Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  I grimace. Is that why some of them have been getting ridiculous about it? “Last night, some woman knocked on my door at two a.m., then acted confused that it wasn’t her room. She was flashing everything but her crotch at me.”

  “Cool. So what happened?”

  “I told her, ‘This is my room,’ and shut the door in her face.”

  “Man.” Ryder shakes his head. “You’re so fucking whipped. All these hot, willing ladies, and you won’t do any of them.”

  “They aren’t Ivy.”

  He shrugs. “Must be true love. I’ve never not wanted to accommodate a willing woman.”

  “You’re going to die of multiple STDs.”

  “Nah. I might sleep around, but I’m not stupid. Condoms, my man, condoms. The last thing I want is a virus or a little Ryder Junior.”

  “Ryder Junior sounds…cute.” If the son is half as pretty as his daddy, a whole new generation of women will get their hearts broken.

  Ryder shudders. “My mom would kill the girl…if my grandma didn’t do it first. My family doesn’t mess around with that kind of thing.”

  Most likely true. His mother’s side of the family can be a bit…old-fashioned about certain things. His grandmother in particular sounds like a real piece of work from what I’ve heard.

  Ryder polishes off the rest of his drink and claps me on the shoulder. “You know what? Whatever happened between you and Ivy is going to work itself out. If not, you’ll just find somebody else.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Oh come on. ‘She’s sick.’ Seriously? We’ve been friends for how many years now, and you think I’m not going to know if you have a girl problem? If she really was sick, you wouldn’t be here. Not when you’re so obsessed, you can’t even sleep with another girl.”

  Touché. “Fine. We had an argument.” I tell him about the tattoo.

  Ryder listens, then shakes his head. “Why get hung up about a tattoo? Let the girl deface her skin if that’s what she wants.”

  “It isn’t a defacement, for fuck’s sake! The tattoo’s really beautiful.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. But like you said, when it’s over, it’s over. Then what?”

  The idea of Ivy and me not being together dries all the moisture out of my mouth. If it were anybody but Ryder saying this, I’d break the bastard’s face.

  “True love doesn’t exist, man. It’s like…this action movie script I looked at, you know? In it, the hero takes a bullet for the girl. Then he says, ‘I’m just glad it wasn’t you.’” Ryder laughs. “As if! Who the hell takes a bullet for somebody like that, when it isn’t their job? I never will, and I don’t know anybody else who would, either. But that’s supposed to be true love.”

  I stare at Ryder. Of course… How could I have not seen it, not realized it all this time? Laid out so starkly, it’s crystal clear. “You’re wrong,” I say.

  “Huh?” He stops in the middle of pouring himself another glass of scotch. “About what?”

  “About true love and taking a bullet for another person. I would. For Ivy. I’d rather die than have anything happen to her.”

  And I know exactly what I need to do: tell her everything—and pray she won’t judge me too harshly. Not being fully honest with her—not “letting her in,” as she put it—will only hurt her, and I’d rather skin myself alive than see the light in her eyes grow dim again.

  I jump to my feet. “I gotta go.”

  “What, now? Where?”

  “Home. I have to see Ivy.” I look at Ryder. “You’re a genius. And an awesome friend.”

  He seems confused for a moment, but then slowly grins. “I know I’m awesome,” he says. “Whatever I did, you’re welcome. Let me see when we can get a helicopter to take you back to LAX.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ivy

  The high school kids and I do a quick run-through before the actual concert starts. The girl who’s supposed to turn my music keeps losing focus, not flipping pages like she’s supposed to. Although it doesn’t disrupt the performance, it’s a little annoying she can’t manage the easiest task in the show. If turning pages is too much, she should’ve let someone else do it. I glance over to see what her deal is.

  Her gaze is glued to the cellist, who’s doing his best to avoid eye contact. Does she have a crush on him? And is he uncomfortable about it?

  I start to feel bad for her. If I’m right, her situation is a lot like mine—liking a guy who can’t let you in. Then I note the violist looking daggers in my direction. What’s her deal? I barely even know her…

  Wait, she’s not mad at me, but at the girl turning my music, who’s now bristling like an indignant hedgehog. Oh boy.

  All this silent drama is too much. Nobody should be doing this during a run-through, especially not right before the actual concert.

  If they screw up because they can’t focus, I’m going to be furious, no matter how sorry I feel for the girl next to me. If you’re going to stage a public performance, you need to be professional.

  Despite my worries, the concert goes well. The quintet plays half a beat too slow for my liking, but I don’t think anybody notices or cares. I sigh with relief when the crowd applauds after our piece, and we all rise, bow and curtsy to the warmly appreciative audience. St. Agnellus is a small town without a lot of cultural events. People here value them more than the jaded audiences you get in big cities.

  And it was a great excuse to get out of the house. Tony’s silence is making me restless and disappointed. There are times I’m tempted to contact him first, but I stop myself. I don’t want him to think I’m agreeing to his decision to not let me in…even if I miss him with an almost physical pain.

  Also, the Peachers are visiting again, and Aunt Margot made her disdain and displeasure known all day long. Not that I blame her. Sam and Marty are being particularly insufferable on this visit from what little I overheard. Apparently, Sam is determined to get her to invest in one of his real estate development projects, even though she’s made it clear she’d rather dump the money into Lake Pontchartrain. And if that intolerable know-it-all Marty comments one more time about my interpretation of “La Campanella,” using tidbits he’s obviously picked up from Google, I’m going to murder him.

  By the time I make it to the big door to the parking lot, it’s almost nine. The building is mostly empty now—the audience is gone and just us performers are left.

  The rest of the quintet plan to hang around and dissect the concert. But I want to go home, even though I hate driving in these conditions. I crack the door open and look outside. It’s storming hard, wind whipping the rain around until it hits like liquid darts sailing through the air. You can’t even block it with an umbrella. It wasn’t this bad earlier, so at least I was able to perform in dry clothes.

  I get ready to dash across the lot, until I hear somebody behind me. I turn and see my page-turner. Despite being distracted throughout the run-through, she did pretty well during the actual concert.

  “You were really good,” she says.

  “Thanks. But everyone was great. And you were really helpful.” It’s awful I’m blanking on her name, but I’m terrible at remembering them.

  “I…um…” She licks her lips, then sniffles. Her face turns blotchy.

  I wait, praying she isn’t about to ask for some uncomfortable favor. Like that time when a guy begged me to hook him up with a “special” admission to Curtis.

  “Could I ask you for a ride?”

  “Oh. Um, okay. Are you stuck?”

  “My sister… I’m sorry, it’s a long, boring story.” She tightens her mouth, then forces a smile. “I just need a ride home, and I don’t have my phone or anything.”

  I finally notice she doesn’t have a purse. The only thing she’s holding is a brown paper bag. Doesn’t matter what happened between her and her sister. I don’t want her stuck out here or trying to walk home alone at night. “Sure,” I say. “Where do you live?”
<
br />   “Augustine.”

  That’s a little out past Tempérane, but it isn’t like I have anything pressing. And I finally remember her name. “Sure, Charlene.”

  “Thanks.”

  I point at my champagne-colored Lexus coupe, a gift from Aunt Margot and Uncle Lane when I got accepted to Curtis. “That’s my car. Let’s go.”

  I hit the fob to unlock the doors as I dash across as fast as I can, but it’s futile. Charlene and I are both drenched within seconds.

  “Buckle up,” I say when we’re finally in the car.

  She fumbles around, but nothing clicks. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Huh?” I reach over and try it myself, but she’s right. There’s no click, and the tongue just slides out. Then I remember one of the guys I gave a ride to at Curtis busted the latch when he dropped a paperclip in it last spring. I meant to have it looked at, but kept forgetting. “Ugh. I hate this.”

  “It’s okay,” Charlene says. “It’s only, like, fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”

  I worry my lower lip, but she’s probably right. It bothers me that she won’t have her seatbelt on, but I hate the idea of leaving her behind alone at night more. If the cops pull me over, I’ll just have to explain the situation and hope for a warning. But what are the odds in this weather?

  I start the engine and pull out of the lot. When we’re finally on the highway, Charlene opens the paper bag and pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

  “Seriously?” I say, surprised. “Where did you get that?”

  “Filched it from my sister’s car earlier.”

  “Aren’t you, you know, underage?”

  “Almost eighteen.” She blinks away tears, then takes a big swig. “I need this.”

  “Well.” I clear my throat. I’m not at all comfortable with her drinking. I’m pretty sure you can’t have an open container in a car, much less drink out of it, even if you aren’t the driver. Not to mention she’s a minor, and I don’t think law enforcement will look at this kind of thing kindly if I get pulled over… “I feel bad for whatever problem you’re having, but you need to put that away. I can’t drive you home if you don’t.”

  She has another drink, then sniffs and screws the cap back on. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Something major must’ve happened for her to ditch her sister and cadge a ride with a virtual stranger.

  There aren’t that many cars on the road. This storm is bad enough that even Louisianians don’t want to be out in it. By the time we’re getting close to Tempérane, my Lexus is the only car on the road.

  Charlene’s staring outside, occasionally wiping at her eyes. “Boys can be assholes,” she says suddenly.

  “Oh my God, definitely,” I say, thinking of Tony at Cajun Milan. What the hell kind of love pushes your lover away?

  “Adam’s fucking Jane.”

  “Uh…” The names are familiar, but I can’t quite place them.

  “The cellist and the violist.”

  “Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right.”

  “I caught them red-handed, and he didn’t even say he was sorry.”

  Oh wow. “You and Adam were dating?”

  “Yeah. Went to prom together, the whole thing. We were supposed to be…like this!” She makes some gesture I miss. She sniffles, then wipes at her face.

  Poor kid. That totally sucks. “Men are stubborn and can be idiotic. Just look at me.”

  “What about you?”

  Normally I wouldn’t be sharing, but somehow, cocooned in the car with this girl who’s hurting and the weather raging outside, it seems okay. Feeling a bit reckless, I say, “I got a tattoo to show this guy I love him, and he…he just…”

  “Flipped out?”

  “Basically.” I get my purse, root around in it one-handed while keeping my eyes on the road and take the pendant out. “Look at this. He gave it to me, but he doesn’t love me enough to let me in. It’s just…weird.”

  “Can I see it?” Charlene takes the pendant, turning it this way and that. “It’s gorgeous. So he gave you this, but he won’t say he loves you?”

  “He says it, but he won’t let me say it. Just won’t accept that I have feelings for him. He doesn’t want my love—he won’t let me tell him or show him how I feel.”

  “What a douche. I hope he gets blue balls for life.”

  I don’t want Tony to have blue balls. I just want him to realize he loves and trusts me enough to let me in all the way. “Probably not going to happen,” I say. “He’s hot.”

  “How come all the hot ones are so bad?”

  “Good question. Figure it out and they’ll give you a Nobel Prize.”

  “For chemistry!” We both laugh.

  Through the rain, a pickup truck appears, coming toward us, slewing a bit on the slick highway…and in our lane. No headlights, which is why I didn’t see it until now. My heart starts pounding, sweat instantly slickening my hands. I hit the brakes with all my strength and honk. The truck doesn’t change course.

  “Oh my God!” I scream, jerking the steering wheel to the left. We’re too close!

  The pickup hits the Lexus with an unbelievably loud metallic crunch. The impact is a shock wave through my entire body. I’m thrown against the seatbelt strap, arms and head snapping forward. Time starts to slow down. The only sound I hear is my own rough breathing.

  My vision’s warped—everything feels blurry and weird. Something warm and wet covers my face and chest, and my ears feel muffled.

  I look to the right. Charlene is unmoving, her face covered in something red.

  The truck moves backward… Hit and run, I think vaguely, struggling to pull myself together. Need to get my phone. Call 911.

  But no. It rushes back at me. My head’s so sluggish, I can’t figure out why…

  Instinctively I try to hit the gas, but I can’t. My foot seems disconnected from my brain. Or at least it’s not hitting the gas hard enough to make the car move. I can’t figure out which.

  Everything happens in slow motion. The truck moving toward me. My body not responding like it should. Charlene starting to slump toward me. Is this the end? So damn unfair.

  I pray for a miracle, even knowing it won’t happen. The Lexus is stuck. Maybe I should’ve stayed back at the community center with the other members of the quintet. I think about Tony. How brilliant. How handsome. But impossible to reach. He made it so clear. I wish I hadn’t met him. No. Not that. What I really wish is that I hadn’t fought with him on Wednesday. I just want to see him one more time. Hear his voice one last time, saying, “I love you,” even if it isn’t enough to let me in all the w—

  The truck crashes into us again. Everything goes black.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Anthony

  I wanted to get back to Tempérane on Sunday, but my flight is delayed due to weather…then canceled.

  On Monday, the flight leaves five hours late due to mechanical problems. By the time I make it to Houston, it’s too late for my connection. The nine-thirty p.m. commuter plane to Tempérane has already left. Since it’s the last one out of the city, I have to spend the night in Houston.

  I call Ivy from the hotel. She doesn’t answer. I text her, but there’s no reply. It’s as though she’s cut me out of her life.

  Who could blame her, though? I was a total dick at the pizza joint.

  In-person groveling, I decide. That’s what I need to make up for this mess.

  What if she really did decide she doesn’t love you anymore?

  The unwelcome question pops in my head. No, no, no. Ivy isn’t that fickle. Her love is stronger and purer than mine. I’ll see her and do whatever it takes to make her happy. If she wants me to get on my knees, so be it. I’m willing to do anything because I know that as long as I’m sincere, she’ll forgive me. For some weird reason, she thinks there’s good in me, something worth cherishing. I hold on to that all night long…and through the short hop from Houston.

  By the time I finally make it to Temp�
�rane, it’s Tuesday. I’m so happy to be back that not even the merciless sun and humidity of August can put a damper on my mood. I stop by a florist to grab a bouquet of tiger lilies on the way. The florist gives me a funny look as she hands me the flowers.

  I stare back at her. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She clears her throat, not meeting my gaze. “Just…got distracted. Sorry.” She hands me my credit card back.

  Huh.

  When I come home, Jonas isn’t around. It’s Harry who’s waiting, his face pale and tight.

  “What’s wrong?” I look around. “Where’s Ivy?”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. He bites his lip when he notices the flowers in my hand. “Maybe we should go to the living room and sit down,” he says. The words come too quickly, as though he’s throwing them out to fill a silence he can’t stand.

  “Is she upstairs?”

  “No. She…” A long sigh. “We should get you something to drink first. You must be tired from the trip. What a bunch of shitty delays.”

  I narrow my eyes. My brother thinks he’s slick, but he’s as transparent as water, especially when he’s flustered. “Cut the bullshit, Harry. What’s wrong?”

  He closes his eyes for a moment, then runs a hand over his jaw. “Ivy went to over to St. Agnellus on Saturday. A piano performance. She didn’t come back.”

  “Okay. So where is she?” I ask, my hand around the bouquet tightening.

  “Well, that’s the thing. We aren’t really sure. She’s not answering her phone, and, uh…”

  “Did she go over to a friend’s place?”

  He shakes his head. “We checked already. Called all around town.”

  Shit. This is my fault. Maybe she was too upset to stay here, knowing I’d be back. I should’ve never gone to California. “Let me go look for her.”

  “I think it’s better if we wai—” His phone rings. Eyebrows pinched, he answers. “Hello? Yeah…?” He pales so fast I’m afraid he’s going to pass out. He blindly reaches out and grabs the edge of a heavy marble stand. “Are you sure?”