by Jayne Frost
Cocking my head, I waited for him to look up. He didn’t.
“Reading what?”
He shrugged. “Everything. The letters get all jumbled. Math was okay. I could, you know, copy the numbers onto the calculator. I memorized the formulas.”
My stomach twisted. In school, Logan always conned one of us into giving him the highlights of any assignment we were asked to read. He’d say he forgot his book, or he didn’t have time.
“What’s Anna got to do with this?”
Logan met my questioning gaze, smiling. “I asked her for some help one day. And by help, I mean, I wanted to copy her paper. But she wouldn’t give it to me.” He snorted. “The chick had morals, go figure, since she was with you.” He looked away for a second, squinting like he was reliving the memory. “Anyway, we got to studying this chapter on the Civil War. I started following along in the book and talking about General Eel.” He smirked at my raised brow. “Yeah, that’s the same look Anna got. Apparently, the dude’s name was Lee. Robert. E. Lee. But that’s not what I saw.”
I hid my shock around my next sip of beer as he continued, “So, I got pissed and stormed off. But that night Anna called me and read me the story and the next day she gave me some notes. She told me to pick out the letters on the test and go with the ones I could remember. We, um, developed this system that was pretty easy. I’d just count how many letters in a name if I got into a jam, and then look for anything familiar.”
“And that worked?”
Logan lifted a shoulder. “Well enough to pass. But Anna only gave me the notes after she’d read me the whole damn chapter so I knew the answers even if I couldn’t get them on the paper.”
From experience, I knew that Logan’s memory was flawless. He could spit anything back verbatim. I assumed it was a weird little quirk, not a coping mechanism.
“How come you never told me?”
He laughed and then took a pull from his beer. “I spent an hour on the phone with your girl almost every night. I wasn’t sure you’d be cool with that.”
Of course, that’s where his mind went, but I was talking more about why he never mentioned his problem. To me. His best friend.
After a long moment, Logan blew out a breath, and then as if he could read my mind, he said, “I figured you’d get the hint after we all moved in together. You didn’t think it was kinda weird that Anna read out loud all the time?”
Since I loved the sound of Anna’s voice, I always figured she was reading to me. For my benefit. But now that I thought about it, Logan was always there, sprawled out on the couch, thumbing through a magazine.
A magazine he couldn’t read.
Fuck.
Shaking my head, I tried to make sense of what he’d just told me.
“Dude, what about contracts and . . .” Inhaling slowly, I gathered my thoughts. “Okay, so we need to get you some help for this shit, right?”
A storm swirled in his blue eyes as he lifted the bottle to his lips. “Fuck no,” he growled like a dog backed into a corner. “I didn’t tell you so you could fix my problem. I told you so you’d understand. I’d never hook up with Anna, even if she was down for it, which clearly, she never was. I’m the one who’s been emailing her for over a year, but it was your sorry ass she came running back to.”
A familiar ache settled over me.
Logan was wrong about the running part, but Anna had come back. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she had faith that I’d fix this thing I broke. And I let her down.
Hanging my head, I picked at the label on my beer. “There’s some shit you don’t know.”
Logan laughed. “Are you talking about your brilliant legal maneuver?” My silence wiped the smile from his face. “Yeah, I heard about that.”
“I guess that confirms your suspicions.” I saluted him with my bottle. “Congratulations. I’m an unworthy douchebag.”
Logan pushed to his feet and then filled a pan with paint from the five-gallon bucket. Glancing over his shoulder, he rolled his eyes. “No, you’re just a fucking idiot that’s all.”
Again, I lifted the bottle in a mock toast because I couldn’t argue with that either.
Rolling a swath of pink paint onto the white wall, Logan wrinkled his nose. “All this shit you’re doing, painting the room, visiting the kid every day, rearranging your plans? Maybe I was wrong.”
I jumped to my feet. “I fucking sued her, dude. Had her served. You weren’t wrong, I did hurt her.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I tried to erase the image of Anna’s wounded eyes from my memory. It didn’t help. The picture was etched inside my lids, all the times she’d looked at me with mistrust.
Logan let out a sigh. “I’ve only been wrong about a couple of things in the last decade, and this ain’t one of ’em. Once Anna sees this God-awful paint, she’ll probably fall right into your arms. Nobody would put this shit on their walls unless they were seriously whipped.”
I laughed. He was right about that. And he hadn’t even seen the furniture I’d ordered.
Logan gave me a sidelong glance. “What are you waiting for? We need to get this shit done. Chop chop.”
Grabbing the roller, I went to work. With every swipe my optimism grew, balancing out the sadness. A clean slate, that’s what I’d give Willow. Something fresh, untainted by all the missteps. Because she was the one thing we got right, Anna and me. The best of what we were.
Wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice Logan’s uncharacteristic silence until he said, “Laurel’s in Tennessee.”
Shocked, I turned to find him staring out at the lake, a slight breeze rustling his hair.
Dropping the roller, I joined him at the open window. “Where?”
“Nashville.”
“You talked to her?”
He shook his head and then picked up a finishing brush. Dropping to his knees, he meticulously covered the small seam above the baseboards.
“Dude, you’ve got to give me more than that,” I said, taking a seat on the five-gallon bucket. “What’s she doing in Nashville? Is she trying to break into the business?”
He cocked his head, seemingly transfixed by the painting. “I suppose she could be doing a little singing in between lap dances. You never know.” He smiled at his handiwork before hopping to his feet. “I’m going to wash up.”
Logan strode from the room, and when he returned, wiping his hand on his jeans, his brows drew together.
“What?” he asked, reaching for his beer.
I shoved to my feet. “What are you going to do?”
He drained the last half of his beer in two gulps. “About?”
About your sister, the stripper.
Logan’s misdirection didn’t work on me, so I crossed my arms over my chest and waited.
His mouth twisted into a frown. “What do want me to say? If Laurel wants to take her clothes off for money, ain’t my deal.”
“So it doesn’t bother you?”
The doorbell rang, interrupting our stare-off. When Logan broke ranks first, it was more telling than an admission.
Pausing at the door, he held onto the frame but didn’t turn around. “I hired a private investigator. As soon as he gets me an address, I’m heading out there. Satisfied?”
“Then what?”
His shoulders curved inward. “Then I bring her home.” The bell rang again. “Sounds like the gang’s all here.”
I followed him into the hallway. “Huh?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Thundering down the stairs, he called over his shoulder, “We’re having a band meeting.”
I dropped onto the couch as Christian and Cameron shuffled into the room, beers in hand. They sank onto the love seat wearing identical looks of annoyance.
Guilt gnawed at me for fucking with their plans. Our plans.
Logan propped up the wall next to the entertainment center, arms folded over his chest, staring down at the floor. Now that he wasn’t angry anymore, I suspected he was having a hard time
coming to terms with my decision to beg off the tour.
Nestling into the corner of the sofa, I waited for the penalty phase of the trial to commence. No need for closing arguments, I’d made my position clear: I wasn’t going.
Pissed off, Cameron looked me over with mild contempt. “How’s Melissa? Do you know anything yet?” I blinked at him, stunned, and he added in a softer tone, “About the cancer?”
My focus shifted to Logan. Lips pressed together in a grim line, concern etched the corners of his pale blue eyes, overshadowing any other emotion.
Guilt consumed me, and when I couldn’t look at him anymore, or find the words to apologize for not telling him, I turned my attention back to Cameron and Christian.
Clearing the thick lump of tar from my throat, I said, “Um, she’s okay. Really good, actually.” Nodding more for my benefit than theirs, I shifted uncomfortably. “They caught it early. Stage two. She had a mastectomy. How did y’all . . . um . . . ?”
“Find out?” Cameron cocked a brow, barely able to contain himself. “From my girlfriend, who found out from your girlfriend. That’s all kinds of fucked up, dude.”
Logan’s gaze shifted to the window, and he no longer resembled the self-assured rock star who showed up at my door a few hours ago. He looked like the little boy Melissa comforted whenever he showed up with a bloody nose or a black eye.
Christian slammed his beer on the table, his easygoing manner disintegrating into a cloud of anger. “How could you not tell us?” Ripping a hand through his thick mane of hair, he muttered, “Melody’s a research scientist, for fuck sake. You ever think that might be helpful?”
“We’ll sort that out later,” Cameron cut in. “Right now, I’d like to discuss what kind of douche-nozzle sends an email, a fucking email, to inform us that he’s quitting the band.”
Quitting the band?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeezed my eyes shut. “That’s not what—”
“He didn’t say he was quitting,” Logan interjected calmly. “The asshat only said he couldn’t do the tour.”
“In an email!” Cameron roared, shaking the offending piece of correspondence in his fist. “I wasn’t keen on saddling up for a year, and you didn’t see me offering to find a replacement.” He pinned me with a brutally disdainful glare. “You don’t replace family.”
Despite their posturing, a definite air of disappointment hung in the room. And I had to laugh. I’d only offered them a few names because I thought it was the right thing to do—find a fill-in drummer for the tour, nothing more. Not a replacement.
Three sets of eyes swung my way as the inappropriate chuckle spilled from my lips.
“This isn’t funny,” Christian muttered.
“Yeah, I know,” I conceded. “But I was trying to do the right thing. I’m not quitting; I just need some time to sort out my shit with Anna.”
“Did you send her an email too?” Cameron crumpled the paper into a tight ball. “Knowing you, you probably did. Which is why you’re here, looking like Tim the Tool Man with paint all over your hair, and your girl’s over at my place having dinner with Lily.”
I perked up. “Anna’s at your place?”
“Yes, Anna’s at my place,” Cameron mocked in a nasally tone. “With Willow. Lily was going to come with me and act as Anna’s stand-in just in case you wanted to serve her with another summons.”
They were pulling out every stop on the hit parade. Not that I didn’t deserve the ribbing, but much more and they’d break a bone.
Grimacing, I rubbed the back of my neck. “I didn’t think that one through. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that.”
“Maybe you should’ve sent her a damned email after all, since you obviously have a problem with oral communication,” Christian said dryly. “At least she would’ve had some notice.”
Cameron tossed the crumpled paper at my head, and the messy wad landed in my lap like a grenade.
Though I’d vowed to maintain my silence, I couldn’t resist asking, “So who did y’all decide on for the tour?”
I’d provided a list of studio musicians. Good, but not great. I wasn’t stupid. I fully intended to take my place behind the kit as soon as I could swing it.
Christian and Cameron shifted their attention to Logan who was stretching like a cat.
“We turned down Benny’s offer,” he said offhandedly. “I talked to him as soon as I got your email.”
My lips parted, but nothing came out, so I bowed my head, grateful and indebted in equal measure.
And guilty.
What if we didn’t get another shot?
Before I could voice my reservations, Christian said, “You’re not replaceable. If you got shit to handle here, we’ll sit our asses at home and wait until the right gig comes along.”
Praying my words wouldn’t fail me, I cleared my throat. “That means a lot, y’all, but . . .”
Cameron groaned dramatically. “Why does there have to be a ‘but’?”
I looked at each of them, hoping to convey my gratitude. The love I felt. And the responsibility. “Because of Willow. I’ve got to be here for her. No matter what.”
“Do you see anyone preventing you from doing that?” Christian grumbled, annoyed. “You’re the one that keeps stepping on your dick.”
Logan barked out a laugh and dropped on the couch next to me.
“Impossible,” he scoffed. “Sean couldn’t step on his dick if he tried. I’m the only one that could pull off that particular feat. But enough about me. I’ve got some news.”
Smiling into his sip of beer, Logan relished the silence as we waited for him to speak. Sadistic prick.
“Looks like we might be able to get an audition with Tori Grayson after all,” he finally said. “Twin Souls is planning a memorial concert at Zilker Park on the five-year anniversary of the accident, using only talent from their roster. It’s all on the down low, but Taryn Ayers is putting out feelers. She’s signed a dozen new acts.”
If anyone could pull off that kind of show, it was Tori’s management group. Or rather, Taryn Ayers. She’d single-handedly wrestled control of the three biggest bands in the country from Metro Music’s iron fist. The “Big Three.” Leveraged, Revenged Theory, and Drafthouse, respectively. The heirs to the throne Damaged vacated. All Sixth Street originals.
The atmosphere turned decidedly upbeat, and everyone spoke at once. Gesturing wildly, we made plans that might never come to fruition. But that’s how this all started to begin with. We dreamed big.
In the midst of the chaos, Logan stood up and wandered to the fridge.
Grabbing a twelve pack of beer, he said solemnly, “I hate to pump the brakes on the celebration, but this could take a few months. Leveraged is still in LA working on their never-ending album. Anyway, we got bigger fish to fry at the moment.”
“What kind of fish fry are we talking about?” I asked.
Logan thumped the back of my head on his way to the stairs.
Scowling, I rubbed the sting out of the tender spot while Cameron and Christian laughed. I tossed a pillow in their direction and they promptly lobbed two back at me.
Logan whistled through his teeth from his position at the top of the stairs. “Am I the only one with any priorities?” he asked. “Willow’s room ain’t gonna paint itself.”
Cameron and Christian plodded up the steps, assuring me that they’d only stick around for as long as the beer held out.
But I knew better.
They’d be here until all the walls were painted. No matter how many coats it took.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Anna
Seated in front of my laptop at my childhood desk, I gazed out the window at the swaying leaves on the oak tree. Willow slept a few feet away, clutching a bear that Sean had given her.
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I brought up my email.
No, Sean and I weren’t talking. Not in the strictest sense. But every night he sent me a message. Mostly
about Willow, what they’d done that day and what they had planned for the next visit. He usually included pictures, and at the bottom, there was always a small poem or a lyric. Something for me alone.
It was driven by guilt, more than likely. For the Kimber debacle. And though I refused to take any blame in that, I knew what I was getting into when I moved into Sean’s house. I wasn’t enough for him, and that was nobody’s fault.
From the first day, I’d suspected that his feelings for me were more of a reflection of his undying love for Willow. And the legal action proved it. Sean wanted his daughter, and I was an afterthought. One he could forget as soon as he stepped foot out of our little bubble.
Sighing from the weight of it all, I opened Sean’s latest message, and a picture of Willow populated the screen. Parked behind her custom drum kit, she wore specially made pink earphones and a big smile.
Scanning through Sean’s notes about the bed he’d commissioned for Willow’s room at his house, my heart swelled with pride and then broke into a thousand pieces. Willow was about to begin her overnight visits, and Sean was pulling out all the stops to make her comfortable. Still, she’d be gone.
Missing from me . . .
When I got to the bottom of the page, there it was, Sean’s latest musing.
I never knew love
Until you showed me how to love you
I never knew pain
Until you took it all away
I never knew want
Until I looked into your eyes
I love you. I’m sorry.
Sean
A sharp pain lanced through me, because I wasn’t sure if Sean was sorry for loving me or sorry for not loving me enough.
And he did love me.
Because you’re Willow’s mother.
Even with that knowledge, I couldn’t help but bring up his private Facebook page. The one he kept under another name.
Biting the bullet, I fired off a friend request. I was about to turn off my computer when a message popped up, alerting me that Sean had accepted.
Opening his page, I smiled at the dozens of pictures of our daughter on his feed. And one of me that I didn’t recognize, with the simple caption “Anna-baby.”
