The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  Now it seems so empty. Too empty. Just the ghosts of the past wandering the halls and surrounding me.

  I sit down on the bench, pressing my palm flat against the carving. Closing my eyes, I playback the sessions Grandpa and I had, the laughs, the jokes, the lessons.

  He was full of good advice.

  “I wish you were here,” I whisper to the air.

  I want nothing more than to hear him tell me something that will make me happy. To ease the confusion. Make me feel like everything will get better again.

  I let out a heavy breath as the doorbell rings, snapping me from my pity party.

  When I unlatch the lock and open the door, my eyes widen at the sight of Dylan standing on the front step. His duffle bag hangs from his shoulder, and his hands are stuffed in his loose blue jeans.

  He doesn’t look like he usually does. His clothes aren’t tight and showcasing his body—they’re hanging from him in comfort, like he doesn’t care.

  But I care.

  “What are you doing here, Dylan?”

  “You invited me.”

  “You bailed on our flight.”

  He grips the strap of his bag. “Something happened, and I got distracted. But I’m here now.”

  He’s here now.

  Like that makes up for it.

  “And I should just let you in?” I ask him doubtfully, the door only cracked open to block him from entering.

  “You should do what you want,” he answers, which surprises me. I stare at him. “But I think that you should let me in because you know it’s the right thing to do. If not for me, for our labels.”

  Did he have to play that card? He knows that I’m willing to do what it takes for our careers.

  Sighing, I open the door and let him pass, and there’s no smugness on his face like I expect there to be.

  He looks around the small hall, staring into the rooms on either side of us. One arch leads into the living room and dining area, and the other to the kitchen, guest room, and half bath. The stairs are behind us, leading up to three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a small study that Grandpa used to keep his book collection in.

  The expression on his face is somber, almost impressed somehow. Compared to the extravagant hotels he stays at this family home is nothing special. Yet, he stares at the pieces of it like there’s something valuable behind everything his eyes sweep over.

  “It’s not much,” I offer, closing the door and rubbing my hands against my thighs.

  He sets his bag down on the ground. “It’s perfect. Never really pictured you for the flashy décor.”

  I nibble my lip, not meeting his gaze. I’m not sure what it says about me that my heart picks up over acknowledging what he knows I like.

  It hasn’t been long enough—two weeks—for him to know anything about me worth remembering. Not when this is only temporary … when he’s determined to keep his distance from me.

  After showing him his room and telling him where everything is, I let him settle in. Walking back into the living room, I sit down at the piano and open up my old composition folder and pull out Grandpa’s favorites.

  It isn’t until halfway through playing Mozart that I see Dylan watching me from the doorway. It causes me to stop; the music cutting off and ceasing the noise that drowns out the silence.

  “You should have kept going,” he tells me, walking into the room and looking at the pictures on the wall. I didn’t have the heart to take any of them down, even the embarrassing baby ones.

  Each one meant so much to my grandparents. Alternating anything they left behind would be like alternating what they built here—changing their legacy.

  He chuckles over the potty training one, causing me to wince. Okay, maybe I could take a few of them down.

  “I grew up here,” I explain, standing up and picking up a frame from the mantel next to us. I was fourteen, and it was taken during Grandma’s last birthday with us. We were all smiling around her birthday cake, lights off so just the candles lit up the room.

  I set it back down, staring at the others next to it. Dylan seems to be entranced by them, studying each other intently.

  “You looked happy,” he states quietly.

  Looked. As if I don’t now.

  “I still am. Just …” I shrug, turning away from the memories. “Not all the time.”

  I sit down on the bench.

  He walks around the room, hand brushing against everything it can touch. Looking at every little knickknack like he wants to know their meanings.

  “Happiness doesn’t have to be a constant thing,” he finally replies, taking a seat on the couch and hugging one of Grandma’s homemade pillows against his chest. “Some people think that being happy all the time means everything is perfect, but that’s not true. Nobody’s life is, so how can anyone be happy all the time? Plus, my mom used to tell my siblings and I growing up that you don’t find happiness, you make it. If more people listened to that, they’d stop searching and start experiencing.”

  The Dylan sitting on an old plaid hand-me-down couch hugging a pillow with a rooster on it to his chest is not the same Dylan I met at the club two weeks ago. It’s definitely not the same Dylan I spent the last week with, constantly battling the urge to either strangle or kiss him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” He wipes his hand on his face like he might have something there.

  I shake my head. “No reason,” I lie. “So you have siblings?”

  He nods. “I’m the oldest. Got a brother and sister—Levi and Roxie. They’re both good kids.” He laughs, smiling to himself. “Well, they’re not kids. Levi is almost seventeen, and Roxie just turned thirteen.”

  I draw my knees to my chest, resting the heels of my feet on the edge of the bench. “They sound amazing. Are you close?”

  His lips twitch. “Not anymore. I’m gone too much nowadays, plus the age difference is a big part of it. Shit, I was ten when Roxie was born. I asked Mom for a puppy. Got her instead.” He chuckles over that. “But they’re close with each other, which makes me happy. Knowing that they have each other is important.”

  The softer side of Dylan pops out, and I don’t know if he even knows it. I have a feeling that when he does he’ll retract again, masking himself.

  “I see them when I can, send them money,” he adds without me asking. “Hopefully when the time comes they’ll get out of there and explore life. See what it has to offer.”

  He seems lost in the thought, which gives me time to study him. His usual hardness is gone, and it makes me drawn to him despite the warnings going off inside of me.

  I’m becoming attached again, and I know it won’t end well. Yet, whatever feeling is buzzing inside of me urges the connection to deepen.

  “You’re from a small town, right? One-horse feel, farms, people who know everyone and everything. It can’t be that bad, can it? Not like a city where there’s danger at every corner.”

  His eyes meet mine, but his are a million miles away. “There’s bad no matter where you go, Ashton.”

  I press my lips together. I guess he’s right, but it seems like there’s more to the story than what he’s telling me. But I know the glaze over his eyes, because they match mine. So I don’t press him for the details.

  “We’ve got two more weeks to finish the song,” I say to change the subject. “I think we should work on the instrumental to get the music down and then we can work on the rest of the lyrics.”

  He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Uh … it is.” I look at him suspiciously, wondering what game he’s playing. Agreeing to everything I say doesn’t seem to fit his MO, yet once more, I don’t question it.

  He puts the pillow back down and stands, walking over to me and putting his hand out, palm up.

  I stare at his hand suspiciously. “I don’t bite, Boots.” I meet his eyes, seeing his crooked grin as he adds, “Not too hard anyway.”

  The way he winks brings him back to his old self,
and somehow that’s all the motivation I need to put my palm in his. Pulling me up from where I sat, he smiles at me playfully.

  “You said there’s a studio?” he asks.

  I smile back at him, gesturing toward the back door. “It’s in the backyard. Grandpa was going to build a workshop, but at the time I was so consumed in my music he thought it’d be a better space for me. It’s been upgraded since he uh …”

  My heart lurches in my chest just thinking about him, but I brush it off.

  “Since he passed,” he finishes for me.

  I just nod.

  He trails his hands down my arms before taking my hands in his, squeezing them. “It’s okay to be upset. I won’t fault you for it.”

  I sniff back tears before they fall. “I’ve been through a lot over the years. I cried when my parents died after a car accident, and again when my grandparents died. Crying over loss has become so … normal to me.”

  Dylan’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t let himself frown like I can see he wants to. No, instead, he sees the impending ‘but’ in my eyes, like he gets my clouded hues.

  “But?” he presses.

  I blink. “I never cried over Rhys.”

  He moves one of his hands up to my cheek, cupping it. “There’s a lot you can get from that, you know.”

  “How can you be sure, Dylan?”

  His thumb brushes my cheekbone, my heart picking up over the soft caress. “Because we only let ourselves cry over the people who are worth our tears.”

  I have no idea what to say to that, so I just stare at him. In amazement. Solidarity. Wondering why he’s so insightful, yet pretending he’s got nothing in him worth showing to the world.

  He draws back, putting his hands in his pockets. “So how about that studio?”

  Dylan

  Nashville isn’t the type of place I expected it to be, but I’m not complaining. Not like Ashton seems to think I will every time she downplays her home or something that she likes from her childhood.

  Even the studio, which I can tell is her safe haven, she pretends is nothing special. Yet, her eyes give her away. The small, log-cabin styled space is everything to her.

  And sure, it’s no five-star hotel that I’m staying at, but better. Unlike those hotels, her house is full of valuable memories. The best I get while staying elsewhere is ghosts of cheap regrets and dark secrets.

  Ash has a home.

  After our studio session, I find myself back in my room, lounging across the oddly comfortable guest bed. Despite the girly ruffles that the room’s theme has, it’s a relaxing space.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I assume it’s the guys asking how things are going. Just like they do every day, probably waiting for me to admit I fucked something up.

  But it’s been almost a week since I’ve stayed here, and somehow, we’re making it work. Their surprise doesn’t even bother me, because I had no idea what I was walking into when I agreed to stay here. I just knew that Ashton needed to come home, and I wasn’t going to stop her from healing.

  Because that’s what this trip is about. And if I want her to finally see some light again, why would I stop her? We may be eerily similar, but that doesn’t mean she can’t change. At least she’s willing to.

  When I pull out the phone, I see it’s from Tom, and I mentally groan when I hit accept.

  “Yes, boss man?” I greet, with a fake level of enthusiasm thick in my words.

  “Something rather troubling has come to my attention,” he states, voice oddly level for statement as alarming as that one.

  I rack my brain for something that I’ve done, but come up blank. My life has become increasingly boring since working with Ashton. Not that it’s a bad thing, considering my previous altercations brought a little too much excitement in my life.

  “What’d I do?” I finally ask, sighing.

  “Surprisingly, nothing.”

  I snort. “Okay then, so what’s the trouble you’re talking about?”

  “It involves Conner Mason.” I sit up in bed, leaning against the headboard, trying to figure out why the name sounds familiar.

  “Okay …” I drawl. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Conner Mason is a country singer, good friends with Rhys Alden. He’s seen quite a bit of action himself, a milder version of you in the media.” I take it as a compliment despite Tom probably not seeing it as one. “And Mr. Mason has chosen to alienate himself unintentionally by trying to pass off your song lyrics as his own.”

  Any pride swarming my chest dissipates, filling with fear. My body goes rigid, jaw clenches, and heart picks up with an adrenaline rush.

  “Excuse me?” I demand.

  Tom clears his throat. “His manager found your notebook in his possession, and he claims Rhys gave it to him. Since Ian told me your notebook was missing, I’m going to assume you didn’t give it to him willingly.”

  “Hell no,” I bark. “Where the fuck is it?”

  “It is now with me. Stella Banks shipped it to me here in New York.”

  Stella? “Rhys’s grandmother?”

  “She owns part of the company, therefore handles some of the drama. And this mess has stirred quite a bit of it.”

  That piques my interest. “Go on,” I press.

  As far as I’m concerned, my notebook is in safe hands, which means whatever comes next will be a lot easier to deal with. Like punching Conner and Rhys in their faces for one.

  Tom explains the situation with as little detail as possible, barely giving me any useful information. Besides Rhys stealing my notebook from Stella’s studio thinking it was Ashton’s, I didn’t know much.

  “Stella has both of them under probation of sorts,” Tom concludes. “And we informed them that we would press charges for theft if they decided to act out again.”

  “Press charges,” I scoff, thinking it’s not a good enough punishment. “Tell them we’ll sue. Scare them.”

  “Suing wouldn’t do any good,” he tries telling me. But I won’t have it.

  “Make them believe it will. If this Conner Mason guy is anything like Rhys, then the idea of having everything taken from him will scare him enough to get his shit straight.”

  “Believe me,” Tom insists, “those two are more alike than we’d all like to hear. And I’ll talk to Stella about what you said. I’m sure she’d be interested in the tactic. Especially coming from you.”

  From me?

  Tom seems to guess what I’m thinking. “I don’t know what you did, but she likes you. And for somebody as hard-headed as that woman, that’s no easy feat.”

  I can’t think of what I would have done, but don’t let it consume me as much as the anger does.

  “Why did they do it?”

  He sighs. “I really shouldn’t say.”

  “They tried stealing something very important from me, Tom. I’d say that justifies an explanation, don’t you agree?”

  I’m met by silence for a long while as he contemplates my argument. But he knows I’m right, and that I won’t stop until I get a reason.

  “Drugs were involved,” he finally spills. “I don’t know the whole scoop, but I do know that Conner was blackmailing Rhys for a song in trade of keeping his drug use quiet.”

  My eyes narrow. “But Ashton was involved. If they thought it was her notebook, that means they have dirt on her, too.”

  My worry shifts to her before I can stop it.

  “No need to worry yourself,” he assures. “I hear Stella is taking care of it. Neither you nor Ms. King have anything to concern yourself with. Besides the song, that is.”

  I can hear the impending question in his tone, so I tell him it’s going fine. And considering there hasn’t been any bad pictures or stories in the press about me, he believes me.

  After we hang up, I run my palms down my face. In relief mostly. Ian called me the night I arrived here to tell me that my notebook wasn’t there. And dread had attached itself to me since.

  Yet knowing that
those idiots were trying to use it didn’t help, knowing they saw a part of me that I liked kept hidden in the pages.

  But because I’ve been them, I know their fear. They won’t risk their careers any more than they already have. The scare tactic would work, because it would work on me. When you’ve built your life around being on the top, your biggest terror becomes watching it all crumble until you’re back at the bottom.

  I’d like to say my fears have changed, that I’m not like them anymore because I found something else, someone else, to feel fear for. But they haven’t, and I’m not.

  And I hold onto that knowing how much it says about me.

  Ashton

  I never would have expected Dylan to be dedicated to a collaboration that he stayed so intent on hating from the start. Yet each day we meet at noon in my tiny homemade studio, playing next to each other. To each other. He showed up early every time, strumming his guitar. And every time, I would listen to him outside the door.

  Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t. It seems like we had an unspoken understanding with each other, letting ourselves get lost in the music—feeling anything that came from the words, the sounds, and everything in between.

  We’d only known each other for three weeks, yet in those three weeks we’ve found solace in each other. Whenever I look at him from across the room, I see a piece of me in him, like I’m looking into a mirror instead of his eyes.

  Kindred spirits.

  Every day we would spend at least two hours in the studio, every night in the living room watching movies, and once in a while we’d even go out to grab something to eat or drink. Having him in my home made the ghosts that roamed around more bearable.

  Despite making him sit through movies he looked like he hated, he never complained. Not when I made him watch Pretty Woman (he apparently had a crush on Julia Roberts), Burlesque (he thought pairing Cher and Christina Aguilera was entertaining) or even Fifty Shades of Grey (there was sex, so he was happy).

  When I take him out to some of my favorite hangouts, I make him drink pink girly drinks called weird names, and order food that somebody like him wouldn’t be seen eating—seaweed wraps, raw fish, or caviar. He drank and ate everything I challenged him with, with a smirk on his face.