“None?” Peter asked, skepticism clear in his voice and raised brow.
Dustin considered that question. Before the girls he’d thought about running after her a lot. It always ended with a passionate kiss, the ones that ended girly movies. As time went on, as he retold the bedtime story over and over again, he discarded the idea of a happily ever after; those belonged only in the stories. And then, what was the point even of seeing each other again? She’d made very clear her desire the night she’d run out on him. He understood why she’d left, but he didn’t need to know why she’d never come back.
“What would be the point? Her leaving was pretty final.”
“As was your decision to let her.”
Dustin’s bark of laughter was harsh. “Please, Peter, explain to me how I had any control over anything Faith West did. Ever.”
“Silly me, I forgot – love makes you powerless.”
Dustin’s scowl turned into a smirk as he grabbed Peter’s beer, throwing back his head to finish it off. “How do your students put up with you? Shouldn’t a history teacher have a less romantic view of the world?”
Peter grinned and clapped a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “The plight of the ages can be traced back to love of God, woman, or country. Passion fuels our past. Something we can all learn from.”
“I pity your students.”
“You should. I’m far too nice to them.”
Chapter 4
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Trevor asked as he held out a coat for his wife.
“Or go instead of us?” Madison added.
“Mady, honey, come on, it’s not going to be that bad.”
“I know. It’s going to be worse.” Madison grabbed Faith’s arm, looking like she was about to be pulled away to war.
“It’s only dinner,” Trevor protested. “And you love dinner.”
“Dinner with you, dinner with Faith here, sure. Dinner with your mother, not so much.”
Trevor looked at her skeptically. “You love my mother. Stop being overdramatic.”
“Yes, your mother I love. But her and all of her friends staring at me like a beached whale, that I can live without.”
“What do you want me to do?” Trevor asked. “Kidnap the pop singer? They’ll still only want to talk about you, love.”
Madison sighed comically and let go of Faith. “He’s right. Save yourself.” Trevor wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her out of the house, whispering teasing remarks into his wife’s ear. She was laughing by the time he helped her into the car.
Faith was moving before the car had even skated out of view. Her hands had been itching since lunch, yearning for her guitar, staff paper, and quiet.
It should have been easier to hide her desire – she’d had over eight years to practice – but her house had always been her sanctuary, the place she didn’t need to pretend. Her houseguests weren’t intrusive, but she could feel their presence acutely when all she wanted to be was alone. They’d picked up on her unease, she was sure of it, and obliged by putting on that comedy routine for her. How could she not smile, even wistfully, when they were around? She’d chosen her company so wisely.
She closed the double doors of her study before pulling paper, pens, and small scraps of poetry from a drawer. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment before throwing the mess into the air and letting it fall around her, a storm of chaos and creativity.
Faith settled into her familiar spot on the floor, leaning just barely against the edge of the leather sofa, and closed her eyes. They popped back open a minute later, unease stricken across her face. The voices whispering in the back of her head wanted her to work on the only song she’d never been able to finish, the one whose chorus was imprinted on her soul. It was his fault. He had done this to her; he was the song that wouldn’t let go.
She strummed the guitar idly, dropping instead into the first song she’d ever written; she needed to distract the clawing need inside of her. It worked well as long as she didn’t think of the lyrics; the melody was perfect background noise since it had played in the back of her head for as long as she could remember. Some people dreamt in words, in pictures, in different languages. Faith dreamt in notes, in melodies and harmonies, and now lyrics. Not that anyone knew that. She hid her songwriting, never sang a song she wrote, all hidden behind the Andy Peters persona.
Dustin would get a kick out of that, how she’d perverted his tone deaf twin’s name into one synonymous with musical excellence. That hadn’t been her original intention, though she appreciated the irony of it now. Then, her music had still been so wrapped up in the life she’d almost had – even in her dreams Peter was as close as she’d ever let her mind go.
Not today though. Today she’d gotten closer than she’d ever imagined being again. Part of her yearned to be closer – search his face for signs of age. Did his features crease into a pattern of worry or wonder, melancholy or mirth? If he’d seen her, would his eyes have sparkled with invitation or rejection? Was he happy? Did she want him to be?
A song was writing itself with those thoughts, but she resisted, not allowing herself to sink into the haze where all lyrics made sense, all notes had a purpose. She needed to wonder – what kind of song would she be writing if he had seen her? Faith shuddered – she had no fucking clue.
She put down the guitar and dropped her head into her hands, pulling on her hair in distraction. If he’d moved here, away from the country and his land, she could run into him again. She’d spent her life secure in the knowledge that she’d never see him again, their worlds too different, their spheres never needing to intersect. That was obviously an ostrich view, hiding her head in the sand so she could avoid what she didn’t want to deal with. It was an assumption she couldn’t keep any longer.
What would she have said if he approached her? If he had seen her across a crowded room or a hotel bar or a busy street. If he had seen her at her best, at her worst, somewhere in between. What would have happened if…
A sudden thought stole the breath from her lungs – he had seen her. He had to. His girlfriend had come over to the table; it defied logic to think he hadn’t known why. He had seen her and done nothing, said nothing. A decade with things left unsaid and no desire to say them.
Part of her soul cursed him, the other agreed with him. What good would acknowledging her presence have done? Empty pleasantries would have been difficult to get out. Loud recriminations would have just made an uncomfortable scene. Maybe ignorance and apathy were the right way to go. She didn’t know what the rules were for running into the man you’d run away from.
An apology almost seemed in order, but she wasn’t exactly sorry. It would have ended anyway; staying would have just prolonged the heartache. She was sorry it didn’t work out, would always be, but not that she’d left. Leaving had been an act of love. Her final one.
Faith’s head came up, determination in her eyes as she grabbed for her pen – now she had her song.
“Morning, Peaches.”
“Morning, Dad,” Harmony said as she descended the staircase. “Where’s Uncle Dust?”
Peter raised his coffee to his lips before answering. “He’s still sleeping.”
“Still? You know what time it is, right? Is he okay?”
“He’s… sleeping, that’s all.”
Harmony paused at the bottom of the stairs, studied her father for a moment, and then pivoted to climb back up. “Harmony Joyce Andrews, get back down here.”
His feistiest daughter turned but didn’t leave the step. “You used my middle name. You never use my middle name.”
“Well, you usually at least pretend to listen to me. Let your uncle sleep; he needs his rest. He did spend all day driving yesterday.”
Harmony made her way to the kitchen but continued looking upstairs, reluctance clear in her movements. “But you wouldn’t let me stay up to talk to him last night, and I wanted to ask him about Madison Duncan and Faith West.�
�
“Let’s not talk about that, okay?”
“Dad, are you serious? We’re going to be talking about that for years.”
“Talking about what for years?” Dustin asked as he entered, a hand massaging his temples.
“Movie stars and pop singers,” Harmony murmured, grabbing a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice before turning.
“God, why is it so bright in here? Haven’t you guys ever heard of curtains?”
When Harmony saw her uncle, a look of concern crossed her face. “You look awful, Uncle Dust.”
“Gee, thanks Harm. Exactly what I want to hear in the morning.” Dustin closed the blinds on the kitchen window and leaned back against the counter with a sigh.
“No, seriously, are you okay?” She placed her hand against his forehead.
Dustin flinched. “Thanks for the concern, but I don’t need any mothering, darlin’.”
“Are you sure about that?” He glared at her. “Hmph,” she said, pivoting, the long brown curtain of her hair hitting him in the shoulder as she left the room.
“I feel like crap,” Dustin murmured.
“Yes, well that hair is registered as a deadly weapon.”
“You’re a horrible brother.”
“I’m the only one you got, so deal with it.” Peter opened the fridge and grabbed a tall glass. “Here, drink this.”
“What is it?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you.”
Dustin glared at the glass and motioned for Peter to set it down as he cradled his head in his hands. “How much did I drink?”
“Let’s put it this way. I went to the store two days ago, and we’re already out of beer.” Peter’s response was met with a groan.
“Oh my gosh, he’s drunk,” Harmony said, reentering the room carrying a trash can full of glass bottles. “I knew it – there’s your hangover cure. What happened? What’s wrong?”
“None of your business,” Dustin growled, never even looking up.
“You don’t have to tell me now, but I’ll find out eventually, you know. I’m very persuasive.”
“Harmony, out!” Peter ordered in his most stern teacher voice. His daughter just shrugged her shoulders and grinned, suggesting his resistance was futile. It was an expression Peter knew all too well.
“Is discretion even a word you know?” Dustin asked.
“Yeah, nice try. You’re the one hungover. If you didn’t want anyone to know that, you should have stayed in bed until we left. I’d already convinced her not to come find you.”
“Boys. Why couldn’t they have been boys ...”
Peter clapped a hand on Dustin’s back, causing him to flinch. “This time maybe you’re right. Boys would have drank all the beer before you even came home.” Peter leaned close to his brother’s ear and continued in a whisper. “We’ll be home early since it’s a minimum day. I suggest you get clear-headed before then, otherwise my daughter is going to eat you alive. And I’m going to watch.”
“Punk child.”
“Drink that!” Peter ordered as he grabbed his bag and left the room. Dustin waited until he heard their voices depart and the front door slam before he straightened. He glared at the concoction sitting next to him. He remembered all too well what awaited him at the bottom of that glass. He picked it up and moved to the kitchen table, collapsing into a chair.
Damn he hated seeing that glass. That glass meant he’d lost control just like his grandfather used to. That glass meant he’d let his emotions get the better of him. That glass meant he’d regressed back to that foolish teenager who didn’t have any other way to cope. That glass was a mirror, and the reflection was anything but welcome.
He could count on one hand the number of times it had appeared. When his mother died. After his father’s funeral. When he’d been fired because he wouldn’t lie to the customer. After Darcy died, he’d been the one who broke down because Peter couldn’t. But the first time, almost a decade ago, right after he got out of the hospital and off all the painkillers that might react badly with alcohol. He’d gotten so drunk it didn’t wear off for days. Peter never judged him for that, just handed him that glass when he decided he’d had enough.
Dustin sighed. All he had to do was see her across a restaurant and he dove into a vat of liquor. How could she still have so much hold over him? He hadn’t seen her for almost ten years, and the thought of her eyes on him had him running. What was he afraid of?
He ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble. That wasn’t hard to answer, even if he tried as hard as he could to ignore it. Faith West within arm’s reach had his heart racing. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t deny it either. Try as he might, he could not forget her, wasn’t really even sure he wanted to.
But she wasn’t attainable; she was a symbol. To him she represented innocence. The purity of first love. The foolhardiness of youth. The fragility of happily ever after. Seeing her in the flesh shattered all of his carefully constructed illusions. She wasn’t an abstract ideal; she was the woman that broke his heart.
“Pull yourself together, man,” Dustin said aloud. This was ridiculous. So he saw her, Faith West, in the flesh and not on the cover of Peter’s magazines. He’d been dreading that for years, even if he hadn’t realized it until right now.
And look, he’d survived. He’d come out the other side relatively unscathed. She was his Everest, and he had conquered her. The end. He wouldn’t have to worry about that girl again. The question of Faith West – asked and answered. He grabbed the glass, threw back his head, and downed the contents, feeling considerably lighter.
The doorbell rang, jarring Faith from her thoughts. She got up to answer the door, waving away the housekeeper, Pearl, so she could stretch. Annoyance descended at the sight of the man there, and she couldn’t help but fidget. Her fingers itched for a guitar, this time to hide behind.
“I thought you were going to leave me in peace?”
“No,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “I never agreed to that.”
“Who has come to visit,” she asked after a pause, not liking the look in his eyes, “my lawyer or my friend?”
“I – ”
“No,” she said, her voice strong even though she felt like sighing the question, “my lawyer or my friend? Only one of you has a chance of coming in here right now.”
Jackson took her by the upper arms and smiled down at her. “Sorry, Faith, but right now I really need to be both. Neither of them are staying out on this doorstep.”
“I don’t need this, not this week. Can’t whatever it is just wait? Everything else can wait. Everything else always does.”
He gave her a slightly aggrieved look. “Don’t you think I know better than to bother you with trivial stuff right now? We’ve been friends long enough to know that rule. But Faith, we really need to talk about the night of your birthday party.” She looked away, a wave of awkwardness hitting her. “Good, you remember the last time I was here,” he said, pushing past her into the house.
“Remember could mean so many things, Jackson,” she said, cringing. He’d driven her home after her party. And looking down the loaded barrel of thirty, Faith did something she hadn’t done in eight years; she got blissfully, recklessly drunk. And then poured her heart out, emptied it of shadows she was sure she’d never let see the light of day. She’d have to pay him better now that he knew even more of her secrets.
He grinned. “Yes, well, the look on your face says you recall enough.” She was still standing by the open door, wishing she could convince him to leave and avoid rehashing any of it. She’d managed it almost a decade the first time – she had hope. But Jackson had disappeared into her study, so he didn’t look like he would oblige. Faith cast a wistful glance out the door, wondering how far she could make it before remembering the promise she’d made herself when she reached the bottom of the bourbon. No more running.
“My, haven’t we made ourselves at home.” Fai
th’s dry tone didn’t even make the lawyer flinch from his perch on the edge of her desk. She sent him a raised brow when she noticed the glass in his hand.
“It’s not for me; it’s for you.”
She held up her hands in protest. “I think I’m good for another decade or two.”
“You might need it.”
She rolled her eyes at his melodrama before dropping down on the couch. Then she remembered Jackson wasn’t overdramatic. He was even-tempered, level-headed, and didn’t overreact; that was why she liked him. “Why?” she asked in suspicion.
“Because you’re not going to like what I have to say.” He let a small smile play across his features. “And you’re either going to fire me for interfering, thank me for being an overachiever, or curse the day you laid eyes on me. You actually might go for the trifecta and do all three.” She eyed him curiously and took the glass from his hand.
Jackson took a seat across from her, unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaning forward in earnestness. He always selected his words carefully, but he opened his mouth three times to start, each time reconsidering. “Out with it, Jackson, or I really will fire you.”
He looked resigned. “How much do you remember telling me?”
“I don’t really –” she began, rising in agitation.
“It’s important.”
With anyone else she wouldn’t have believed it. She glared at him before turning to look out the window. “I don’t remember exactly what I said. There was the summer at the ranch after that never-ending tour. And my twentieth birthday. And… him.” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name now, though it had been all over her lips then, she was sure of it. “Where are you going here, Jackson?”
“I’m trying to determine if you recall telling me about the hospital.” Faith’s eyes got wide, and the drink tumbled from her hand, bouncing off the carpet, ice clanking together. She never told anyone about that, ever. How drunk had she been?
“You told me about the wedding too.” Faith grabbed for the table, wanting to feel something solid against her hand. Jackson was at her side in an instant, helping her back to the couch.
Pucker Up Page 4
