room with Brody, when we were setting out for Chicago together. How had so much happened in such a short time? My whole life had begun and ended since then. And now another life was ending, and another beginning somewhere nearby. All of it happened without me, regardless of my feelings or presence. Even without me, Brody was a person, having his own troubles and triumphs.

  His world would keep spinning without me. But mine had already stopped turning.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat holding Othal’s hand, tears spilling down my cheeks. I wished I could ask him what to do, how to keep living without the person you loved. He’d lost a wife, had lived for fifteen years without her. How did he keep walking across a world barren of her love? How did he keep walking across a world that no longer turned?

  I knew I should be happy to have a young and healthy body, but already, I felt old, as if the best of my life was already over and time was slipping by, faster and faster, out of my control. And the more time passed, the further I was from happiness, from those months and years I’d spent with Brody, the only time I’d felt truly alive. Now everyone was here to say goodbye, to remember Othal’s life. To mourn the death of his earthly body. No one mourned the deaths that took place silently, inside the heart.

  When I finally stood, everyone had left me alone in the room with Othal. I bent and kissed his pale, liver-spotted forehead. “Safe travels, old man,” I whispered, smoothing away one of my tears that had fallen on his crinkly skin. “I love you. See you on the other side.”

  With one final sniff, I composed myself and turned to go.

  Uma stood in the doorway of the living room, watching me.

  “Hey.” She hooked her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans, shoulders slouching as she regarded me coolly. We were alone. I was stuck talking to Uma. Trapped in my nightmare.

  “Hi,” I said.

  We stood in silence for a minute, avoiding each other’s eyes. Uma was wearing a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt under a puffy vest. She didn’t look like she’d been pregnant at all. She looked like a lost kid who didn’t know what to say. But her body looked better now, not so sickly. Like she’d probably looked when she hooked up with Brody.

  “How’s…the baby?” I asked.

  Uma shrugged. “She cries a lot.”

  I couldn’t ask what I really wanted to ask, how was Brody taking it? Was he falling in love with Uma when he saw her cradling that baby, his baby, feeding it and loving it as much as he did? What was it like to share something so momentous as the whole of life with him? Had they gotten a DNA test?

  I heard a little mewl of a cry from somewhere close by, the kitchen it sounded like, and all I wanted to do was run out of the house and keep on running, leave all this behind. It was too much, too awful, to see Brody with someone else, already with a family, when I couldn’t even make it through one date with another man.

  “What have you been up to?” Uma asked when I didn’t respond.

  I couldn’t exactly tell her the truth, that I’d run away to New York to nurse my broken heart, to listen to Adele and bawl my eyes out while wearing sweatpants for two weeks straight and eating more ice cream than anyone had the right to do. That I’d overstayed my welcome at my cousin’s apartment until she set me up on a terrible date to drive me home, knowing no guy would measure up to Brody Villines, no matter how much money he made or what kind of wedding he could give me.

  “I went to New York for a month,” I offered.

  “No shit?” Uma said, nodding her head and looking impressed. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. What’s it like?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “You know. It’s a city.”

  “Damn,” Uma said. “I wish I could trade places with you.”

  You and me both, I thought.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “Well, we moved in here. Did you know that? To help take care of Othal.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, so Brody does that a lot. I mean, it’s his grandpa, I never knew him. So, I stay out of the way. And then there’s Osceola.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, that’s the baby,” Uma said. “Lots of changing shitty diapers, getting puked on. Glamourous stuff, let me tell ya.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just nodded.

  “Hey, you want to meet her?” Uma said, hooking her thumb back towards the kitchen. “I mean, she’s not very interesting. I’ve pretty much gone over everything already. Pooping, puking, crying. Oh, and she sleeps. But you can look at her if you want. She’s kind of squishy looking, but she’s not hideous or anything.”

  I couldn’t tell if there was hope in Uma’s voice, but I couldn’t shed my upbringing. If someone asked you to meet their baby, or their dying grandfather, or their comatose cousin, you smiled and said, “Sure, I’d love to.”

  So, that’s what I said.

  With another shrug, Uma turned and sauntered into the kitchen. I trailed after her, a knot of dread turning my insides to lead. Brody was sitting in a large wooden rocking chair, which had definitely not been there the last time I was in this kitchen. He was holding a little bundle in his lap, his arm curled lovingly around her, while he held a bottle with his other hand. The chair rocked gently back and forth as he hummed softly, smiling down at the thing with a look that shattered my heart all over again.

  I knew in that moment I had done the right thing. The right thing for him, for the baby, for Uma. Nothing that made someone look that happy could be wrong. He stared at the baby with this look of awestruck wonder, like it was the most beautiful being to ever grace the earth with its presence. Which, to him, it obviously was.

  Uma cleared her throat, and he looked up, his eyes blinking us into focus, as if he’d gone into a world where we didn’t exist. I had the distinct impression we were butting in on a private moment, uninvited and unwelcome. And then he smiled, his dark, beautiful lips curving into that smile I knew so well, the smile I’d kissed, the smile that was only for me.

  “Come say hi,” he said, nodding towards the baby, his voice tender with emotion.

  I shuffled forward, my legs feeling wooden and unreal. I peered down at the little face Brody had been looking at, and my heart caught. This wasn’t an enemy, someone who had torn us apart. It was a tiny little creature, its eyes the same beautiful, clear blue of her father’s. Whether they had gotten a DNA test didn’t matter. The baby was all Brody, from the eyes to the soft wisps of light brown hair, the cheekbones and chin. This tiny version of Brody, innocent and pure, had never hurt me or anyone else. She hadn’t meant any of the trouble she’d caused. I couldn’t hold any of it
against her, or Brody, or even Uma. It was no one’s fault. It just was.

  “Can I hold her?” I whispered, my eyes blurring over with tears again.

  “Really?” Brody asked, the hope in his voice just about killing me. “Sure, yeah. Here, sit down.” He stood and nodded to the chair, and I sat. Gently, he bent to settle the warm bundle in my arms.

  Osceola stopped sucking at her bottle, her eyes intent on my face. She gave a few more sucks, then broke off and started crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, standing and shoving the baby back at Brody. “I guess she doesn’t like me.”

  “Don’t worry, she hates us, too,” Uma said.

  “Sorry. I should go.” I turned and fled, ignoring Brody’s call after me, ignoring the fact that my mother was now in the den with Othal. I couldn’t take another minute in that house. Instead, I slid into the car, laid my head back on the seat, and tried to breathe.

  A minute later, the door opened, and Brody slid into the back seat with me. “Mind company?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, taking my hand. “I don’t think you can forget me, either.”

  Did that mean…?

  “Brody, you have a family. You’re obviously a great dad. And that’s great. Really. I told you, I’m never going to stand in the way of that. You should have that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Maybe I’m just a little jealous, okay?” I said, pulling my hand away. “Is that what you want to hear? Well, I am. And, yes, you’re right, I can’t forget. I never said I could. That’s not why I left.”

  “Then why’d you leave?” he asked, his voice hardening.

  “You know why,” I said, throwing up my hands. “You have your thing, and I’m not part of it. Uma’s part of it. Not me.”

  “Laney,” he said slowly. “I’ve told you a hundred times. There’s nothing between us. There never was, and there never will be. Your leaving didn’t change that.”

  I bit back the hope that thrilled inside me and made my voice hard. “Really. You’re not together.”

  “We’re really not together.”

  “Then what about—.” Before I could finish, he grabbed my head between his hands and crushed his lips to mine. God, it was like Alice, falling down that rabbit hole. I wanted to fall again, to never stop falling. To let go and throw myself headlong down the rabbit hole, to be consumed by it the way Brody’s mouth was consuming mine. The fire had burst to life inside me all at once, devouring me, racing across my skin like a fire across the prairie, obliterating everything in its wake.

  “Stop,” I gasped, pulling away.

  “I’m here,” Brody said, staring fiercely into my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. I quit the tour, Laney. I quit Nash. I quit the business, all of it. And I’m not going back.”

  “What? How?”

  “I’m still the same person I always was. And I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want,” he said. “But you’re going to see what you’re missing one of these days. When you do, you know where to find me.”

  With that, he slid out of the car and jogged back up the steps and into Othal’s house before I could say another word.

  forty-three

  Brody

  We’d been living with Othal for a few weeks when Nash tracked me down. I had avoided his calls for the first two weeks, when we’d been at my place in California. But everyone had agreed that moving in with Othal was a good idea. In his lucid moments, a familiar face would comfort him, and my mother had her own house to tend.

  “You’ve had your little vacation and played house,” Nash said when I answered the phone with a sigh. It was evening, Osceola’s favorite time to cry unceasingly for no discernible reason. My mother said it was colic, for which there was apparently no cure. Because life was just that awesome.

  “Hey, Nash,” I said. “How have you been? How’s the family? It’s so nice to talk to you, too.”

  Without missing a beat, Nash said, “It’s time to talk about going back on the road.”

  “I told you. I’m not going.” I stepped out onto the front porch so no one would hear me arguing. I didn’t want Othal to wake up to that, or Osceola to have any more reason to cry than she had. I could hear her inside, working herself up for her evening performance.

  “You’re contracted for three albums,” Nash said. “You don’t just break a contract with Nyso Records.”

  “Then I’ll make the albums,” I said. “But no interviews, no photo shoots, no tour. I’m done with all that. I want to be left alone. I need my baby girl to be able to have a normal childhood.”

  “That’s not the life you chose, Brody.”

  “I’m choosing it now.”

  “You’re committing career suicide, that’s what you’re doing,” Nash yelled. “And you’re throwing me under the bus.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” I said. “I’ll buy my way out of anything that can’t be cancelled. I’ll sell my properties if I have to. You’re my manager. Get us the best deal you can, and then I won’t need you anymore. You’re free. Go make a new boyband, or chase down Zane and Jace.”

  “They’re starting a rock band,” Nash growled in disgust.

  “Good for them,” I said. “Listen, Nash. If you want to stay on, I might need you when I’m making the other two albums. But I don’t need all the other stuff. You’ll get your cut. But you can manage someone who needs it. Right now, the only managing my life needs is figuring out sleep and feeding schedules. I love you, man, but we’ve outgrown each other’s usefulness.”

  “Send me a fucking post card,” Nash grumbled.

  “I will,” I said with a smile, raking my hair back with my fingers. My hair, which now I could wear however I wanted. I could grow it past my shoulders like his cousin Ned if I wanted. I could wear gas-station sunglasses and dollar-store flip flops. I could really, truly, avoid the paparazzi and live my own life.

  “I have to go,” I said, the wail from inside almost drowning out my thoughts.

  Without waiting for an answer, I hung up the phone and slid it into my pocket, then hurried inside. Uma had gone upstairs, but I could still hear the baby’s angry wails. When I reached the room we’d begun converting into a nursery, Uma was sitting on the floor, her hands over her ears, rocking furiously back and forth. Osceola lay in her crib, her fists pumping, her little face scrunched up and bright red. She had a pair of lungs on her, that was for sure.

  I scooped her up, but her whole body was tense, her fists tight little knots of fury.

  “Make it stop,” Uma moaned from her spot on the floor. “I’m going to fucking lose it, Brody. Make her stop.”

  “It’s okay, babies cry,” I said. “Go get some rest.”

  In my room, I checked Osceola’s diaper. Dry. Tried to feed her. She refused the bottle. At last, I gave up and walked her up and down the hall, bouncing, rocking, singing. She just kept on screaming. I didn’t know how she wasn’t passed out from exhaustion. Weren’t babies supposed to sleep like twenty hours a day? So how was she still awake, screaming fit to bust a lung, while Uma and I were worn thin as a mic’s feedback whine?

  At last, sometime after dark, I stumbled into my room and lay her on the bed. Again, I checked her diaper and tried to feed her. Now I knew what Uma meant. She was right. The baby hated us.

  In a fit of frustration, I picked up my guitar and ripped my calloused fingers across the strings. The chords thrummed loudly in the small room, and for a startled second, Osceola stopped crying. Her little face scrunched up with confusion. After a few breaths, she started again, but this time more tentatively, like she was working herself up for more.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and strummed a gentler note this time.

  Again, her crying stopped. I began to pick out the notes for “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” the first song I’d ever played, when I was five years old, sitting on Gramp’s knee. A bit of snuffling and ten seconds of half
hearted fussing accompanied the first verse, but by the time I was on to the next round, she’d fallen silent. Her big eyes searched the room for the sound, finding me at last. She mouthed her fist and made another fussing noise, then started sucking on her knuckle, her eyes drifting closed.

  “You’re really good with her,” Uma said from the doorway. I hadn’t heard her come in, and my first instinct was to snap at her to be quiet. But when I looked at the baby, her eyes had drifted all the way closed.

  “I think she’s sleeping,” I whispered.

  “Sorry I didn’t help.”

  “It takes a village, right?”

  “But I’m her mom. I should be able to make her stop crying.”

  “I couldn’t, either.”

  “You just did.” She gave me an accusing look, as if I’d done something wrong.

  “Pure luck.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I carefully laid a blanket over the sleeping baby. “You should get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll come get you when she wakes up.”

  “You should get some sleep, too,” she said. “We don’t have to stay awake in shifts. She’s not going to wake up and escape.”

  “I know,” I said, sitting back down and letting my fingers move softly across my guitar strings. “I like watching her sleep.”

  Uma stared at me a few seconds, opened her mouth, but then closed it again. She picked at the doorframe beside her. “You know, you’re going to be an all right dad,” she said at last. “I’d never have guessed it. But you’re not a total piece of shit.”

  “Did I hear a compliment hidden in there?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  With a snort and an eyeroll, Uma crossed her arms. “Yeah, right.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it. I’m just making it up as I go. I might look all cool and shit, but that’s just me. I can’t help it. I was born this way.”

  She snorted again and leaned her shoulder on the doorframe. “Riiiiight.”

  “Seriously, though,” I said. “I don’t know shit. It’s all trial and error. I’m not doing any better than you.” Except that I was trying, but that was probably not something to include in a parenting pep talk.