The small room still lay in disarray—Adam yanked up the quilt over the unmade bed and set a basket of clothes in the corner. Socks and boxers poked out from the top drawer of the dresser. But Kylie didn’t seem to notice the chaos of the bedroom. She stood at the corner of the dresser and picked up the only photograph in the room.
“Is this your brother?”
“Yeah. That’s Elliott.” He smiled sadly as Kylie set the frame down. “He was always laughing like that, even when he felt like shit. And it was always at his own stupid jokes. His favorites were chicken jokes.”
“Chicken jokes?”
“Yeah. ‘Why did the chicken eat the eyes? To eat the brain!’” Adam laughed at the memory and sat on the edge of the bed. “They never made any sense, but he’d laugh anyway. Even on his last day, he was cracking jokes.”
Kylie stared at the photograph, her shoulders sagging while she remained otherwise motionless. Adam watched her, his hands resting on his knees. Seemingly coming out of a trance, she shuffled to the edge of the bed and perched herself beside him, biting her lip. Her eyes widened. The room suddenly seemed warmer than usual, and Adam tugged at his collar. Kylie’s chest rose and fell as she inhaled deeply. Quickly, suddenly, she leaned in to kiss him. Her tongue swiped across his lip, sending a wave of heat through his body. His hands held her cheeks as he leaned into her, his breath quickening, and her hand was hot on his thigh, even through the fabric of his jeans.
But her hand trembled.
“What’s wrong?” asked Adam, pulling away.
Her eyes flickered to the photograph.
Oh. Right. Her mother.
“Do you…want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She pulled her hand away from his leg and reached up to brush her hair from her cheek, her eyes turning to the floor.
The air hung heavy as Adam watched her, and his stomach was suddenly sick. This evening was going all wrong, seemingly out of nowhere. He took her hand, lightly stroking her knuckle with his thumb.
“Adam, I…”
“It’s okay,” he said, “I know you’re scared about everything with your mom, about everything that’s going on. I know what it’s like. I know it’s scary.”
The seconds seemed like hours as he waited for Kylie to speak. She peeked out from beneath a curtain of hair. Her eyes were wide, her fingers warm. She leaned in to kiss him once more. But it was a different type of kiss, now. An urgency hid behind it, and her fingers slid around the back of Adam’s neck as she leaned into him. His breath quickened once more as his hands found the curve of her hips.
Once again, as sudden as she had kissed him, she pulled away. Her voice shrank as she spoke.
“I think…I mean, I don’t want to drag you into everything with my mama. I’m sure it would be hard for you, having to relive everything with your brother. I think…we should just be friends or…something.”
“What?”
The word came sharp. Was this only about her mother’s cancer? Or was she afraid to have something more than friends? Was there something else he didn’t know about? He studied her pained expression.
“I don’t mind, really. I can handle it.” He took her hand again. “I really like you, Kylie. I don’t want to be just friends. For the first time in—God, I don’t even know how long—I want something more with someone. And I want it to be you.” Desperation dripped from every syllable.
Kylie stood, wringing her hands together. “Maybe I should go. I just…”
Adam’s hands fell to his sides. “What is this really about? What are you really afraid of?”
Her lips parted, but no words escaped. A moment passed before she seemed to find her voice again, “No, it’s not like that. It’s just…I don’t know what I want right now. It’s complicated.”
Maybe the other night had only happened on account of the alcohol and Kylie’s vulnerability. Adam found himself standing, searching her blue eyes as he cupped her cheeks. Her skin warmed under his palms.
“It’s not that complicated. Either you want it or you don’t.”
She closed her eyes, took a sharp breath, and pulled away. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m sorry. I should go.”
Adam’s hands fell. He followed her as she darted down the stairs, scooped up her purse and shoes and hurried to the front door.
“At least let me walk you back to your car,” he called.
She shook her head while her hands fumbled with the knob. “I don’t need protecting,” she mumbled, shooting him one last glance before throwing open the door and rushing out.
Adam stood, dumbfounded, at the bottom of the staircase.
What the hell just happened?
That's what I thought.
The weeks passed in a flurry of white lab coats, needles, and intravenous drips.
Kylie’s mother was kneeled in the bathroom, heaving over the commode. Kylie closed her eyes, trying to shut out the ugly sounds that somehow seemed louder than the television.
Sarah had begun to receive her chemotherapy at the outpatient clinic, and days like today had become part of her treatment routine: chemo in the morning on her scheduled days, sick at home in the afternoon. She was well into her second round, and it had already begun to take a toll on her.
Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, straightening a bandana on her head. Her hair had fallen out in patches, and her once strong frame seemed diminished. Everything about her appeared wispy; her arms had become thin and spindly, and her pants had to be tightly cinched together with a belt. She caught Kylie’s stare and offered a ghostly smile, and Kylie forced a smile in return.
Sarah eased herself onto the sofa beside Kylie and stared at the pictures lining the fireplace mantle.
“I remember your first day of school,” she said quietly, putting an arm around Kylie’s shoulders and pulling her into her side. “You were so excited to go, and we got you that purple dress for your first day. Remember that one?”
Kylie nodded, glancing at her kindergarten portrait. It was a goofy picture, and her cheesy smile was missing several baby teeth, her hair tied in pigtails.
“As soon as the bus arrived, you changed your mind, and you got so upset and pitched a fit that you wanted to stay home with me. I kept trying to tell you that you’d love school, but you wouldn’t stop crying. It broke my heart, but I finally got you on the bus. I could see your little face in the front window, pouting.
“When you got home, you came sprinting off the bus. Your cheeks were so pink, and you talked a mile a minute about your day and how you’d made the most wonderful friend and how you played together at recess.”
Kylie laughed, low. “We pretended to be puppies at recess for two weeks straight.”
“You and Cat and have been inseparable, and I’m so glad you have each other. When I…” She trailed off and cleared her throat. “Well, when it happens, I don’t want you to lose sight of her. She’s still family, blood or not.”
An icy chill washed over Kylie. A lump rose in her throat as hot tears stung in her eyes. She leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Mama,” she murmured in a tremulous voice, wiping away the few tears that escaped.
Sarah rubbed her arm. “What’s wrong, pea? Something else is bothering you.”
Adam, she wanted to say. He’d been on her mind ever since that night weeks ago, the night she’d run away. Guilt weighed heavy in her chest and had made a permanent home in the pit of her stomach. Adam had called exactly four times, each call further and further apart in time, and his tone grew more defeated with each short voicemail. His last message, left a week ago, she’d played several times already. It’s Adam. Sorry to keep calling. If you decide you want to talk, call me. This is the last time I’ll bother you.
Kylie heaved a sigh. “It’s just a boy, Mama.”
“You mean that Adam boy?”
She nodded. “It’s like he wants so much more than I feel like I can give.”
“Do you like him?” Sarah re
ached over to still Kylie’s fidgeting hand.
“Well, I—”
“Without thinking about it.”
“Yes,” Kylie conceded, her cheeks burning.
Sarah studied her. “Then why are you so scared?”
Flattening her hands on her lap to keep them from wringing together again, Kylie shrugged.
“I can already tell you’re not giving him a chance,” said Sarah gently. “I know you’re still bitter that Ben—Oh, stop making that face, it’s been over a year—cheated on you. Don’t let your past dictate your future. You have to move on.”
“Still pretty traumatizing walking in on him with someone else,” she muttered, folding her arms over her stomach.
A wide smile played on Sarah’s lips, and a gleam twinkled in her eyes. “I want to meet him.”
Kylie’s breath hitched in her chest while her head jerked back. “What? I barely know him.”
“I want to meet him. He obviously means something to you, no matter how long you’ve known each other.”
A sad look dulled her mother’s eyes, but the smile remained on her lips. Kylie’s heart sank at the lack of levity in her tone. Who knew how much more time they had together? For all they knew, she could be gone tomorrow. She bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed hard, and it was another moment before she nodded in agreement.
His lyrics refused to cooperate. The chords sounded decent, but to Adam, the lyrics were garbage. He leaned over his guitar to scratch out the last verse he’d jotted down. Crap. It was all nothing but a steaming pile. Frustrated, he tossed his pencil onto the table, slumped back onto the sofa with his guitar still in his lap, and quietly strummed the chords.
His phone buzzed on the table, and his mother’s number flashed on the screen.
“Hello, Mom,” he answered.
“You’ll never guess who I met!” Ella squealed, her soprano voice nearly ear-piercing. “Yo-Yo Ma, the cellist. You know who he is, don’t you?”
Adam exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it with one hand and holding the phone away from his ear with the other. “Yes, I know who Yo-Yo Ma is.”
He’d already lost count of the weeks since the last time she’d called. She typically bounced from topic to topic, from the new Broadway show for which she’d been signed on as the pianist, to the most recent famous person she’d met. Ella lived in New York City after returning to her roots following her divorce from Adam’s father. Fluttery—that’s how Adam would describe her.
Slouching in his seat, he leaned his head back as his mother continued.
“Very, very nice man. I just happened to bump into him on the subway. Perhaps when you’re finally able to visit, you can meet him, too. Oh, I can picture it now, you having a cup of tea with Mr. Ma and discussing your music with him,” she went on, her words accelerating.
Yeah, that won’t happen anytime soon. The last time he tried to visit with her in New York, his mother spent the entire weekend at the theater, working overtime to practice with the orchestra for the last show she had played for. He spent most of the time by himself in her apartment, staring at the television.
“Oh, how are things going with the band? How’s Oliver doing? When you see him, tell him I say hello.”
“Things are fine. Oliver’s good.”
“When are you finally going to come visit me again? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. What, three years? I’d love to have some more pictures for my wall, although I don’t think my portrait wall was up yet when you were here.”
“Not sure when I can visit,” Adam mumbled and shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve been picking up more gigs, and I’ve been working a lot of hours at the restaurant, so things have been kind of busy.”
“I miss you. I’ll even pay for your flight. Can’t you just take a few days off?”
“No.” He idly plucked at the guitar strings, his guitar still lying in his lap.
A small part of him was glad she called. A question about Elliott had bubbled on the tip of his tongue ever since everything happened with Kylie—he wanted to ask how long it had taken after his diagnosis before he passed; it was something Adam no longer remembered. But the words dried up and refused to come out. Another part of him knew the question would have sent his mother into a fit, anyway.
After Elliott’s death, Ella poured her heart and soul into doubling her hours of piano practice, while his father found solace elsewhere, leaving Adam to grieve on his own. Ella barely ate or slept. She ceased to function other than learning sonatas and adagios, from Beethoven to Chopin and Barber. She refused to move from the bench until Adam begged her to eat. All the while, John grieved in bars and other women. It was no wonder Ella and John’s once happy marriage crumbled into a messy divorce.
Eight years later, Adam had yet to forgive either of them.
“Well,” Adam said finally, “I should get going.”
“Oh, all right. Take care of yourself, honey. I love you.”
“Yeah. Bye, Mom.”
He tossed the phone to the side and turned his attention back to his guitar. His fingers played the chords without thought, while his eyes stared at the pad of paper with its pages of scratched-out words and lyrics. Everything he’d written for this one song sounded wrong, and the more he tried to write, the more frustrated he grew. Reaching for the pad and pencil, he flipped it open to a blank page. It stared back at him, but he could only think of Kylie.
Work at the restaurant was busier than usual. The lunch hour rush arrived with people lining up at the door for a table. Adam buzzed nonstop around Grits, fixing wrong orders and refilling drinks, waters, and iced sweet teas. The kitchen continually sent out orders slower than normal, as well as sending out an unending flow of wrong or screwed-up orders. A constant stream of profanities was all Adam mumbled in between irate patrons.
Just after Adam served another corrected order and took an order for three Mudslides, Clark cornered him by the bar. His face was red, his eyes bulging.
“Where the hell is Shawn? He’s over an hour late,” he hissed at Adam.
Adam’s jaw clenched. Why was he getting flak from Clark for someone else? “Hell if I know. He didn’t come home last night.”
Clark’s face turned an even darker shade of puce. “Call him right now and find out where he is, or your ass is on the line.”
“Why is it my responsibility to call him? Didn’t realize it was my turn to babysit,” he muttered.
“Adam,” Clark warned. “You can either call him or get the hell out of my restaurant.”
“Okay, okay.”
He shoved his way through the hinged door of the kitchen. The smooth surface of the industrial freezer cooled his back through his sweat-stained shirt as he ran a hand over his face and unbuttoned his collar.
“‘Ello?” answered Shawn.
“Where the hell are you?” Adam fought to keep himself from yelling. “Clark is about to blow his stack if you don’t get here, and he’s threatening to fire my ass too.”
“Shit, man, why you?”
“This isn’t a goddamn joke, Shawn!”
“All right, all right, chill the hell out. I’ll be there soon.”
“Just hurry up.” Adam shoved his phone back into his pocket, then shouldered his way out of the kitchen.
Forty-five minutes passed before Shawn finally slipped his way through the front door and into the kitchen. Adam set down two plates in front of their respective diners and followed his roommate; the kitchen door swung shut behind him as heat already began to rise up the nape of his neck, and he rounded on Shawn.
“I swear, you better stop dicking around. I’m sick of getting shit from Clark because of you.”
But Shawn failed to respond. He swayed on his feet while he tied his apron, his eyes closed. The door burst open, slamming against the wall, and Clark stormed in.
“Where in God’s name have you been, Shawn?”
“Around. Lost track of time.”
Clark narrowed
his eyes, stepped toward him, and sniffed. “You smell like booze. Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
Adam stepped back, flattening his back against the freezer door.
“Shawn, I swear—”
“As long as I’m doing my job, what does it matter?” Shawn waved a hand.
Clark had never turned such a deep shade of purple, as if he might explode at any moment.
“You know what, Mr. Miller?” Clark’s voice rose to a bellow, so loud that Adam was sure the patrons outside the door could hear him. “I’ve had it with you. Just get out. You’re done here!”
“Fine, this place sucks, anyway.” Shawn tossed his apron onto the counter and ambled, stumbling, out the door.
Adam’s jaw went slack, his eyes following Shawn, and he found himself at a loss for words when Clark turned to him.
“Adam,” he said in a strangely quiet voice, “make sure he’s okay when you go home, will you?”
Mute, he nodded.
The more time that passed, the more guilt that weighed heavily in the pit of Kylie’s stomach. She had ignored all of Adam’s texts and calls, which only added more weight, more nausea, more guilt. Between her guilt over Adam and her guilt over being emotionally tired from taking care of her mother when not at work, it had been weeks since the last time she slept soundly or through the night. Dark, heavy circles underlined her blue eyes, and even makeup did little use in covering them.
Something had to give.
On a warm Friday, she sat motionlessly in her creaky rolling chair at work, staring at the computer monitor. One hand poised on the computer mouse, the other on the keyboard. Her fingers clicked impatiently as she lost focus. Maggie was out “sick” again—more likely out doing bridal things—and Kylie had to pick up her slack.
“Hey, Kylie,” called Amanda from down the aisle of cubicles.
The Days Without You: A Story of Love, Loss, and Grief Page 9
