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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
EVERYTHING WE ARE
Copyright © 2019 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design
Cello by Gstudio Group, Adobe Stock
Microphone by grimgram, Adobe Stock
Speaker by ilia, Adobe Stock
Lights by tartumedia, Adobe Stock
Fame Star by Eduard Radu, Shutterstock
Janci's author photo by Michelle D. Argyle
Megan's author photo by Heather Cavill
Published by Garden Ninja Books
ExtraSeriesBooks.com
First Edition: June 2019
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Andy Patterson
One
Felix
I’m sitting on Hollywood Boulevard, a few feet from Johnny Cash’s star on the Walk of Fame, playing my cello rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” when I spot the drug deal going down across the street. My bow hand starts to shake, resulting in some skating on the strings. I’m probably the only one who can hear it, but it still makes me grit my teeth. I’ve always prided myself on my steady hands.
But I guess six weeks of heroin detox will do that to you.
A kid wearing skinny jeans and a fedora skates by and drops a condom into my cello case. There are six others in there—the peril, I suppose, of busking two blocks down from a Planned Parenthood.
I look down at my strings, even though I don’t need to. This song isn’t exactly a Haydn Concerto, but I need somewhere to look besides at the two guys leaning against the wall of The Vine, exchanging something from hand to hand.
I pick up the pace of the song to cover for the shaking, gradually, so no one else will notice the shift in time. Honestly, my audience right now consists of a lesbian couple making out with their hands in each other’s hair and the homeless guy camped out by Humphrey Bogart’s star with a wrinkled cardboard sign that reads “My wife had a better lawyer,” so I’m pretty sure I could switch keys mid-song and no one would bat an eye.
When I look up at the front of the theater again, one of the men is gone, walking casually down the street, a hand in his pocket, no doubt comforting himself that his newly-acquired gear is still there.
It might not be heroin. It could be something else. But somewhere at the back of my brain a shrill pitch like the elusive F6 sharp—the highest note I’ve produced on my cello—vibrates through my bones.
If the dealer doesn’t have any H, he’ll know where I can get some, and it won’t be far. I close my eyes and repeat the refrain of the song, adding in my mind a mantra. I’m not going to walk over there. I’m not. I’m not. But my brain is already calculating how much change, how many small bills have been discarded into my case this afternoon.
It’s enough to buy at least a quarter gram, which is lower than what I used to take, but probably enough after six weeks sober.
I finish the song and look up to see a man walking his border collie pausing in front of my case, throwing in a dollar. I smile at him, but I know it looks weak. I lower my bow, just for a moment.
And then I lift it again and start playing “Walk the Line.” I play it fast, and with far more vibrato than necessary, because it requires more movement. While I play, I glance up at the dealer, still leaning against the wall of The Vine, no doubt waiting for his next customer.
It’s not going to be me. It’s not. I look down at Johnny’s star, and try not to remember, as I play his song about sobriety and fidelity, that he relapsed again and again.
But I close my eyes again. I stay on my stool. My cello’s name is June, and like Johnny, I try to stick with her. I think about the thirty-day chip buried in my pocket. I keep my hands moving. I don’t go across the street to look for drugs.
When I finish the song, someone claps. I look up and find a kid standing in front of me with sandy blond hair and a sweater-vest—an odd choice for the late-July heat. I look around, but I don’t see an adult with him, even though he can’t be more than six or so. Definitely not old enough to be wandering the slummy neighborhoods of Hollywood alone, looking like some all-boys prep-school escapee.
“You’re good!” he announces.
I smile. “Thanks, kid.”
“My mom’s a musician,” he says. “Her friend Mason plays the cello, but Mason is a douche.”
My laugh sounds natural. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. It’s okay if I say that word to you. You aren’t a nana, or the pope.” He squints at me. “Are you?”
I laugh again, and put down my bow, pulling out a set of wipes and cleaning the sweat off my hands. “Am I the pope?”
“I don’t think you are,” he says, studying me carefully. “My mom says the pope wears a funny hat, and drives a popemobile, which sounds like a superhero, but he’s not.”
“No, I’m not the pope.” I look around again, but still no parent. “Where did you come from, kid?”
“My mom,” he says, like I’m a bit slow on the uptake. “And my biological father. That’s like a dad who isn’t there for you.” He scuffs the tip of his black loafer against the sidewalk.
I have no idea how to respond to that, so I toss my wipe into the end of my cello case where someone else has donated a used Kleenex, and backtrack. “So what did Mason do to you?”
“Nothing,” the kid says. “But he did drugs and stole money from my mom.”
I stare at him for a moment, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the dealer check his watch and then mosey down the block, probably headed to his next appointment.
“Well,” I say. “That does make him a douche.” I’m hoping a parent is going to show up soon, because I’m fairly certain Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide missing child drop-off services, and I really don’t love the idea of him wandering out here alone.
God knows I’m hardly fit to be responsible for myself, let alone him.
Jenna
I’m standing at the counter of a game store down on Hol
lywood Boulevard, waiting for the cashier to ring up The Game of Life, which my eight-year-old son has just selected for family game night after much deliberation. Ty has shuffled off behind a rack of board games, which makes me wonder if he’s going to change his mind immediately after the game has been rung up.
If he does, I suppose I can buy a second one, too. Games go fast on family night with only the two of us playing. Not that we don’t have a mountain of other games to choose from at home.
My phone beeps and I look down at it, just as the cashier takes my credit card. It’s a message from our manager, Phil.
I sent you another list of potential cellists, it says.
I sigh. My band is about to go on tour in a month, and last week I discovered, while going over some accounts, that our cellist—not to mention our friend—Mason, had been stealing money from us to support his drug habit.
Thanks, I text back.
I can practically hear Phil opening his jar of antacids and chewing them by the handful. Alec and I are super hands-on with band management, and all decisions go through us.
Sometimes, though, I think Phil would rather we just let him get things done, especially with tour so close. Finding a cellist who’s good enough to play our stuff, has zero prior commitments, can take off on tour with us with only a few weeks’ notice, gels with the band, and is someone I’m comfortable having around my son?
That’s not something either Alec or I are willing to leave to Phil. Especially after what happened with Mason.
The cashier at the game store grips my credit card in her hand, and her eyes flick down to my name, then widen. “Jenna Rollins. From Alec and Jenna?”
“Yep,” I tell her. Getting recognized still feels new to me, even though it’s been happening increasingly often over the last year and a half. I try to take my card before she asks any uncomfortable questions I’ll have to lie to answer.
She pulls it back, pressing it over her chest like it’s something near and dear to her heart.
“I’m a huge fan. I mean, your music is so—” She closes her eyes, as if she’s too overcome to finish the sentence. “It’s just so inspiring, your love story. It makes me believe that—”
Somewhere in the middle of this utterance, I realize I haven’t heard Ty moving around behind the game racks in a while, and he’s not one to hold still unless he’s found someplace very small to hole up.
If he gets stuck behind some game store rack and requires the fire department to extract him again—
“Ty!” I call. I stand on my toes to try to peer over the racks of board games and dangling novelty keychains. No Ty.
“—that love like that is just around the corner, you know?” she continues, as if I haven’t said a word. “That I could just meet some guy and we’ll fall madly in love like you two, that kind of love that can weather anything and—”
I take a step back to peer around the racks. I don’t see Ty, but I also don’t see any small spaces he might have climbed into. He hasn’t done that in a while, so he’s probably outgrown it. I dearly hope.
But the door to the store is wide open.
Shit.
“Ty!” I call again, hoping he’s just outside the door, jumping from star to star on the sidewalk. I reach for my card, but the cashier is still clutching it to her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mostly am, but my nerves are spiking because Ty’s eight, and though he’s not about to run out into the street or anything, no amount of discussion about not talking to strangers has ever done any good. “I need to hurry, my son is—”
“—and I mean, really, if he was as hot as Alec, I wouldn’t care much if he could sing, you know what I—”
“I really need my card, please,” I say, taking a few steps toward the door. I can’t see Ty on the stoop out front. Shit shit shit.
I don’t have time for this. I stomp back to the counter and lean across it enough to rip my credit card away from her chest. Then I grab the plastic-wrapped game I just bought and hurry out onto the sidewalk, avoiding seeing the look of shock or betrayal on her face.
It’ll be one of those five-minute twitter storms I hate. She’ll tweet about how awful I am—tweeting it right @ me, no doubt, so I don’t miss it—and lots of fans will jump to my defense and others will say how they always knew I was a bitch and Alec could do so much better.
You’re welcome to him, I wish I could say.
“Ty!” I call again, looking both directions. To the left, a long stretch of street has a few tourists taking pictures of the Hollywood stars, and a homeless man sitting cross-legged and appearing for all the world like he’s meditating. No sign of Ty. To the right, there’s a liquor store, and then the street intersects with Hollywood Boulevard proper. I hope with everything in me that he’s just around that corner.
It’s a short jog to the corner—would be shorter, I suppose, if I was wearing something more practical than my three-inch-heeled black boots—but my mom brain has already summoned every nightmare scenario that could come to my child because of my neglect.
“Ty!” I yell as I turn the corner. And there I see him down the street, my little boy in the sweater vest and button-down he insists on wearing even during the summer, his mop of golden hair picking up rays of sunshine. He’s standing in front of a busker with a cello. He turns and waves.
“Hi, Mom!” he calls brightly. Like he didn’t nearly just give me a heart attack.
My relief is immediate and near-overwhelming. I let out a breath, my pounding heart starting to slow.
Still, for him to just run off like that, in this part of town . . .
“Ty!” I say, in the voice that usually precedes him losing video game privileges. “You can’t just run off like that.” As soon as I get close to him, though, I give him a hug—more for me than for him, since clearly he wasn’t the least bit afraid.
“I didn’t run off. I was listening to the music.”
And that’s when I really see the guy holding the cello.
The incredibly good-looking guy holding the cello.
He looks about my age, and has a kind of casual but preppy vibe, with a blue button-down open over a plain gray t-shirt and nice, dark-wash jeans. The blue in his shirt heightens the clear blue of his eyes, and his blond hair falls just over his ears. He’s giving me The Look—the one that says he recognizes me but doesn’t know where from. I’m really used to that look, especially when I’m not with Alec.
He’s also giving me another kind of look I’m not totally unfamiliar with—the one where his gaze drifts down and back up. Where his lips twitch in a kind of stunned smile.
I know I should be thinking about filling that position in our band, but maybe not with a guy this sexy.
I don’t think Alec would appreciate that.
Felix
This kid’s mom looks up at me, her pale gray eyes taking me in. She tugs down the hem of her short black lace dress, which hugs her figure and ends mid-thigh—and rode up higher when she bent to hug the kid. She looks familiar, but I’m sure I don’t know her, because I would definitely remember a woman this gorgeous. With her long black hair streaked with bright red highlights, she has a sort of punk-rock beauty that’s intimidating as hell, but in a good way. She looks about my age—way too young to have a six-year-old. But he did call her mom.
“He’s good like Mason,” Ty says. “You should hear him play.”
The woman smiles, and I see her check me out and like what she sees. “Is that right?”
Now my hands are sweating for an entirely different reason. I’ve never exactly had trouble with women, but it’s been years since I’ve hit on anyone while sober.
“Yeah, well,” I say. “I hear Mason is a douche.”
She looks sharply down at Ty, and he grins up at her. “Mason is a douche,” she says. “But you don’t have to tell that to eve
rybody.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Ty says. “He says he’s not the pope.”
She laughs, a clear, good-natured sound that makes her even more beautiful.
“I get asked that a lot,” I tell her.
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles at me.
I gesture to the box she’s carrying. “That game is terrible,” I say. “Have you played it lately? It’s all bankruptcy and dead-end jobs.”
“Like real life,” she says, and I smile.
“Yeah. Way too real.”
“I’m going to win,” Ty says. “I always win.”
She shakes her head at him. “I might beat you at this one.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m going to be a doctor and have all the kids.”
“We’ll see,” she says. I expect her to herd the kid away, but instead she looks me over again, her eyes lingering on my cello.
“I hear you’re a musician,” I say. If she’s wanting to stick around longer, I’m more than happy to keep the conversation rolling.
She shrugs. “I play piano a little. But you definitely look like you know how to straddle that thing.”
I grin at her, and she smiles back, the suggestion passing back and forth between us, and apparently over the head of the kid, who is eyeing the condoms in my cello case. “Can I have one of your candies?” he asks.
“No,” I say, too quickly. “They’re . . . not very good.”
“What do they taste like?” he asks.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I look up at the kid’s mom, waiting for her to bail me out, but her eyes dance instead, and for a moment I can’t look away.
“Rubber,” I say.
She laughs again and the little boy squints up at her. I run my hand down the neck of my cello, unable to stop smiling.
“Well,” she says, and she’s got this mischievous quirk to her lips that kills me. “Why don’t you play for me? I’d like to see your fingering.”
Ty looks back and forth between the two of us, and I sure as hell hope he isn’t understanding.
“Happy to please,” I say, picking up my bow.
I’ve been playing Johnny Cash all afternoon—I made up my own covers of his songs back in high school as a way to warm up and wind down from more difficult practice.
Everything We Are Page 1
