Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

  I shake my head. “I don’t have a kitchen, remember? Before tonight, I’ve only made this one time without Mimi standing right there to help me.”

  “What was the one time?”

  “Mimi’s seventieth birthday.”

  “How’d it turn out?”

  “Not so great.”

  We both laugh.

  “How old were you?” she asks.

  “Seventeen. I’d just gotten my first job at a grocery store as a bagger, which meant I could afford all the ingredients, thanks to my fat paycheck and employee discount. I thought I was such a baller when I got that job. I thought I was Reed fucking Rivers.”

  She giggles. “I bet you got flirted with a ton while bagging nice ladies’ groceries.”

  “I did. My co-workers used to tease me that whatever register I happened to be working always had the longest line.”

  Laila snickers. “Of course, it did.” She takes another zealous bite of food, before saying, “So, what you’re telling me is you discovered at an early age you’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

  I feel my cheeks bloom. I know she’s being light-hearted, but at her comment, memories of my early years flicker across my mind—times when, to put it mildly, I didn’t feel ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ in the slightest.

  Whatever Laila sees on my face, it causes her to furrow her brow. “I was just teasing you. Sort of. You can’t help that’s your face.”

  “No offense taken. I just . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence, so I don’t.

  Laila shifts in her chair, obviously trying to read me. But when she can’t crack the code, she looks down and takes another bite of food.

  “So . . . you said Mimi is your dad’s mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did your family go to your grandma’s house and cook a nice meal for her on her birthday every year, or was Mimi’s seventieth birthday an extra-special thing?”

  I take a sip of water. “Mimi’s seventieth was the only time I was stupid enough to try to cook a big meal for her. Like I said, I wanted to impress her, not only with my cooking skills, but with my deep pockets.”

  “That’s so cute, Savage.”

  I pause. If I say this next thing, there will be no turning back. I’ll open the door to talking about the real stuff. The shit I don’t say in interviews. The stories I only tell Kendrick and Kai, since they were living in Mimi’s apartment complex when I arrived on my grandmother’s doorstep like a lost puppy.

  I take another sip of water and decide: Fuck it. Laila’s already met Mimi, and she’s going to be talking to my grandmother every night for the next three months. I might as well give Laila a full picture of why Mimi means so much to me. “I didn’t ‘go’ to Mimi’s house for her birthday, by the way. I lived with Mimi. She was my only parent, beginning at age twelve.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize that.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I take a bite of food.

  Laila cocks her head to the side. “Why did you start living with Mimi? Did something bad happen to your parents?”

  I take a long sip of water, gearing up for the conversation we’re about to have. “Not in the way you mean. I’m sure if you asked my mom, she’d say I was the ‘bad’ thing that happened to her.”

  Laila’s features contort with sympathy. “Oh.”

  “Or, at the very least,” I add, “I was the ‘highly inconvenient’ thing that made all subsequent bad things unavoidable. You know my band’s song ‘Sorry for the Inconvenience’?”

  She nods.

  “That song is a big ‘fuck you’ to both my parents.”

  Laila puts down her spoon. “You mentioned your ‘asshole father’ when we drank that bottle of whiskey in Providence. But I didn’t realize you have an asshole mother, too.”

  “She’s not an asshole. At least, she tried to raise me for a while, unlike him. She’s just not a person who ever should have had a kid.”

  “I can’t imagine. My mom is so grateful to have my sister and me. And now, my niece. She always says we’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her.”

  “That’s what Mimi always says about me.”

  “Were your parents in a relationship?”

  “No. It was a one-night stand. My father knocked up the bartender—my mother—at his favorite bar. Once my mom realized she was pregnant, she tracked my father down, but he denied I was his.”

  “No paternity test?”

  I shrug. “I’ve never asked her about it. My hunch is she wasn’t sure who the father was. By the time I was a toddler, though, it was a moot point. I looked just like him. She said she brought me to him when I was two or three and demanded he take me for a while, so she could have some fun again.”

  “She told you that?”

  “My mother hasn’t been shy about her lack of attachment to me. Anyway, she brought me to him, but he didn’t want me, either. So, she did her best.”

  Laila is visibly floored. “I’m so sorry, Savage. Growing up, did you see your father, at all?”

  “I saw him, now and again. Whenever he’d started feeling guilty about ignoring my existence. He’d come over, but only when he was drunk. Usually on my birthday or Christmas and we’d try to play happy family for a hot minute. But things always turned into a screaming match between my parents, and I’d run and hide in my closet. Which by the way, doubled as my bedroom, by choice. I’ve always liked small spaces. Anyway, fast-forward to Chicago, after I’d moved there and had been living with Mimi for a couple years—”

  “Where did you live with your mom?”

  “Phoenix.”

  Laila’s eyebrows ride up.

  “Yeah, you hate-fucked me in my hometown,” I say. I wink. “It definitely made it extra special for me. Anyway, my sperm donor father got out of prison when I was fifteen or so. He showed up at Mimi’s apartment, angry that she’d taken me in, when he wasn’t sure I was his kid. He told her I was conning her. Planning to steal from her. So, I flattened his stupid ass.” I smile. “I was fifteen and my father was three inches taller than me—and I took his ass down.”

  “Whoa.”

  “It felt amazing when I was standing over him. That was the moment I realized how small he truly was—and that he had zero power over me. It was a huge turning point for Mimi and me. Until then, I’d been a little asshole to her. Always testing her. Trying to prove my theory she was going to throw me out at some point. But after that, I realized I loved her and that I’d do anything for her. Anything. And that’s when I said to myself, ‘Why not give her a real chance here? Why not stop being an asshole and start listening to her?’ So, that’s what I did. I started following her rules, and giving her the respect she deserved. And it was the best thing I’ve ever done. From that point, everything started falling into place for me. I befriended Kendrick and Kai, seeing as how I was going to be sticking around, and that’s when I realized I could write songs and sing. Everything came together for me after that.”

  “I’m so glad you decided to let Mimi love you.”

  “I can’t imagine who I’d be right now if I hadn’t.”

  “Is it Sasha’s mom or dad who’s Mimi’s kid?”

  “Her father, Frank. He died in an accident at work when Sasha was eleven. Apparently, he was an amazing guy. Really sweet and kind. Thanks to Frank, Mimi knew she was capable of having a normal, loving son. Poor Mimi always blamed herself for my father, her second son, being such a dickbag. But at least Frank gave her some comfort that my father’s assholery wasn’t her fault. Mimi once told me she felt like my father was born without a complete soul. Like, he just didn’t feel things the way other people did. She said it only got worse when his dad, Mimi’s husband, died.”

  Laila looks down at her bowl of soup, looking distraught. “I’m sorry you’ve had it so rough, Savage.”

  “Nobody has it easy in life, really. Speaking of which, tell me about your asshole father.”

  Laila drags her spoon through her bowl of soup, gathering her though
ts. “My parents got married when my mom got accidentally pregnant with my sister. When things became rocky in their marriage, they decided in their infinite wisdom to have a second baby to ‘fix’ things.”

  “Brilliant plan.”

  Laila rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Obviously, my existence didn’t fix a damned thing. I remember my dad often being loud and angry when Angel and I were little. He’d punch holes in walls. Smash plates and lamps onto the ground. And then, one day, my father did the unthinkable: he punched my mom in the face during an argument and broke a bone under her eye.”

  “Jesus.”

  “My mom took Angel and me to live with my aunt in Whittier. We lived there until my mom could afford an apartment of our own.”

  “Did you keep in touch with your father through all that?”

  “Sort of. My sister was done with him the day we moved out. But I kept in touch for a while, by phone, and listened to him tell me how sorry he was. How much he’d changed. But one day, I heard my mom crying while talking to him on the phone, so I listened in. And the way he was cussing her out . . . That’s when I knew he was still the same asshole who’d broken her face. And that’s when I was done with him for good, too. I grabbed the phone and told him to fuck off and never speak to any of us again. Angel got on the phone and said the same. We told our mom we’d always take care of her and not to bother trying to squeeze any child support out of him, again. It wasn’t worth it. And we’ve been a threesome ever since.”

  “Until he called to ask you for money,” I say.

  She looks up, surprised. “How’d you know about that?”

  “It’s always the same story, Laila. The same thing happened to me and to so many of my friends, once they started getting any kind of success and fame. You have no idea how common it is.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, did you give him money when he asked?”

  She looks sheepish. “Did you?”

  I nod. “I paid my father ten grand, in exchange for a comprehensive agreement. He’s prohibited from talking about me to the press and can’t sue me for the time I decked him. So, it was money well spent.”

  “Shoot. I didn’t think to get an agreement like that. He’s given several interviews about me. It’s so embarrassing. He acts like he’s been an amazing father to me—like my success is all his doing, simply because he got me a Fisher Price keyboard as a toddler. But he’s not the one who sacrificed, constantly, to keep me going to piano lessons. He’s not the one who listened to every new song I wrote, even the terrible ones, and cried tears of joy and told me I had a gift.”

  “Don’t pay him another dime, Laila. Ever.”

  She sniffles. “I send him money a few times a year.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. He was a heavy smoker and now he’s sick. Helping with his medical bills makes me feel less guilty, I guess.”

  “Guilty for what?”

  She twists her sultry lips. “I can’t abandon him. He’s blood. And I’ve been so lucky in my career.”

  Anger surges inside me. “No, Laila. Fuck him. You didn’t ask him to have sex with your mom without a condom. And, yes, you’ve been lucky in your career. But luck is only one of the factors of your success.” I motion to the half-empty bowl in front of me at the dining room table. “It’s like this soup. There’ve been a whole lot of ingredients, besides luck, to get you where you are today. Hard work. Piano lessons. And most of all, like your mom said, your gift. Whatever luck you’ve had, it wouldn’t have gotten you anywhere, without the rest of the ingredients along with it.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers, looking moved. She swallows hard. “That means a lot, coming from you. I think so highly of your talent. You’re an amazing artist.”

  My chest heaves. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you. I think the same of you. Your voice gives me goosebumps. When you hit those high notes, I literally get a tear in my eye.”

  She exhales a slow, long breath, like her heart is beating a mile a minute, and electricity crackles between us.

  “He’s a douchebag, Laila,” I say, my eyes locked with hers, skin on fire. “Don’t send him another dime.”

  “I probably will,” she admits. “Because sending it is my way of controlling him—keeping him away from me and my family, for good.”

  The full extent of my assholery toward Laila hits me like a tsunami. “I’m so sorry for all the times I was a flaming dickhead to you during the tour, Laila. I’m sorry for any time I yelled at you or made you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry for that time I said you didn’t belong on the tour. You did. You’re a genius with incredible talent and star quality and I was an asshole to suggest otherwise. I’m sorry for the times I’ve smoked around you, especially the times I’ve purposely blown smoke in your face, solely to piss you off. Please, forgive me for all of it. There were times during the tour when I felt irrationally rejected by you, or maybe I thought I couldn’t make a play for you because Kendrick had a crush on you, and my solution to all of it was to lash out and/or push you away, with all my might. It was stupid of me. And I’m so sorry.”

  Her chest visibly rises and falls for a moment. Her blue eyes are practically glowing. “I accept your apology,” she says. “I wasn’t all that nice to you, on many occasions.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s something wrong with me, Laila. The same way there’s something wrong with my father. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t have a complete soul.”

  “That’s not true, Adrian. I saw you with Mimi. I saw you with your bandmates for three months. I saw how respectful and sweet you are with Ruby. Trust me, you’ve got a complete soul.”

  “But what if I don’t?” I say, admitting my worst fear, out loud, for the first time, ever. “What if I’m my father’s son, in ways I don’t want to be?”

  Laila gets up and strides to me at my end of the table. “Stop. You’re nothing like him.” She stands over me and clutches me to her, and I lay my cheek on her belly, while she runs her fingers through my hair. She whispers, “You’ve got a beautiful soul, Adrian. You’re just scarred by the stuff that happened to you as a kid, as anyone in your shoes would be.” She kisses the top of my head and takes the seat next to me at the table. “Can I ask you something? That lyric in ‘Hate Sex High’ about punching a hole in the wall. Was that true?”

  I nod. “After my run-in with Malik at the restaurant, followed by that argument we had outside on the sidewalk, I was angry and shitfaced. Feeling rejected and confused. So, I went back to my hotel room and punched a hole in the wall.”

  Laila presses her lips together. “I’m going to need you to promise not to do that sort of thing while we’re living here together, no matter how much I might annoy or anger you.”

  “Of course, I won’t. Ask Mimi or Sasha or Ruby. I’m not violent.” I grab her hand. “I’d never hurt you. I’d protect you, yes. But I’d never hurt you.”

  “I don’t think you’d hurt me. I’m just telling you that holes punched in walls and plates being smashed . . . those are the kinds of things that are triggering for me.”

  “I understand. You have my word.”

  Laila squeezes my hand. “How did you wind up living with Mimi at age twelve, given that you hardly ever saw your asshole father?”

  I pause to gather my thoughts. To steady my racing heart. “When I lived with my mom, she used to run off with different guys for days at a time. She’d leave me with a few basic groceries and say, ‘I’ll be back soon.’ So, this one time, right after I’d turned twelve, she was gone on one of her trips, and I wanted to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove. I don’t know how it happened, since I’d made the same thing before, lots of times, but I somehow started a fire in the kitchen. I got it out, pretty quickly, without it spreading too much, thank God, but the fire department was called by a neighbor. And that’s when they found out a twelve-year-old had been living alone in the apartment with no parent in sight for days and days—and that
it was a common occurrence in my house. They sent me off to Child Protective Services while they looked for my mom. And when they couldn’t find her, they contacted my dad, who was in prison at the time for assaulting someone. And that’s when they found out my next of kin was one Maria Savage Wilkes of Chicago, Illinois. They called and dropped the bomb on Mimi that she had a twelve-year-old grandson in Phoenix she’d never known about. She came and got me and brought me back to her little shoebox apartment, where I slept on the couch and acted like a raving asshole for almost three years, until I finally decided to give her a chance.”

  “Did your mother get in trouble for leaving you alone?”

  I nod. “She got charged with reckless endangerment of a child after the fire, but she only got probation. To this day, she thinks I intentionally set that fire to get her into trouble.”

  “Oh my gosh.”

  “Maybe I did, subconsciously. I’ve certainly amassed a long track record since then of doing toxic, stupid shit as a backwards means of getting something I don’t even know I want.” I clamp my lips together, so I don’t say something I’ll regret. Something like, “Look at the way I treated you during the tour. Perfect example.”

  Laila knits her brows together. “I just realized . . . you go by Mimi’s maiden name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, your name is a stage name, after all.”

  “No, Savage has been my legal name since age fifteen. My mother gave me her name when I was born—Carter. But once I decided Mimi was my mother, I asked to change my name to hers. I didn’t want Mimi’s married name—Wilkes—since that’s my father’s name. Plus, Savage is a badass name.”

  “You’re such a liar. You said you were ‘born Savage.’”

  I smile. “I was using a lower case ‘s.’”

  Laila flashes me an adorable grin that sends a flock of butterflies into my stomach, and I can’t help returning her smile with an even bigger one.

  “You should copyright that smile, Fitzy,” I say softly. “You’d make a mint.”