Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  Other than that, I had very little memory of that trip abroad. I couldn’t even remember how I’d heard the news the next day—heard about what happened back home the night before, when I’d been dead asleep and didn’t hear the sirens a few miles down the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “Don’t you know that by now . . .” Some of what Lindsey said sifted through my barricade, but her voice was distant and muffled. “Why will you never talk to me about what happened?”

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I was being held under water, a riptide pushing, undertow pulling, and the only voice I could understand was telling me to relax and breathe, to give in.

  But I was choking.

  “We can’t change what happened.” I felt her stroking the back of my hair, like I was some needy lap cat. “Maybe you should call Mom and Dad.”

  “I can’t!” I snapped, wiggling her hand off my hair.

  Lindsey sat back, knowing she’d struck a nerve. “Then promise you’ll stay here for the summer, where I can feed you and clean you and make sure you sleep.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me, Lindsey. I don’t need anyone.”

  “You let Christian take care of you.”

  My spine stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Lindsey’s expression morphed from blank to sad to defeated.

  For a few seconds, I almost relaxed, thinking I was off the hook, but she shook her head and set her jaw. “No, Abby. It’s been a year. Let’s talk about it.”

  But I’d already told her I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  Our mutual, stubborn, nearly identical silence seemed to stretch on forever as we stared at each other.

  Lindsey was first to break the standoff. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  She narrowed her eyes, daring me.

  I huffed. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me what happened that night.”

  “You know what happened.” I growled. “You saw the police report. You read the tabloids.” I yanked out a cluster of grass by the roots and tossed it into the street.

  “No, Abby. I want you to tell me.”

  I looked away, blinking into the wind. “I can’t,” I whispered, wrapping a rope of my hair around one finger. “It’s the middle of the day. We’re out in the front yard. Cars are driving by. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Something like this will never feel right. I’ve heard every excuse in the book from you. So come on. I’ll start, okay?”

  I shrugged indifferently, but my lips were sealed shut. I was not budging.

  For some reason, Lindsey took this as a sign to press on. “Late that night,” she said, “Christian went to the deli down the street, just like he had on a hundred other nights.”

  I felt a familiar snaky rope slithering inside my throat. I tried, but I couldn’t swallow it.

  “And he didn’t come back.” She waited several seconds. “Because . . .”

  “Because?” I echoed sarcastically. “Because he got shot and died, Lindsey! Jeez!” My throat was closing up, anaphylactic shock, deathly allergic to the topic of my brother’s death and how he would still be here, if not for me. “What else do you want me to say?”

  “Just that.” Her words came out methodically. “Four men held up the deli, and one of them shot Christian. In no way could you have stopped that, Abby.” She reached out and touched my arm gently. “We all love him. We all miss him. The funeral—”

  This was all I could take. “I said I can’t talk about it.” My voice came out cruel and angry.

  Lindsey flinched, her expression showing the hurt I’d inflicted.

  But I didn’t care. This conversation could not go on. It was bad enough that I wanted to peel off my skin every time I thought about it, but to talk about it? Impossible. After a year, I was well aware of my punishment, and it was a livable sentence—like a brand burned on my soul, something that would always be there, a constant reminder of the horrible thing I did, how my selfishness damaged our family forever.

  No matter what anyone said, I knew it was my fault. And the only way I could figure out how to make up for it was to be a success—to make it worth it. Somehow.

  That feeling was something I never admitted to anyone. Not even to Dr. Robert.

  “I’ll go back to L.A. like Max wants.” I had to force my voice to sound resolved. “I’ll work hard so you won’t have to worry about me. No one will worry about me, okay?” When I stood up, my legs felt like jelly.

  “You’re hiding behind your job. That’s another of your problems.”

  I ignored her. One battle at a time. “Max knows what’s best for me and for the group. He’s the boss.”

  “He’s your manager,” Lindsey corrected. “You pay him. You’re his boss.”

  I crossed my arms. “You know what I mean.”

  I stared past Lindsey, allowing myself once more to remember back to the day Christian died. It was a Friday. Or rather, it was a Friday when I found out he had died; it had taken hours for the message to reach me. By then, we were stuck in London—bad weather, every airport closed.

  I missed my brother’s funeral because of work. When we returned to L.A., I’d been sent straight to the studio to record “Satellite” and the rest of the album. Broken, grieving, and probably in shock, I’d been in no condition to be at work, let alone to cut our next single. But Max thought it best that I get right back on the Mustang Sally roller coaster—no time for mourning, no time for thinking, no standing, no screaming, hands and legs inside the car at all times.

  I wanted to burst into tears, to tell Lindsey how unbearable everything had become, but I shut down instead. Telling her wouldn’t help.

  “Well.” She sighed. “I want you to stay here. For the whole summer.” Her hair was blowing in the breeze around her neck as she stood and turned toward the house. She seemed more angry than hurt now. And ya know what? I was totally fine with that.

  “Would you do me one favor?” she asked. “Say good-bye to Todd.”

  My stomach took an unsuspected nose-dive, remembering what I had to say to him, what I must say to him. And I was totally dreading it.

  “I was just on my way into town,” I said, straddling the bike.

  Lindsey shook her head. “I mean really tell him good-bye. Properly. After last night, don’t lead him on.” She paused thoughtfully. “You still don’t understand how people perceive you. You’re different. You’re a huge star. You know that, don’t you?”

  I bit down on my raw cheeks. “I hate when you talk to me like I’m a circus freak.”

  “We live in a small community; I run into the guy practically every other day.” She broke off and started pulling at the end of her ponytail. “You might not be aware of this, but Todd’s been here only about five months. I don’t know much about him, but you can’t help picking up tidbits, living in a place like this year-round. The girls and I—”

  “Lindsey, I have no intention of listening to gossip. I have to live in that world every day,” I reminded her bitterly. “Why can’t you people mind your own business?”

  “I’m sorry, but that is how this world works.” She spread her hands. “Someone moves into town during the off season and we discuss it. It wasn’t like we were printing a story in a tabloid; we were talking.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  I huffed and folded my arms, balancing the bike between my legs.

  “A few months before Todd moved to Seaside, he broke off his engagement.”

  I didn’t know what I was expecting my sister to inform me of, but it wasn’t that.

  “I guess,” she added, “the wedding was only days away.”

  Of course I couldn’t help feeling for Todd. But bygone mistakes didn’t scare me, especially when they happened to better a person’s character. We all had relationship baggage. I knew I did. And I was the last person who should judge anybody by the choices he made in t
he past. Besides, I was leaving, anyway. Right?

  My stomach fell again. “How shocking,” I jabbed, even though I felt pressure behind my eyes. “But hardly front-page material.” Yes, I wondered about the details, but not at the expense of letting Lindsey divulge the secret she was holding. I loathed gossip. She knew it, and she knew why.

  “Just go easy on the guy. I suppose he’s been in his mourning period all this time. And you . . .” She paused for effect, her voice morphing into an accusing tone. “You might be the first girl he’s shown interest in since his breakup. I’ve seen what you’re capable of doing to guys, any guys. They’re drawn to you; they can’t help it. That boyfriend from back home is still totally obsessed.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Lindsey took a step toward me. “And Miles, Mister Sexiest Man Alive, was in the magazines for months after you dumped him, wrapped around your little finger. I saw him on Letterman a while back, talking about you. And don’t pretend that new song of theirs isn’t about you. The girl in the video could be your twin.”

  “Idiot,” I mumbled as I dropped my gaze to stare at my feet, at the bike pedals, and then at the sandy asphalt.

  Then, for just a moment, when I lifted my chin to face the afternoon breeze, I let my mind go, thinking of yesterday, of last night. I closed my eyes, imagining what today might bring, and tomorrow . . . if I could only let it. Fingering the ends of my hair like a paintbrush, I ran a fistful of it along my cheek. “I don’t think it’s fair for you to compare Todd to David or that idiot Miles.”

  “What makes him different?”

  I exhaled deeply and slowly, while flashes of my most current, delicious daydream sent heat through my body, only to settle in my stomach as a dull ache. “I don’t know,” I said. But of course I knew. I had been thinking about Todd all morning, counting the minutes until I would see him again.

  And then that call from Max terminated any other plan.

  “Absolutely everything,” I responded. I was smiling now, but it made my face throb like the mother of all sinus attacks. “I like him, Lindsey. Ha! Like. That doesn’t even come close. I know it’s totally crazy to say this after only one day, but . . .” I lowered my voice, as if my words might make it all the way to Max’s office in California. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Never. We got along so well. He’s funny and smart, and when he looked at me . . .” My voice choked, the lining of my throat growing thick. I rubbed my hand across my face. “Am I supposed to walk away? Just like that?”

  Lindsey didn’t respond, but I was actually asking her this time. I really wanted an answer, because I suddenly didn’t have one.

  “Well,” she finally offered, “like I said, it’s your decision. Always has been. Nothing’s impossible.”

  Great. Thanks.

  “I wouldn’t worry about impressing Todd,” she continued as she walked backward across her front yard toward the house. “I’m sure he was blown away by you. He’s probably at home right now thanking his lucky stars.”

  I let out a sigh. “I’m the lucky one,” I whispered.

  Big, long-winged, hairy bats were flapping around in my stomach as I rode up to the curb in front of Todd’s Tackle. I leaned my bike against a pole and pushed open the heavy glass door.

  Gong!

  When I entered, two customers were leaving—women who looked to be in their mid-twenties, armed with several large shopping bags. They were giggling their heads off like a pair of teenagers, while glancing back into the store at something. Or someone.

  “He’s, like, so way hot,” one of them said, kind of swoonily.

  “Totally,” the other agreed.

  Neither of them noticed me when we skirted past each other.

  Todd was at the counter bent over a laptop. The big smile that stretched across his face when he saw me sent those bats in my stomach into a tizzy.

  “I was afraid you weren’t going to show,” he said, gesturing to the clock on the wall that read half past two.

  “You know women!” My enthusiasm felt forced, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

  From his expression, I could see Todd sensed something was off. “Sometimes I do,” he said as he met me in the middle of the store. He was summer vacation personified, his blue golf shirt open at the throat, giving me a little peek at some lovely chest hair. I tried not to over-grin, knowing I could report this information back to Lindsey. She did love a nice chest.

  Looking closer, it was evident his Diesel shorts and shirt probably cost a cool hundred bucks apiece. Yes, he was dressed down, but with more style than a Kennedy on vacation.

  Self-consciously I put my hands in the back pockets of the same shorts I’d worn yesterday, fresh out of the washer and dryer. “My manager called,” I said to his open collar. “They want me back in L.A. Now.”

  I held my breath, studying his expression, waiting for a reaction.

  He seemed disappointed, and I wondered if he was painfully dying a thousand deaths inside but refusing to show it, like me. I was ready for him to burst into a rage and demand that I stay.

  “Oh.” He shifted his weight. “That’s a real shame.”

  I blinked, staring into his eyes, feeling all kinds of disappointed.

  We stood in silence for a few moments. Todd then glanced away and I looked down at my feet. I’d painted my toenails DayGlo orange a few hours ago. The optimistic color seemed to be mocking me now.

  This is not fair, I thought, grinding my back teeth so I wouldn’t cry or something equally humiliating. It’s too soon. I need more time, much more time, but I just can’t take it. And since Todd doesn’t seem to care . . .

  “Yeah, well,” I said as I gazed across the room at nothing, “I’m calling Max tonight with my final answer, so, I guess we should just . . .”

  Todd’s head snapped to attention, his bright green eyes boring into mine, going wide and then narrow. “You have a choice?”

  His question threw me. “Well, technically, none of us have to be back till September.”

  Todd flew behind the counter and pulled out a sign: Gone Fishin’. He hung it on the inside of the front window. “Let’s go,” he commanded, towing me out by the elbow and locking the door behind us.

  “But I told you—”

  I could see his jaw set under his skin. “When would you have to leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “So that gives me”—he looked at the face on his cell—“fifteen hours.”

  “To do what?”

  He looked up at me. And smiled.

  {chapter 12}

  “I’LL FOLLOW THE SUN”

  “Yesterday you mentioned you used to dance.”

  I nodded, wondering what Todd was getting at.

  “The bio on your website says you got your start in musical theater.”

  We were strolling again, just like yesterday, except this time Todd wasn’t as tranquil. There was an urgency to today, like he had a definite agenda in mind, though I could also tell he was trying hard to keep the atmosphere casual.

  Apparently we were both in restrained-panic mode.

  “My website?” I lifted my eyebrows. Todd grinned like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “Is that what you’ve been doing all day? Hard at work surfing the Internet? You’ll never sell beach towels that way.”

  “Skeptic.”

  We turned a corner, ambling through the neighborhood with the shallow tree roots—the setting of last night’s kiss. Despite what the responsible side of my brain said, in my heart, all Todd needed to do was hold me under our shady Kissing Willow or touch my face, kiss my neck, and just maybe . . .

  But he didn’t. We walked under the long and leafy branches without either of us saying a word about last night.

  “I danced ballet till I was fifteen,” I explained as we neared the footpath that led to the beach. “Which was really good for me.” My arms automatically moved into the Vaganova grande pose: one arm out to the side, the other above my head, both c
urved elegantly, fingers forming an oval.

  “Nice,” Todd said, observing my stance with an air of appreciation.

  I immediately broke my pose. “Even as a kid, I needed an outlet. Ballet takes a lot of discipline and concentration.”

  “I can imagine.” He smirked. “All those pink tights and hair glitter must be brutal.”

  I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. “Hey, tough guy. You try cramming your swollen and blistered feet into a pair of pointe shoes, spend hours spinning, making jumps, landing, and then stopping every few minutes to wipe the floor so you won’t slip on your own blood.”

  Todd cringed.

  I let him go and smiled lightly. “My instructor was quite the slave driver. I suppose that’s where I get my”—I cleared my throat—“my unique work ethic.”

  “What happened with that?”

  The toes on my right foot involuntarily pointed as my leg slid to the side, itching to stretch myself into a perfect arabesque en avant. “My audition for Juilliard didn’t go well,” I said instead, relaxing my foot, feeling leftover disappointment from years ago. “Their official explanation was that my proportions weren’t right, that my legs were too long.”

  Todd looked down at the legs poking out of my shorts. “These old things?” He swatted my knee. “How preposterous.”

  “I had a growth spurt,” I explained. “Happens to everyone. I knew I was too tall for my age, but I was devastated and angry at the world for giving me this incredible passion and almost the body for it.”

  Todd looked thoughtful, his green eyes full of unasked questions. Instead of asking them, though, he said, “That’s pretty intense logic for a teenager.”

  “Mmm.” I shrugged. “I guess I learned to take my lumps at an early age. After ballet, I decided to go out for plays at school.”

  “You were the lead in Brigadoon.”

  I stared at him for a second and then rolled my eyes. “Google actually got that one right. Theater was another good way to get me comfortable onstage. It’s lucky I’ve always had great choreographers and directors. Unless I know where to go, I’m helplessly clumsy.”