“Angie, just toss it in the back, will you?”
For some reason, I can’t unglue my fingers from the envelope. Just like I can’t unstick the soles of my black cowboy boots from the pavement. I’m frozen, and so is Ten. But then he manages to move. He takes the envelope from me, his knuckles skimming my wrist.
His tongue wets his lips, making them glisten in the darkness. “You know what?”
My heart pops and sizzles like birthday sparklers.
“I’ve never made a good decision in my life, so here.” He places the envelope back into my hands.
I frown at him as another car turns into the lot, splashing the back of his head with light. His face is suddenly dark, unreadable.
“Are you asking me to choose for you?”
He nods.
My next breath catches in my lungs. “Why me?”
“Because I can’t tell if you want me to leave or to stay.”
I understand what he’s asking, and although I want to pitch the envelope into the gutter, I don’t want to make him stay … I want him to want to stay.
I spin around, stride to the mailbox, and push the envelope through the flap.
In a few quick strides, Ten’s at my side. “Angie!”
I think my heart might’ve slipped through the slot too, because it’s become real quiet in my rib cage.
“What did you do?” Ten tries to thrust his fingers through the flap, but of course the opening isn’t wide enough to accommodate his hand. “Angie, I thought—” He tugs on his thorny hair. “I guess I thought wrong.”
A lone cigarette butt blights the pavement’s smooth shimmer. I kick it out of the way, and it lands on the road, gets smooshed under the tires of a pickup. If only I could get rid of my feelings for Ten the same way … these feelings that have been ceaselessly disrupting the even tempo of my life. But every time I’ve tried to chuck them far, they return full force.
I meet his stony gaze. “Honestly, Ten, I don’t want you to leave.” My throat feels as dry as cardboard.
He calms, and I sense we’ve stepped into the eye of the storm. The winds will pick back up soon and they might carry him away, but for now they’re gone and have left him standing before me.
“Then why?” he asks huskily.
My heart starts thumping again, its rhythm slow, steady, steadfast. “Because it shouldn’t be my choice. It needs to be yours. Only yours. If you end up being unhappy here, you’ll resent me, and I don’t want that.”
His hands drop alongside his body. “I could never resent you.”
Once you find out I’m entering your mother’s contest you will.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” he says.
I give him a sad smile.
He doesn’t smile back. “I won’t go. Even if I get in, I won’t go.”
I don’t want to hope for this. I shouldn’t hope for this. “Can I still get a ride home?”
Finally, a smile warps his toughened expression. “You think I would leave a girl stranded on a dark street?” As we start back toward the car, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’re really something else.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Something else?”
“Different. Unpredictable. Spirited.”
I twist a lock of hair around my finger. “That’s a first. I usually get dazzlingly hot and insanely talented.”
He snorts.
“Fine. I’ll admit that only Rae speaks of me that way.”
His eyes flash with amusement. “Spend some time in the boys’ locker room, and you’ll see it isn’t just Rae who thinks of you that way.”
My pulse turns jumpy, scattering heat through my veins. “Liar.”
We’re back at the car, and he’s drawing my door open. “I might withhold information when need be, but I never lie.”
Heart still pumping wildly, I climb into the car, and he shuts the door before striding to the driver’s side and getting in.
As he pulls out of the lot, he says, “Where’s your bike?”
“At home. Can’t bike in a mini.” I point to my lap, but then regret bringing attention to my legs considering how much skin is on display. I tug on the skirt’s frayed hem, but my efforts are wasted. “Besides, Mom doesn’t like me to bike at night. Unless my destination’s in the neighborhood.”
“Your mother’s a wise woman.”
“Yeah. She is.”
“You two are close, huh?”
“She’s everything to me.” I roll one of the threads on the hem of my skirt between my fingers.
“Did she ever remarry?”
“No. She’s never even had a serious relationship since Dad.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s a long story.” And a personal one.
I’m not there with Ten yet … at that place I can spill my family’s deepest, darkest secrets. I haven’t even told Rae. Maybe I’ll forever be incapable of speaking about the father who wanted nothing to do with me and who wasn’t nice to Mom.
The thread rips.
“What about your dad? Did he ever remarry?”
“Almost. She was only interested in his money. Took him a while to figure it out, but at least he came to his senses before sliding a ring on her finger.” Ten eases to a stop at a traffic light.
The taillights of the car in front of us tinge the thread bloodred. I spin it between my fingers.
Ten drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “And before you assume anything, he’s never taken a dime from Mona.”
The thread slips out of my fingers and vanishes in the darkness of the car. “I—I…” I don’t finish my sentence, because I don’t want to lie to Ten.
He heaves a ragged sigh. “That’s what was written up in all the newspapers, so that’s what a lot of people think.”
I rake my hair back. “I’m sorry for being one of those people.”
“You couldn’t have known.” His long fingers loosen on the wheel.
“I couldn’t have known but I also could’ve not jumped to any conclusions.” After a quiet minute, I ask, “Did you ever play the piano?”
“When I was a kid.”
“First time I saw your hands—after you knocked me off my bike—I thought you had pianist hands.”
“That’s what crossed your mind?”
A blush creeps over my cheeks. Among other thoughts.
“What other thoughts?”
Oh. Crap. No. Did I say that last part out loud? “Like I would ever tell you.”
He shoots me that stupid crooked grin of his that sends my heart pounding out of control.
“I still can’t believe you crashed into me,” I say.
“I was distracted.”
“By trying to find the fastest route out of Nashville?”
His gaze drops to my lap, to the inches of bare skin, and then he clears his throat and tugs on the collar of his black T-shirt emblazoned with three white block letters: WTF. “Yeah. That.” Beneath the block letters, there’s a small sentence: WHERE’S THE FOOD?
“I like the shirt,” I say.
He looks down at it as though to refresh his memory. “I’d lend it to you, but it would cover up your new skirt.”
I smile. “What a shame that would be.”
The corners of his lips quirk up.
Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine the night ending like this—me in Ten’s car, conversing easily. Where’s the animosity that always crackles between us?
Perhaps in the mailbox …
A vintage Pat Benatar song spills faintly from the speakers. I know it by heart because my father recorded an acoustic version of it on a practice CD I found in a box the day we moved into our new house. I turn up the volume and start singing the lyrics to “We Belong” but then realize I’m singing in front of someone and crush my lips shut.
“Don’t stop,” Ten says, eyes on me.
“And this is why you run into poor girls on their bikes … because you don’t watch the road.”
&nb
sp; He returns his gaze to the road. “I’ll watch where I’m going, but only if you keep on singing.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll keep watching you.” As though to prove his point, he angles his face back toward me.
When we almost ram into the back of a white sedan, I open my lips wide. “Stop!”
He brakes. “Do we have a deal?”
“And you call me the crazy one,” I mutter.
“I called you spirited, different, and unpredictable. Not crazy.” A car honks behind us. “Please sing.”
I wring my hands nervously.
Another loud honk, and then car tires squeal as the car goes around us. Ten has stopped in the middle of the road and is making no move to start driving again.
He watches my hands. “It’s just me, Angie. Just me. Sing for me.”
A marriage proposal would’ve rendered me less panicky.
Ten must sense I won’t do it, because he finally bears down on the gas pedal. We don’t talk the rest of the way home.
“Thank you for the ride.”
He keeps his gaze leveled on the white columns of my house, tight-lipped, tight-jawed.
I sigh. “I don’t even sing in front of Rae, Ten.”
He side-eyes me, as though he doesn’t believe me.
“I clam up when I feel someone watching me. Which I know is weird considering I want to be a singer, but … yeah”—I gulp—“stage fright is real.”
“All great artists have stage fright, or so Dad tells me,” Ten says. “He hangs out with so many of them. If you don’t have stage fright, then you’re apparently not as good as you think.”
My ego laps that right up.
“You have a really nice voice, by the way.”
Hopefully, the darkness camouflages my budding blush. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I joke, because what else am I supposed to do? Thank him? Wouldn’t that sound smug?
The strain on his face finally breaks. “I usually comment on their rack.”
I smirk because Ten is so not the type of guy to do that. “Didn’t think you had anything in common with Brad.”
“We’re almost the same person.”
I shake my head and grin at him as I open the door and get out.
He powers down his window. “Promise you’ll sing for me someday?”
Someday. There’s no expiration date to that word. I want to write a song to that word. Already lyrics are jostling in my mind.
I nod, and my hair springs out from behind my ears.
He shoots me a smile that for once isn’t crooked or brazen, just heartbreakingly sweet.
39
Blinding Dreams
I wake up on Sunday to a message from Lynn to stop by her place. As I throw on some clothes, I wonder if she wants to see me because she’s thought of some way to make my song better.
After grabbing a banana and scarfing it down, I bike over to my coaches’ house. I find them in the backyard, tending to their lawn and hydrangea bushes.
“Hey. You wanted to see me?” I ask.
Lynn rises from her crouch, rubbing her dirt-stained palms against her jeans. “I did.”
She’s smiling, which makes my nerves tingle with anticipation.
“A friend of mine owns a recording studio. I called him up and booked you in for Saturday.”
I frown, not sure I’m understanding what she’s saying. Her wording isn’t elaborate, but my brain’s telling me this is too good to be true, and before I start doing handsprings, I want to make sure I heard her right. “You booked me—”
“To record your song. I thought a professional recording could really make it stand out. We could’ve recorded it here, but—”
I pounce on her and hug her so hard her breath whooshes from her lungs. And then she’s patting my back, laughing softly.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” I chant before letting her go.
“Does Saturday work for you?”
“Heck, yeah!” Tears pop out. “I’m going to record a song in a studio! A real studio!”
Lynn laughs gently. “It’s about time.”
She gives me all the details while I try to quiet my emotions. I don’t do a good job of it, though. My eyes are as watery and puffy as the time Rae squirted hot sauce into them—long story … wasn’t her fault.
“You should tell your mom to come,” Steffi says.
That blitzes my meltdown. “I’m sure she’s busy.”
They both scrutinize me.
I look toward the shivering magnolia tree. “But I’ll ask her.” I won’t, though. If I ask her and she comes, it’ll ruin the greatest moment of my life. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to pay you back for this.”
“You could help us weed,” Steffi suggests.
Laughter snaps out of me. “I don’t think that would be wise. I’d probably murder your lawn.”
Steffi grins. “It was worth a try.”
“How about I go make some lemonade? I’m pretty useless in the kitchen but I make a mean lemonade.”
Lynn crouches back in front of the hydrangeas. “By all means, squeeze away.”
After straining the ligaments in my hands, because Lynn and Steffi don’t own a juicer—I make a mental note of getting them one as a thank-you—I return to the backyard with a pitcher and three glasses.
I spend another hour with them, discussing the contest while they clip and till under a sun that seems brighter and warmer than it’s ever been before. If I close my eyes and tip my head up, I can almost imagine it’s the beam from a stage light.
Not that I’ve ever felt one, but hopefully … soon, I’ll be blinded by one.
40
Killing Me Softly with Food
The strange thing about your mom being a decorator is that every space she touches feels like home, even if it doesn’t look or smell familiar. She’s only worked on the Dylans’ mansion for a little over a month, but already the walls have been painted in a broad palette of pastels—Mom loves mixing colors like elephant gray and dawn purple—and the oak floors have been oiled instead of varnished. Where the hallway meets the living room, the hardwood planks are staggered with slabs of beige stone cut in the exact same dimension as the planks. She calls this technique fade in, fade out.
“Let’s watch the show upstairs.” Nev rushes up the swooping wooden staircase, but halts when I don’t follow. “Are you coming or what?”
“Give me a second, girl. It’s my first time here.” I shrug out of my denim jacket and stuff it into my tote. “Can I get a tour before we sit on our butts and inhale popcorn?”
She zips back down the stairs so fast she almost stumbles. “Sure.” She starts off down a short hallway. “Over here’s the kitchen.”
I follow her, taking in the modern glass sconces that adorn the whitewashed wainscoted wall. Even though it’s not yet dark out, the lights are on. In fact, it seems like Nev’s turned on every light in the house.
When Ten, who’s been extra friendly all week, mentioned he had a track meet tonight, which happens to be the same night his father needs to be in LA to dine with a client, I suggested hanging out with Nev.
“Are you sure?” he’d asked me during art class.
Gnawing on the top of the crayon that should’ve been sweeping over the vellum sheet before me, I nodded. “I’m so going to fail this class,” I muttered, studying the overflowing basket of fruit.
Ten filched my paper and with a few quick strokes corrected some of my shading, creating perspective where there’d been none. I spent the rest of class trying to re-create what he’d done and failing miserably. Right before the bell, he’d lifted my paper again and hurriedly turned my childish sketch into something way better.
The Dylans’ kitchen is made up of a wall of bow windows that look onto a garden that’s in the process of being landscaped. I run my fingers over the gigantic slab of smooth, midnight-blue granite that glistens like a dark pond at the center of the room. The space
smells new, like cement and glue, but also like chocolate and butter.
Nev struts to the stovetop and lifts a piece of foil off a pan. “Ten made blondies for us.”
I squeeze my phone between my fingers, applying so much pressure I imagine it bending. “If they’re any good, I’m going to kill him.”
She grins, then steals a gooey morsel right from the pan and sticks it in her mouth. After she swallows, she says, “Yep. You’re definitely going to kill him.”
I walk over and scoop out a piece that binds to my fingers and then to my teeth. It’s heaven. Like, seriously. Best. Blondies. Ever. “I so am.”
Nev hands me a spoon, takes one for herself, and together we put a serious dent in the mushy treat. Bellies full, she finishes giving me a tour of the house. I get to see the downstairs area, which is a mess of bare plaster and tarp-covered furniture.
“The movie theater will be through here, and then the pool table will go there, as well as a less formal living room. Dad calls it the kids’ area, even though I keep reminding him we’re not kids anymore,” she says, as she leads me back upstairs.
She shows me the formal living room, which is composed of structural greige couches and storm-gray leather armchairs arranged beneath a showstopping glass chandelier. Mom loves her artistic light fixtures almost as much as she loves her binders bursting with fabric swatches.
“I’ll show you my bedroom,” Nev says, tugging on my wrist. “It’s not totally done.” She tows me up the main staircase toward the bedrooms, gushing about Mom’s talent. “Over here is Dad’s room.”
I dig my sneakers into the hallway runner. “I don’t feel comfortable going into his bedroom.”
“Do you want to see Ten’s room?”
I shake my head. Not that I’m not curious, but I’d rather not barge into his space unannounced, so we head over to her bedroom, which is gray and pink, like her outfit. One of the many finds of our shopping trip.
“You match your room, Nev.”
Blushing, she pats her pink blousy tank while I drop my bag by her door, remove my shoes, and sink into a beanbag, which molds around my body.
“I still can’t believe you have a TV in your room. You’re so lucky.”
She grabs the remote control, plops down on the other squiggly patterned beanbag, and rakes her hair back.
Not Another Love Song Page 18
