If they can’t get past their loss, then they’re losing again, her message said. They’re losing you!
You seem like a really great guy, Nash. The little boy I met was very sweet, and I can tell he’s still in you. I’m so glad, because I was worried you were one of those cynical mean kids.
My mum and I started traveling when my parents divorced. It was ugly—the divorce, not the travel. I miss what my family was like when everyone got along, but I barely remember that time. My dad hates talking to my mum, so he avoids me, too. Now he has a new family, and he seems happier than I remember him. Happier now that I’m not around.
Poor Aya. Her dad had basically replaced her because he couldn’t stand her mom. Ugly. Yeah, that word held a world of fights, silences, and heartbreak.
Grownups could be such petty shits. I told Aya so but got no response. She’d probably started climbing down the freaking Himalayas.
Oh, and I want to see your view, I typed. Do one of those real-time panos so I get the sound of wind and the birds and all that.
I’d catch her in a lie if she didn’t send it, and then I could ignore her. No one would believe her if she decided to share my story. I’d say I’d been hacked.
But if she was telling the truth…well, then this Aya chick was badass. And sweet.
I dug the sweetness in her replies for some reason, maybe because she reminded me of my mom before Lev’s death. I missed her—that mom, the one who told me often how much she cared, who showed it in her hugs and by carving out time for me every single day.
As bad as my situation was, I knew my parents still cared about my well-being. My dad brought me into the studio off of Sixth Street for jam sessions, and my mom hugged me when she came home, which was less and less frequent the more she and Dad fought.
So, the problem wasn’t me. Like Lev said, there’d long been an unequal balance of success in our family. And it was the heavy blanket of grief and my parents’ inability to communicate with each other. This caused tension between them and left me emotionally raw and unsure.
That’s what the therapist I saw every Wednesday said, anyway, and my parents had both agreed with her when we visited together again for the second time last month. Mom and Dad were just overwhelmed. Tired.
The situation wasn’t my fault.
But it was—at least some of it. Maybe if I’d written that song Dad wanted, he and Mom wouldn’t have been fighting that night, and Lev would still be alive.
I locked my jaw, wishing I’d been able to compose something—even a shit jingle Dad could have screwed around with—to save my family.
Much as I wanted to believe the shrinks and my parents, Lev’s death still felt like my fault.
I wanted to tell Aya that, too, but I wouldn’t. Sharing those secrets was foolhardy.
Because email was too slow, I clicked on the number she’d listed in her signature and exited the school email account. I brought up my text app. I sent her a message, and she replied.
Yes, this is me. Hang on. I’m trying to do the panorama.
A moment later, my text app chimed again, and I opened a slow video of the most rugged, beautiful country I’d ever seen. My jaw dropped.
It’s beautiful. Why would you want to leave that?
My mother said we’ll leave when Clean Water wraps up the sanitation project.
Show me those handholds and how you get down, I wrote.
She sent the picture, and once again, my jaw dropped. I squinted, trying to make out any place to grip.
This girl was definitely badass.
What time is it there? I asked.
It’s about seven in the morning. I have to get back down to help feed the sheep.
I laughed. I was talking to freaking Heidi, the sheepherder. Except this girl’s parents were wealthy enough to stay at the same exclusive bungalows in Turks and Caicos that my family had stayed in, and her dad was some kind of British lord or something. At least, that’s what Ms. Gates had said during English class.
I went downstairs, unsurprised to find Steve in the living room. He was former Army and told me he’d seen some serious action during his multiple tours in Iraq and then Afghanistan. Even when he was still, he gave off this air of faint menace. Or it could’ve been his light eyes that never remained still. They were always narrowed enough to make me think he could actually see my evil thoughts. He was taller than my dad by a good three or four inches and thicker through the shoulders, chest, and arms. He got up every morning at five a.m. and ran seven to ten miles, which was probably why he looked twenty years younger than my dad, even though he was in his early thirties to my dad’s forties.
“What’s up?” Steve asked, looking up from a crossword puzzle. His pale eyes assessed me. His blond hair had grown out from the buzz to a conservative cut, and his face was cleanly shaven, showing off a deep chin dimple.
“Apparently we’re going to get a new kid at school. I’ve been wondering about her.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“I’m sure you know about her. I want to, too.”
“Why do you think I know anything?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because Pop Syad pays you to protect me. So I’m guessing you know way more about the new girl than I do.”
Steve shrugged. “I might know something. And you’re right. I don’t like surprises. They can create chaos.”
I snorted. “That’s all high school is—social chaos masquerading as education.”
Steve’s eyes gleamed, but he kept his expression stern. “If you want my intel on the new girl, then you’re going to tell me why I had to pick you up from the side of the school the other day. And I want to know what that has to do with the irate phone calls your mother is fielding from Ms. Gates.”
I waved my hand. “That woman hates me, and it has to do with the new kid.” I considered my options. Steve could get me the information I wanted—if I played nice.
“Ms. Gates asked me to write a note, but then she took the iPad from me before I finished typing. I grabbed it back, and then I had to get to a quiet place.” I shrugged, hoping he was buying this. “So I could actually tell the girl more about the school.”
He went back to his crossword puzzle. “Aya is Lord Reginald Aldringham’s daughter, and Irwan Didri’s granddaughter. Your grandfather was the one to recommend Holyoke to her grandfather.”
I scowled, displeased that Steve knew the answers even as I soaked up the information.
“And?”
“And nothing,” he said with a shrug. “What do you want for dinner?”
He’d been making me dinner lately, or at least making sure I ate whatever our personal chef left.
“I want to know more about the girl.”
Steve cocked his head to the side. “Why?”
I licked my lower lip. “I met her before. Years ago. And she seems nice.”
Steve nodded once. “You can tell me more over dinner, and then, once you do your homework, I’ll get you some intel.”
5
Nash
One Year Later
* * *
A year passed, and Aya and I now chatted on the regular. She’d never left Nepal—something to do with a problem with the village wells—but she caught up on enough celebrity news even on the top of a mountain to know my parents’ marriage was falling apart.
My dad cheated on my mum, Aya told me in one text after I confirmed that my dad was traveling whenever my mother was home, and she took off when he was expected back.
He didn’t ask for the divorce until Harriet fell pregnant, though.
At least neither of my parents had surprise kids out there. I told Aya as much.
I have two half-sisters. And my dad tried to get my mum to pay him alimony.
I felt my eyes widen. I don’t know what to say.
You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that I get how it feels. And how horrible it is when others ask you about your parents’ public breakup.
<
br /> Because I was still only sometimes speaking to Hugh, Aya was my only real friend—not that I was ever lonely. People were always hanging around, hanging on, wanting a piece of me, and inviting me to more parties and events than I could manage.
I turned down most in order to talk to Aya or to hang out with Cam, who had returned to Austin to help out at his family’s ranch located at the edge of Hill Country. I liked Cam’s sister, Kate, and mother, Mama Grace. She and Steve got along well and at least partially filled the large hole my parents left with their neglect.
I hadn’t shared the pathetic truth of our friendship truth with Aya, not wanting her to think less of me, though Cam had disagreed last time we’d video chatted. He might technically live in the same city as me, but the guy toured constantly.
“You should tell Aya she’s important to you,” Cam said.
I raised an eyebrow. “No way. You know how this world is. I’ll say something that’ll end up in a magazine.”
He frowned. “You think this girl would sell you out?”
I didn’t. But I wasn’t willing to offer her the opportunity either.
Cam called me again a couple nights later, after I’d chatted with Aya. The dude kept in better touch with me than my parents.
“You want to hear who I collaborated with today?” he asked instead.
“Sure.”
“Asher Smith.”
“Are you for real?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Is he badass in real life?”
Cam laughed. “Yes, he is. He’s offered to help produce my next record. What do you think about this riff?
I closed my eyes as Cam played, my fingers moving over a phantom fretboard. The rest of the melody soared through my mind when Cam stopped, mentioning he didn’t have it finished.
I dove toward my guitar and continued playing. The song… It ran through my head, faster than my fingers could move over the strings. The melody built, richer, as more instruments flitted through my mind.
“And you need to add something softer—a harp, maybe? Then the piano chords should be…” I pursed my lips, trying to figure out how to translate from the guitar to the keyboard. “I’ll send it to you,” I said, feeling myself smile. This was it. I’d written a song.
Cam shook his head. He pulled a candy from his pocket and slid it into his mouth. He had a thing for Werther’s. “You just come up with that?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your dad say about your ability to compose?”
That feeling wrapped itself around my guts as sadness punched me in the throat. It must have shown on my face.
“Nash—"
“It’s all in the family,” I blurted out over Cam, not wanting to hear more sympathetic words. My brother was dead—had been for a while now. I needed to move on. I was moving beyond the crippling grief.
My comment to Cam had once been Dad’s favorite comment to me. “All in the family.” He’d slapped me on the shoulder whenever I played him a new tune, and I’d beamed with pride when my dad used my songs on his albums. All in the family was right. Or it used to be.
“What?” Cam asked.
“Music, composing. It’s our thing. We do it together.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “You help him with his songs?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Cam grimaced. “His last album?”
I nodded.
“I’ve never seen you credited.”
I shrugged. “I was young.”
“What about the album he’s working on?”
That feeling intensified, causing my guts to harden. I hadn’t been able to write shit since before Lev died—until today. “Nope, that’s all him.”
Cam grunted, eyes narrowing.
“I gotta go,” I said, not wanting to discuss the topic further.
“You sure you’re good there?” Cam asked, concern darkening his gaze.
The guy was twenty-nine, and he seemed much older in my mind because he worried so much about me. The groupie thing and losing his house a couple of years ago had made him “rethink his priorities,” he’d told me. He’d said being a good person—and a good friend to me, apparently—sat at the top of his list now.
“I’m cool.”
Cam remained tense.
I cleared my throat, not liking the emotions building in me. “I’ll record that melody and send it to you. But I don’t play the harp—”
“Yet,” Cam said, chuckling.
My cheeks burned. “I don’t play the harp,” I insisted. “So, you’ll have to get someone else to fine-tune that bit.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “It’s not like I expect you to write my songs. You know you’re a lot more to me than anything you can do, right, son?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I strummed the guitar.
“But I do appreciate what you did tonight.”
“It felt good.”
“Why haven’t you been composing music?”
That was a loaded question. I just…didn’t. Maybe couldn’t was a better response. The only flickers of lyrics or snippets of songs that came at all came when I was texting with Aya or talking with Cam.
I didn’t want to tell him that, so I shrugged.
He sighed. “I’ll be back in town at the end of the week. How about I pick you up? We can head to the studio. Sound good?”
My eyes widened. “Really? Yeah. I’d like that.”
Cam smiled. “I already told Asher about you. He’s stoked.”
“Cool,” I gushed.
I set my guitar in its stand and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “I mean…that’s nifty.”
Cam smirked as he shook his head. “Well, you can meet him sometime if you want. I’m sure he’d like that. You’re close in age to his son.”
At my gulp, Cam guffawed.
I clicked off before I could embarrass myself any more.
I messed around with the melody a little after that, mainly because I had nothing better to do. Aya hadn’t answered my texts for the last couple of days. Much as I hated to admit it, I was mad. Mad and…hurt.
Aya’s messages had helped me navigate my parents’ boozy, mainly silent holidays, as well as their long absences. I’d sent her tons of pictures from that last tour I did with my dad and Lev, and she’d asked lots of questions about the music industry and performing, clearly fascinated by the lifestyle.
That’s so different than my life here, she’d written at one point. I mean, I get the nomadic lifestyle. Mum and I usually move every year or so.
I hadn’t thought about that part of her life—the constant need to make new friends, to start over in a new place. When I asked her about it, she told me she’d stopped trying for deep relationships.
You have me, I wrote. I’ll always be here for you.
Until you get too famous, Superstar. Then you’ll be the one touring, living the life of a nomad.
That had made me smile, and Dad had told me next time Quantum toured—later this coming summer—he’d let me play with him, let me tell the world I’d written the music and lyrics.
“You’ll be a man, Nash. You won’t need me to protect you from the world, then,” he’d said. “But you’re still too young. Give it some time.”
I didn’t want to give it any more time.
Yeah, but I think I’ll love the constant traveling and performing, I’d replied to Aya. It’s what I’m meant to do.
All through our sophomore year, from thousands of miles away, Aya talked me out of skipping school when Lord became an even bigger bullying asshole, and she was the reason I turned in most of my assignments. The year slid past, and I did better than anticipated, and our junior year soon melted into the following spring.
Aya had informed me that she’d read every single one of the books on the school’s list—so I read them, too, to give us something else to talk about. Not that I was bored talking to Aya. I was never bored around her, which was weird because the girls at school talked about nail polish and shoes. All. The
. Time.
And that shit was boring.
Not Aya, though. She was real, deep—like the ocean I’d pulled her from. She was also pretty and delicate like the conch shell she’d given me.
I’d never intended to use her as a sounding board. But it was so easy to send a text when I was anxious or upset or my mother was passed out again. And Aya listened.
Or rather, she checked her messages about twice a week and then would shoot back replies to every message I’d sent, in the order I’d sent them.
By now, I’d collected thousands of messages from Aya Aldringham.
How come you don’t mention other friends, Nash? She’d asked in one of her recent ones.
As had become my habit, I answered, not as careful with my words as I used to be. What could Aya do to me? She lived in Nepal. None of the other kids at Holyoke talked to her, and she’d mentioned that her mom now planned to stick around to help the neighboring villages, so ever attending the same school seemed less likely.
Because friends require work, I told her. Being honest. And the world we live in here isn’t about honesty. Or friendship. It’s about taking care of yourself.
I could practically hear the sigh in her response. You’re really selling the city and the hellscape of private school.
It’s not all bad. You’ll have me, I wrote.
Ha.☺ You mean you’ll use me.
I’d never use you, Aya. I know how important trust is.
I hope so. Because I don’t want to be around another guy who lies and cheats and hurts people.
Like your dad? I asked.
And yours.
My dad isn’t that bad.
Really? So he’s not trying to get you to write more songs for him and then freezing you out when you don’t?
He doesn’t freeze me out. He’s just mad that I helped Camden Grace and not him.
So, when was the last time you and your dad hung out?
I clamped my lip between my teeth. That was the thing about Aya. She saw my situation for what it was. I still had this stupidity about wanting to get along with my dad, which would allow me to pretend everything was better than it was.
Sweet Oblivion Page 3
