When she left the hospital, her daughter screaming behind her, she looked at me and Scott standing outside her door. “You have a month. If anyone can get her back, it’s you. Don’t waste it.” Then she kissed my cheek, hugged Scott and got the hell outta dodge. Leaving us with the furious, sullen girl.
She’s sitting in her wheelchair when we arrive. It’s actually hers, not a shitty loaner the hospital is sparing for her. It’s motorized, and she has a tablet and phone strapped to the side table. It’s even bright pink.
“You’re late,” she says shortly, glaring at Rike. I bite my lip to keep from snapping at her.
Lindsay has always fought with the people she loves, to keep them distracted or to distract herself. Whoever is the safest for her to fight with becomes her target.
I pause in the doorway.
How the hell do I know that? It’s not something that was written down in my journals. I shake my head and focus on the Lindsay.
She’s watching me, and I see hope flare there, and then it’s gone. “You came back,” she says flatly. I nod and she laughs. “How long are you going to stay this time?”
“Linds,” Rike says, his voice sharp.
“It’s fine,” I say, glancing at him. Calling him down. This isn’t about him. I didn’t just run from Rike. I ran from all of them, and I ran when she needed me. If I were in that chair, I’d be just as angry.
“I’m here,” I say, meeting her angry gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. How about you?”
She glares at me, but she doesn’t argue anymore when Scott pick up her bags and we leave the hospital together.
The ride home is tense and silent. Rike talks about a client he’s been working on. I’ve figured out, through a little bit of trial and error, that Rike specializes in large pieces. He’ll do anything, but he prefers large tattoos that are heavy on the intricate detail work. He did the mandala on his side that covers an ugly scar that he refuses to talk about.
And I know he sketched the art that Scott has on his back.
The talk of tattoos doesn’t do anything to draw Lindsay out of her shell, and we get home in near silence.
The wraparound porch has been added to. A long, wide ramp curves around it, and the patio table has been cleared. Her eyes go wide and she darts a look at Scott before she blinks, going blank. I say, softly, “He’s been working hard to make this a place for you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not what he should be working on. He should be on tour by now.”
I laugh, and push out of the truck. “He won’t go anywhere while you need him.”
***
After three days of the four of us in the house, we’re beginning to find a rhythm. Rike spends his mornings sketching, and his afternoons with me or Scott. Evenings are for the tattoo shop, before he comes home, tired but happy, and falls into bed to fuck me until we’re both exhausted.
Lindsay spends all morning in her bedroom, bitching when Scott drags her to physical therapy. When he retreats to practice with his band, her mood improves and she sits quietly reading or working from her computer while I sketch and write.
And I drift, absorbing everything silently. Every night, Rike watches me with those bright blue eyes, quietly, hopefully, and every day, I have to admit that nothing is changing.
“I think,” I say on the third night, while we’re lying on the chaise in my studio, catching our breath after sex, “that if I don’t remember what we were, it would be ok. That we would be ok. I don’t have to remember everything to know that I could be happy with you.”
His face softens, and he leans down, brushing a kiss over my lips before he rolls to curl against my back, holding me tight to him. “I want you to remember, sweetheart. I want you to know what we had. But if you don’t—you’re right. We will be happy. It doesn’t change the way I love you.”
“Do you think it’s easier for us because I wear my scars inside?” I ask.
He sighs and shrugs. Kisses my shoulder. “We can’t fight that one, Fish. They’ll stand or they won’t, and we can only do what we’ve always done—love them as much as we can, and be there for them.”
“What if she leaves? How can I be there for her when I have to be there for Scott?”
“Scott is my best friend. My brother. But Lindsay is yours. And I won’t ever stand between that. Neither would he. It might be awkward and uncomfortable, but you’ll do what you need to do, to be there for her.”
I nod and pull his hand up to brush a kiss over it.
“Does it bother you?” he asks.
I don’t need to ask what. “Yes. I wish I knew everything. That I could remember the first time I told you I loved you, or when you said it to me. Our first fight, and when you made love to me, or why we moved here, or—everything. I wish I could remember everything. But that’s the past. And the girl I was chose you. The girl I am today is choosing you. So in the end, does it really matter?”
He rolls me and slips into me, easy and effortless. I gasp a little. It never fails to surprise me, how ready he always is. Slow, lazy thrusts have me arching silently against him, and he leans down. I tilt my head for a kiss, but he murmurs into my ear. “In my shitty apartment, after a gig at Barrie’s. That’s the first time I took you to bed. We had been fighting about the secrets you were keeping, and that night everything changed.” He twists, taking me with him as he rolls to his back and I gasp, bracing my hands on his chest as I settle on top of him. “And in the rain. We were camping, and it was raining. And you were dancing in it, like a little girl. We made love in a field, with the rain all around us, and you riding me, and I told you then, because I couldn’t stand another minute without you knowing that I loved you. That I will always love you. You’re it for me, Fish. The sea and the air I breathe and every fucking thing that matters.”
I shatter, gasping his name as the orgasm reaches up and pulls me under, a crashing wave of sensation that begins and ends in him and the steady push and pull of him.
He keeps thrusting, and I lean down, kissing him, grinding against him until he pants my name, his body shaking as he comes.
We lie still for a long moment, wrapped around each other, breathing with each other. “I love you, Fish,” he whispers. “Always have. Always will. You remembering that won’t change a damn thing for me.”
***
Lindsay is in the living room when I come downstairs the next day, and her gaze when it lands on me is miserable. It dims the quiet glow that I’ve been feeling since last night.
I make two cups of coffee, dumping too much sugar and milk into hers. Grab a Pop-Tart and go back to the living room. I put her coffee in front of her, and curl on the other edge of the couch. Tear open the Pop-Tarts and hand her one.
“Is that something you remembered or something that’s muscle memory?” she asks, taking the sugary cardboard.
I shrug. “Let’s split the difference and call it a day.”
She snorts. I hide my smirk behind my coffee and study her. “So let’s talk about you.” Her eyes go careful and guarded and I make a noise in the back of my throat. “Don’t. Don’t do that ice queen bullshit, Linds. I’m here because I’m worried about you. So talk to me.”
“You’re here because Rike is hot and the sex is phenomenal. Don’t delude yourself.”
“The sex is phenomenal,” I say with feeling and she giggles. A real noise that strings hope along me like fireworks.
“Tell me about the wedding,” I say.
Tears fill her eyes and she shakes her head. “I can’t, Peyton.”
“I’m not asking for much, sugar. What colors were you using?”
“Teal and black. My dress was white with a light teal lace overlay and black accents. It was so damn gorgeous.” Her voice cracks and for just a second, I think she’s going to give in. Let me in. Tell me everything that she’s been keeping bottled up and secret. But she takes a sip of her coffee, fighting to get control, and she gives me a watery smile. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over
.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Fuck, Lindsay, he loves you. The kind of crazy, stop-the-world-from-spinning love that people only dream about. Why on earth are you walking away from that?”
“Because it’s the kind of love that stops the world from spinning. And if the world stops spinning, it dies. I don’t want him to get this close to having it all, and then throw it away to take care of a cripple who can’t be what he needs. I refuse to be the reason he doesn’t get his dreams.”
I stare at her, stunned by the fierce passion in her voice. By the pure belief that she’s right.
There isn’t a way to convince her that she isn’t. And she isn’t walking away because she doesn’t love him. Which makes it so much more difficult.
She’s walking away because she loves him too much.
Chapter 27: Before
“We should go away,” Lindsay says.
I look at her, pulled out of my sketch for just a moment. Peyton is half-asleep, her head on my thigh and my fingers sifting through her hair as I draw.
“Why?”
She looks over her shoulder, at where Scott is banging on guitar strings. He’s been in a shitty mood since we came home from Austin two weeks ago. The waiting is killing him.
I understand. It’s slowly driving me crazy, and I have the tattoo shop and songwriting to distract me. Scott only has the music. It’s always been harder for him.
“Where would we go?” Peyton asks, sleepily.
“My parents’ condo.”
“You know it’s freezing, right?” she asks, a smile in her voice.
“So we wear sweaters and get drunk in the hot tub instead of bikinis and drunk on the beach. Come on. It’ll be good to get out of the city for a while, and we’re on break. It’s perfect.”
Peyton peers up at me, her gaze questioning. She’s been skittish around Scott for the past few weeks, since that night in the club—and he’s noticed, even if he hasn’t commented. Shoving us all into a small condo for a few days will either cure her of that or make things worse.
“It sound fun,” I say and she lets out a tiny sigh. “Fine. When do we leave?”
Lindsay shrieks, a happy noise that makes my ears hurt, and Peyton giggles.
“If we leave tomorrow, we can put up a tree and celebrate Christmas!” Linds says, bouncing off the table and darting to her room. “I’m calling Daddy!”
***
It takes less than three hours to get the condo and for Lindsay’s father to arrange plane tickets—his present to us, and when we argued, the man was having none of it.
I don’t like Peyton’s parents, but as parents go, Lindsay did good.
The girls are darting from room to room, stealing clothes and packing and laughing. Scott lands on the couch next to me, his bag on the kitchen table with mine.
We don’t need much, and pack fast—a skill I learned in the system that I still carry.
“Think it’s a good idea to force Red into this?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? She could have said no.”
“And you could have said the room was taken.”
I go still and Scotty curses. “Dude. You know I don’t give a fuck, but it messes with shit. She isn’t one of the girls we took home from Barrie’s.”
“I fucking know that,” I snap. “She wanted to stay. So fuck off. She’ll be fine.”
He looks at me for a minute, skepticism in his gaze, and I growl softly. “I’m not doing anything that will fuck up what I have with her. You ought to know that. She’s all that matters.”
“What if she doesn’t want this? If the next step is signing with this studio and moving to be closer to the indie scene? You know the five year plan.”
I do. It’s always been the plan—work and build our name in Knoxville before we move to Nashville or Austin.
When we made the plan, it was just us. Two friends with no attachments and big-ass dreams. The girls changed that. I glance at Lindsay as she almost runs past with a sweater and a wide smile. “What about her? Can you let go of her if we leave and she doesn’t follow?”
“Lindsay will. She already knows the plan. She’s known from the beginning.”
I stare at him in shock and he lets out a sharp laugh. “One day, dude, you’re going to stop being a distrustful ass, and start letting people in. You might want to do it before Peyton wakes up and realizes how much you don’t tell her.”
He gets up and follows Lindsay into the bedroom, and I stare at the closed door for a long minute.
Then I stand and walk into our room. Peyton is half in the closet, wrestling a dress off a hanger. She grins at me when she tosses it on the bed, and then stills, staring at me. Her brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”
“Would you move with me? To Austin?”
She blinks, her mouth falling open.
She’s still so fucking beautiful it hurts. And she’s scared. I can see it in her gaze, darting away from mine.
“If this works out, for Scott and me. Would you follow me?”
“Do you want me to?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I move, coming off the bed and catching her around the waist, kissing her hard and fast. “Fuck yes. I love you, Fish. You’re everything to me. I don’t want you to move with me. I want to marry you. I want you with me forever. I want every vacation to be this mad dash around while you giggle and plan. You writing while I draw. I want you to steal my razor and bitch when I touch your coffee and I want every fucking holiday with you. I want everything, Peyton. I don’t even care about the music. I love it, and I love being able to do it with Scott, but if it ever comes down to you or the music, I’m going to pick you. Every fucking time, I’ll pick you.”
She’s leaning against me, her head on my chest, and I can feel her shoulders shaking. When she looks up, her eyes are bright and shiny, but she’s smiling, this brilliant fucking smile that makes my insides ache. “Did you just propose?”
I don’t even think about it. “Yeah. You saying yes?”
“You fucking idiot,” she murmurs, and then she’s kissing me, and every fucking thing in my world is right, because she’s in my arms.
“Is that a yes?” I ask desperately, and she laughs.
“Of course. It’s never been a choice, Rike. I love you—and that means Scott, and everything that come with him. So yes. I’ll move to Austin with you. I’ll move anywhere. And I’ll marry you whenever you’re ready.”
“This weekend.”
She laughs, and she nods before she kisses me.
This. This is the real shit I’ve been chasing for so long. The family I always wanted and never had. The friends in the other room. This girl, in my arms.
This girl. She will always be everything I’ve ever wanted.
Chapter 28: After
It's laughter and little lessons and heartbreak.
It is never easy.
But.
Easy is empty.
It's bland and boring. It doesn't make my heart
Sing or dance or hurt.
Easy is empty. And you.
Are everything.
(Rike’s poems to Peyton)
The day it happens starts like any other. I’ve been home for two weeks now, and although we’re all working to bring Lindsay out of her shell, to get her to trust us and trust what she and Scott have, it’s not working. We can feel her slipping away, and feel him sliding into a deep depression. Rike is fighting to keep him, and Lindsay is vanishing before our eyes.
Rike pops into my studio early this morning, with another cup of coffee and a toe-curling kiss that pulls me instantly from the paints I’m laying out.
I’ve apologized to my clients, a furious backlog in my inbox that took me a full day to work through. Some I wrote off completely—I couldn’t remember enough about the work and the client to put together a solid piece. Others, I offered a discounted price and an apology with a new delivery date. And most were understanding—those who weren’t were people I didn’t want to work with anywa
y.
“What are you working on today?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder. He shaved recently, and the beard has since been replaced with an ever-present scruff that I love.
“I’m doing a painting of a wedding photo. They were married in in ’62. How long is that?”
“A long fucking time?” he offers, and I laugh.
Look at him over my shoulder. “Do you think we can do that? Be together that long?”
His expression gentles. “Fish. We’ve been through hell the past three months, yeah? If we can get through this, we can get through anything. Fifty years is a piece of cake.”
I nod, and he kisses me again before he steps away. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s the plan?”
Rike shrugs. “We’re meeting the band about song selection for the next album. Since Scott canceled the tour, they need to get that going to keep the momentum.”
“See you tonight?”
He nods, and leans in to kiss me. “See you then.”
***
I switch on the radio, and spend the next few hours painting. It’s easy to get lost in my art, and it’s when I feel closest to the girl I was. Around lunchtime, I go downstairs and make lunch with Lindsay. She seems alive when I’m the only one home, the depression and walls she puts up when Scott is present melting away until she’s laughing and alive.
I make us cold cuts and join her at the table. She’s got her computer open and she glances up at me as I sit down. “You’re a mess,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“You’re one to talk,” I tease. “What are you doing?”
She flushes and that piques my interest. “What?” I ask, lowering my sandwich.
“Setting up gigs,” she mumbles.
I stare at her and she shifts in her chair. Slaps the laptop shut and glares at me. “Quit staring at me with those accusing eyes. This is for him.”
“He doesn’t want gigs, you idiot. He wants you.”
Her lips compress into a tight line. “We aren’t doing this,” she say sharply.
Before & After Page 15
