“Fair enough.” I get some water and take it back to my bed. Even out of the cold water tap, it’s lukewarm, but I drink it down so fast, it adds to the knot in my esophagus. “I guess I should let you go. I just wanted to say hi and hear how things are going.”
“I’m glad you called.” He’s quiet for a long time, and I can hear the sound of cars driving by his open window. “Everyone misses you.”
“I miss everyone, too,” I say. My eyes burn with tears again, and it’s starting to feel like they’re just going to keep coming, popping up over and over at the most ridiculous, inappropriate times. “Give Beth a big hug for me, okay? And say hi to the guys.” I wish I knew them better, I think. They seem great, and though we’ve hung out a few times, it feels like I’ve missed out on them, too.
“I will.” We should wrap up, but neither of us says goodbye. Instead, we’re quiet for a moment, so quiet I can hear his breath. Or maybe my own.
“Okay, well, I guess I better get some sleep.”
“Hang on a second,” he tells me. “I’ve been working on something. I was going to save it for when you got back, but I want to do it now.”
“What is it?”
“A new song,” he says. “I hope it’s okay, but I used one of your compositions. Just added lyrics. They’re still rough, so don’t judge.”
“Really? One of my songs?” I try to imagine which one that could be. I don’t write a lot of original music, but every now and then there’s something I can’t find, something that doesn’t exist that I need to work out on my cello.
I hear him picking at his guitar and then start playing in earnest. He’s gotten so much better, so quickly, it’s astonishing.
“It’s called ‘The Long Way Around,’ ” he tells me. “Which is kind of how I do things.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah. Okay. Seriously, it’s not great, but I—”
“Play it.” I lie back against my pillows. Moonlight slants in from way up high, casting stretched-out shadows on the wall next to me. “I want to hear you sing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Sure. Here goes.”
He plays, and it’s my song but so much better. Grey’s slowed the tempo, reworked it in a minor key, so it’s more somber. And the lyrics are beautiful. It’s about finding your way toward a place you know is home. Aiming for the light in the window, even when you seem to walk for miles and miles and get no closer.
“I’m still working on this next part,” he says. “But what do you think of this?” He sings the next bit:
And I don’t know if life’s a map
With all the directions gone,
Or if it’s a lantern that you
Have to keep switched on. . . .
“I love it.”
“I’m still hacking at the chorus. Any thoughts?”
“No,” I tell him. “It’s really, really good.”
And it is. But more than that I don’t want to offer any other opinions. He’ll find his way through the rest. It’s already so good, better than anything I could ever hope to write. He’s brought my music to life in a way I couldn’t have imagined. Given it purpose.
“Play it for me again,” I tell him. “From the beginning without stopping. The whole thing.”
“Really? You want to hear it all again?”
“Yes, please.”
I pull the sheets up around me, smooth them over my body. I feel myself fading, and I know I run the very real risk of falling asleep while he sings. But with Grey, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have a list of expectations for me. He just wants to play his music, share the thing that brings him to life.
And right now, I just want to lie here and listen, to drift off with the moon pouring silver light over my body, and Grey’s voice—beautiful, sharp-edged, and warm—carrying me into my dreams.
Chapter 39
Grey
It needs work,” Mom says as she steps into the kitchen of the cottage in the Hollywood Hills. “The kitchen and bathrooms need updating, but you could do that in a few years. The floors need to be refinished, and the whole thing needs a fresh coat of paint, but it has great bones, great light, and the location is terrific.” Her eyes move over the outdated appliances, the cracked white tile countertops, to me. “That’s what I think, but what’s important is what you think.”
“What you think is important. You know more about this stuff than I do.”
“True,” Mom says. “Let me ask you this: how does this house make you feel?”
I lean against the old fridge and cross my arms, trying to imagine myself living in this small, Spanish-style two-bedroom. It’s not as big as the other sleek, modern homes around here—not by a long shot. But it’s got potential. Room to expand if I ever feel like doing that, and it’s got personality. More importantly, the moment I drove up, I felt something. A kind of rightness. That feeling’s only getting stronger by the second.
Through the window, I see my Realtor wandering around in the backyard, checking her phone so Mom and I can talk. The yard is just a modest grass square framed by overflowing bougainvillea. More space than I need. It’s not like I have a dog. Buy maybe I could get a dog? The prospect makes me smile. I can’t believe I could do that if I wanted to. Suddenly, I see all of it. A couch, a table. My guitar on a stand in the corner of the living room. My mutt asleep at my feet. Sand, from the beach, dusting the floorboards by the front door.
Yep. I can see it. I run a hand over my head. “I think living here will bring me closer to who I want to be.”
Mom’s smile goes wider. “I can’t think of a better reason to buy a home.”
My Realtor seems to be able to smell money in the air. She’s back in less than a minute. “So? Any decision?” she asks.
“Let’s write an offer.”
She hugs me, even though I only just met her a few days ago. And then we start tossing around numbers that give me a stomachache. I’ve already gone through them with my dad, but it’s a lot of greenbacks. I’m not crazy about spending a truckload of money without having income on the way. But this area is only appreciating in value. All signs point to this being a good investment. I guess I’ve come a long way from throwing parties that trash my brother’s place.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Adam, speak of the devil, probably calling to find out if I’m making an offer. I excuse myself.
“I’m buying it,” I say, as I step into my future bedroom. I move to the window, studying the hills that I’ll be able to see from my bed one day. One day soon. It’s incredible to consider. With the band showcase only two days away, this is becoming a historic week for me.
“What?” Adam says. “Oh, the house. Grey, we need to talk. Something happened over here. Are you listening?”
His voice is reedy and thin. He sounds shaken up. Adam never sounds that way.
“What happened? Is it Skyler? Is she okay?”
“She fainted on set about an hour ago, but she’s fine now. She’s under a doctor’s care, getting some fluids through an IV at the island hospital. We don’t know exactly what’s going on yet, but it looks like a combination of stress and dehydration shocked her system.”
“Adam, is she okay?” My body goes hot with adrenaline. My hands ball into fists. “It’s those fucking weight-loss pills. And she’s been losing too much weight.”
“We’re considering everything. Grey, she’s going to be all right.”
He’s telling me this because he knows there are a dozen alarm bells going off inside me right now. Fear. Fear is what’s filling me up. So much it feels like rage. Randomly, Mom’s words come to mind. The things that last are the things that matter.
In the background I hear Garrett’s voice pleading with Adam to hand over the phone. I hear Mia, too. Adam concedes, telling me he’s passing me off for a moment.
“Grey, it’s Garrett—”
“And Mia.”
“We wanted you to know what’s going on, because she asked to talk to yo
u earlier—”
“She’s resting in her room now, but she’s still not herself. And we didn’t want you to worry—”
“What do you mean, ‘she’s still not herself’? Is she okay or isn’t she?”
Silence. Then it’s only Mia on the line. She’s stepped away, somewhere private.
“I’ve never seen her like this. She’s pale, and when I look into her eyes, I don’t see her, you know? It’s like she’s slipped into some tunnel and all I’m getting is this distant echo. I know she’s going to be okay. The doctor is confident about that. But I’m worried about her.”
“I’m coming.”
“No—wait. What did you say?”
“I’ll get on a plane today. Tell her I’m on my way. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“You don’t have to. We’re on the other side of the continent, and there are a dozen people taking care of her.”
“She’s asking for me. That’s why you called, isn’t it?”
There’s a soft sigh, then Mia says, “I asked her what I could do to help. She told me, ‘Get Grey.’ ”
It’s a heartbreaking thing to hear. I don’t know what it means. What the hell are we to each other? But nothing is going to keep me away from her. Nothing.
I make some quick calculations. It’ll take me a day to get to the Virgin Islands. Even if I’m only there for a day, and turn around and come back, I won’t make it back to Los Angeles in time for the showcase. I feel a slow chill spread through me. It’s not my dream I care about passing on. It’s the guys, the band. This decision affects them, too. But I can only hope they’ll understand. I need to go to her.
“I’m coming, Mia. I’ll call you when I have my flights booked. Tell Sky I’m on my way.”
Chapter 40
Skyler
Waking is like slowly unwrapping layers of gauze. It takes forever, the light behind my closed eyes growing brighter a second at a time. I’m drowsy and floating, and it feels so good, like backstroking through a warm sea, but I know I can’t remain in this dreamy place.
Finally, I open my eyes. For a second, I think I’m still dreaming because Grey is next to me, sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, his expression serious and intense.
“Grey?” It comes out as a whisper.
He gives me a smile that’s so big and openhearted I want to cry. He’s here. I can’t believe he’s here.
“There you are,” he says. “Welcome back.”
“What—” I try to say something more, but my throat feels like it’s been sandpapered. I reach out for him and see a bandage on my hand and a tube extending down to an IV pole and a bag of clear fluids. Panic rushes through me. What’s wrong with me? What happened?
“I’ll get you some water,” another voice says, and I turn my head to find Mia sitting in a chair on the side of the bed opposite Grey. Her tawny skin is sallow, her eyes red-rimmed and shadowed.
She rises and pours some water from a pitcher.
“Let me help you.” Grey pops out of his chair so fast, it topples over. He fishes around behind my pillow, and his warm scent—soap and sea—washes over me. I still can’t put it together that he’s here. That I’m here in a hospital.
He finds the bed’s remote control and raises the mattress. His huge warm hand settles for just a second on my collarbone, strokes the skin there. His touch anchors me and buoys me at the same time. I want him to climb into bed with me. Want to wrap myself in his strength.
Mia brings me the cup, and I sip. Then drink and ask for more.
“The doctor said to go easy,” she tells me. “You don’t want to get sick. But here’s a little more.”
I drink another half a cup and try to speak again. “What happened? Why am I here?”
Random memories flare in my mind. Running down a hotel corridor toward the camera. Then needing to stop, the walls closing in on me, the breath leaving my lungs. People crouched over me. Worried faces. A nurse wrapping a blood pressure cuff around me in the middle of the night. But not much else.
“You passed out, Sky,” Mia tells me. She brushes my hair away from my face. “You . . . just went down.” She starts to tear. “You really scared us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention. I didn’t realize you were getting sick.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Exhaustion and dehydration,” she says. “Also, you’re a little anemic, and your blood pressure was super low. That’s what made you pass out.”
“But you’ll be okay,” Grey says. “You just have to take care of yourself. Eat. And rest.” Again, he gives me this sweet, fierce look that makes me want to give him anything he wants.
“I will. I’m so sorry.”
“Seriously, don’t apologize,” he says. “Whoever gave you those fucking pills and worked you eighteen hours a day should apologize.”
“It’s not their fault. No one forced me to do anything. I could have said no. Or said it was all too much.”
“Well, I guess your body said it for you,” Mia says, with a sad smile. “But you’ll be all right.” She refills my cup and hands it back to me. “I’ll let everyone know you’re awake and doing better. And I’ll go track down your doctor for you.”
“Can you, um, give us a few minutes?” Grey asks. “I want to talk to Sky for a second.”
Mia looks at me, and I nod. I want to talk to him, too, though I don’t know what I want to say. It just means so much that he’s here.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll go find some coffee in the hospital café. Will let people know you’re awake when I come back up. That’ll buy you a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” says Grey.
She goes. And for a second, Grey and I just look at each other.
Finally, he sits back down and closes his hand over my wrist. He squeezes, gently, and I can feel the intersection of our two pulses. “Do you remember asking for me?”
“I asked for you?”
“That’s what they said. That you wanted to see me.”
I try to remember, and it comes back as a feeling more than a literal memory. I can remember lying back against the pillows, crying and so weak I could barely move a muscle. Even my eyes. And I remember wanting Grey with me more than anything. Missing him so much I could barely breathe.
“I’m so glad you came,” I tell him. “I can’t believe you flew like a million hours to see me.”
“I would have flown a trillion hours to see you. You know that.”
“You’re such a good person, Grey. I hope you know that.”
With a shrug he says, “I’m working on it. But I didn’t come here because I’m a good person. I came here because I had to. Whether you asked for me or not.”
I can’t pretend not to know what it all means. That I wanted him more than anyone else. That he wanted to be here more than anything else. It doesn’t matter if he’s younger than me or a musician or still figuring things out. It doesn’t matter that we’re wrong on paper, that Brooks and I make more sense. He’s here. And I want him here.
I just want him. Plain and simple. I want him.
“Grey.” I put my hand over his, hold on tight. “Will you stay?”
“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”
“No. I mean, will you be with me? Like with me?”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just stares at me with those steady, slate-colored eyes, like he’s absorbing what I said. The muscles in his neck roll as he swallows. “What about Brooks?” he says finally, his voice deep and hoarse.
“I’ll talk to Brooks. He’ll be fine. What matters is this.” I squeeze his hand between my two. “It’s just . . . it’s everything. You’re . . . everything to me, Grey. I don’t know how else to say it.”
“That was perfect.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my palm, bandage, tubes, and all. “It’s the best thing I’ve heard in months. Or . . . ever.”
Being this close, saying these things, I can feel my strength building, feel myself knitting back together. It’s not that he makes me strong or whole. It’s that with him, I remember how strong and whole I am.
“I want to kiss you so fucking much,” I tell him, “but my mouth tastes like a nuclear waste dump right now.”
He laughs, making the bed shake. “I guess we’re going to have to wrestle over who’s most romantic.” Rising again, he says, “Let me see what we’ve got.”
I hear some rustling around, and he comes back with two sticks of gum from my purse. “This’ll have to do.”
We unwrap the gum like we’re getting undressed, giggling, our eyes locked together.
“Cheers,” he says, and taps his stick against mine.
“Cheers.”
Grey pops a piece in his mouth, and I do the same.
“This is the sexiest gum I’ve ever chewed,” he tells me.
“No kidding.” I pat the bed next to me. “I think you need to climb on up here.”
“I’m scared I’ll break it. Or rip out your IV.”
“I’m scared you won’t get your ass on this bed.”
“You win.” He comes around to the other side, and he lowers the rail like he’s done it a hundred times. Then he slides half onto the bed, careful not to crush me or dislodge anything. “Okay.” We get our arms and various tubes and pillows sorted, and then we take out our gum, and it’s the least romantic thing ever but romantic for just that reason. Because with him it doesn’t matter if I’m in a hospital gown. If I’m not perfect. With him, it all falls away. The bed, the sounds and scents of the hospital. It’s just Grey, his firm, full lips on my own, his mint-scented tongue sweeping over mine. I pull him against me, as close as he can get, my hands bracing against the broad expanse of his muscular back.
It’s awkward and messy but as real and truthful as it gets. Just Grey and me, holding each other, squeezed together in this tiny bed, pulling tubes and remotes out from under us, laughing and touching and kissing—lightly, so lightly. He’s still gentle with me, and I need that now. But I can’t wait to get my strength back again. The things I plan to do to this boy.
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