“I wanted to tell you, but she was ashamed. It’s been a downward spiral. She’d finish treatment, and Brad would pull something terrible. I’ve been trying to get her to divorce him for years. Her health is his fault. Finally, she’s seen reason. The only way to get well is to cut out the tumor.”
“The women,” I said, my tone flat.
“She’s trying to get clean for you. She told me she made you a promise before her last trip. She promised to get clean and spend time with you.”
“She failed.”
“Alcoholism is a disease, Nash. One that needs to be monitored.”
“It’s not just alcohol, though, is it?” I asked.
He sighed. “No, it isn’t. She struggles with all substances.”
“And sex,” I said, hating the words.
My head swam. I didn’t know what to think, what to do. So much had changed. In less than a day, I’d learned sordid, terrible truths about my mother, lost my father… My grandfather’s illness loomed large. This was how Aya felt every day, I realized—a sick fear that everything she understood and knew would soon be gone, that everything she wanted would be ripped from her.
“I need you to go with Steve, no matter your current anger with him,” Pop Syad insisted.
“I don’t want—”
“I know that. I know you’re an adult. I know I can’t force you to do anything. But you’re also the heir to my fortune, and your parents just dropped one of the biggest stories to hit the media this decade. Their divorce is going to be a shitshow. Brad will make sure of it. So please, until this settles down, please stay with Steve.”
I heard the door downstairs click open. If Mrs. Didri-Aldringham was sleeping, I didn’t want to wake her.
“Fine, but I don’t want to see you or my mother.”
Not that I expected her to come home. Why now, after all this time? I needed to process this. Fuck, I needed Aya.
I didn’t bother to say goodbye as I hung up and headed down the stairs toward Steve’s hulking form. He latched his large paw around my biceps, letting me know I wasn’t leaving his sight anytime soon.
Just fucking great.
25
Aya
When Mrs. Ombly returned, she led me to the closest waiting room and wrapped my fingers around a Styrofoam cup of tea. I held it, staring at the ill-fitted tiles on the floor as I sank into a chair.
“Would you like your phone, Miss Aya? Maybe Nash could come sit with you.”
“Sure,” I murmured, my voice hoarse. My throat ached with unshed tears. I took the device from her, clicked on the screen, and gasped. The tea fell from my hand, splattering my sandals and foot with hot liquid. But I didn’t feel it. Not then. Not as my gaze roamed over the many lines of text Nash had sent me—begging me to respond, saying he needed me.
I read all the way to the last one.
My father told me some serious shit. I really, really fucking need you right now.
But before I could reply, the doctor strode into the waiting room. I rose, slipping a little in the spilled tea. Mrs. Ombly bent down to clean it up with the thin tissues from the table.
“She had a massive heart attack,” he said. “We had to go in for emergency bypass.”
“Is she…” I couldn’t form the word.
He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. “She pulled through the surgery, but it’s going to be touch and go for a while. This was a major event. She’s very sick.”
“With what?” I asked.
Mrs. Ombly made a noise.
He frowned. “She didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head.
He settled into the chair beside me. “Your mother has coronary artery disease.”
“What does that mean?” I fiddled with my fingers. “That’s why she…she had a heart attack?”
He nodded. “It’s genetic. We don’t understand why, but that connection can cause more serious health issues for women.”
“My grandfather… That’s why we moved back…”
Over the next few minutes, the doctor answered my halting questions, though I had a sinking feeling I didn’t know enough to figure out what to ask, what to even hope for. My mind whirled after he rose. He patted my shoulder once and strode away.
Mrs. Ombly placed her hand on my knee. “She didn’t want to worry you.”
My eyes were dry. My body numb. My jaw trembled as I raised my phone and typed out the necessary words to Nash: My mom’s in the ICU.
26
Nash
Showing up at Hugh’s birthday party the next evening was a stupid idea, but I didn’t know where else to go. He’d invited me weeks ago, before my world fell apart, and I’d already RSVPed—at least that’s what I told Steve.
I glowered around the room, annoyed by its clean lines and low-backed, white leather couches. This was Hugh’s father’s place, and he’d had it all done up in mid-century modern after he divorced Hugh’s mom a few years back. She’d hated the minimalist lines, Hugh said, which made it appeal to Dr. Peckham all the more.
Fifty or so kids—the boys in jeans and the girls in micro skirts and midriff tops or short dresses—stood around, some of them swaying to the music thumping through the speakers. Most held red cups of some kind of drink we weren’t supposed to have. But we were rich fuckers, and if we wanted vodka and punch or vodka and energy drinks, we got it. Someone always had access.
This wasn’t my scene. I didn’t like liquor or drugs because both reminded me of my parents’ issues. I swallowed hard as I strove to get my emotions back under control. My dad—no, Brad. He was Brad, not my relative, and he hated me.
And Aya… She still hadn’t responded to my texts. Or maybe she had now—I wasn’t sure because I’d turned off my phone after my mom started calling. Pop Syad must have told her about our conversation, but I wasn’t ready to deal with her. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I needed Aya.
Fuck, I needed to hold her, have her hold me. She was supposed to be at this party. I thought I’d find her here.
Where are you?
My family had been ripped from me—by Brad Porter, by alcoholism, by sex and hedonism, by fame.
Fuck all that. And fuck the assholes who would build their careers on my misfortune. My rage built, fanning higher, and it felt good.
Right. I’d get even. That had always been my way…to get even.
I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my faded, tattered jeans and stared down at the red Converse on my feet. I probably shouldn’t have come here, but staying home in that echoing house was too much. I’d almost asked Steve to take me to Cam’s ranch. Mama Grace would have wrapped me in a hug and fed me her peach pie. I loved her peach pie. She would have settled me on the swing afterward and rocked it slowly.
I needed that soothing motion, Mama Grace’s soft lilac perfume.
Except I had to see Aya.
Lindsay, pressed into a burgundy one-shoulder dress that settled about an inch below her ass and high heels, walked up and leaned against the wall next to me.
“You look unhappy, Nash.” She trailed her finger down my chest. I grabbed it.
She smiled, leaning in so those berry-red lips were touching my chin. “Want to make the owie go away?” she murmured.
She was so close, I could see through the makeup to the small, well-covered acne on her jawline.
I pulled back until my head thumped against the wall. “Go away,” I snarled.
She thought she was so sly, that I didn’t know about the online group where they hated on Aya. But I did. And as soon as I figured out how to prove Lindsay had started it, I was going to take her down.
“Don’t be like that,” Lindsay said.
I opened my mouth to tell her off, and she slipped something in. Something thin that dissolved as saliva coated it. Reflexively, I swallowed.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked. I turned away from her and spat into the large potted plant nearby.
Lindsay laughed, a truly delighted sound. “Just a little something to get you in the partying mood.”
I whirled back and gripped her arms, my rage boiling. “What did you give me?”
Everything quieted, all eyes on me.
Lindsay stood defiantly.
“What did you just push into my mouth, Lindsay?” I snarled again, bearing down on her, using my greater height and bulk to tower over her.
She swallowed, thick and hard. “It’s…it’s…an upper. To…to…make you f-feel good,” she stammered.
She didn’t look pretty or seductive. She looked cold, calculating…and small.
“I hate you,” I said, my voice carrying. “Understand? I. Hate. You. I don’t want you near me. I know what you’ve done to Aya, and I’m never going to forgive you for that. Ever.”
Hugh sidled up next to me, grabbing my arm. “Take it down, Nash,” he muttered.
“No fucking way. Your bitch of a girlfriend just drugged me.”
An array of phones videoed my rage-fueled moment. “You getting this?” I asked them. “She fucking shoved something in my mouth. I don’t know what it was—what it’ll do to me. And I sure as fuck didn’t ask for it.”
My head didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right. The colors were so bright…and smeared. The music seemed distant. I shook my head. “No. I don’t want this,” I mumbled. I met Hugh’s worried gaze, my wide eyes and pale face reflected there.
“You can’t go anywhere,” Lindsay said, her tone preening. “You’re high. You really want people to see you all messed up? Just like your mother.” She laughed again.
My mother. My throat convulsed. No one here knew about my parents—yet. But they would. Soon. And they’d look at me just like Lindsay was now. With malicious smiles and whispered words. I hated them all.
“Everyone thinks you’re so perfect. The good boy renouncing his parents’ lifestyle, but look at you, Nash. No one will think that now.” She sneered at me.
I blinked, shocked.
Hate and calculation settled on her face.
“You drugged me,” I said again. My words were slurred. I turned back toward Hugh. “She… I don’t feel good.”
“Oh? Did I?” Lindsay taunted. “Or did you take it all by yourself and now you’re too afraid to admit you’re as weak as your mommy?”
I shook my head, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy, but everything danced, and psychedelic patterns burst from the edge of my vision in too-bright colors.
I needed Aya. I needed…
As if I’d conjured her, my body vibrated as her perfume drifted to my nose, and in my head, George Harrison crooned his song of love.
Aya. She was here. She could make it better.
I couldn’t think…
“I need some water, a…a room.”
“I’ll be right there with you, honey,” Lindsay purred.
I shook my head, and songs burst through my mind. Glorious music. My breath hitched as the notes pelted my brain. “Go away. I need…”
“We’ll go get it,” Lindsay said, her voice still silky. “I’ll make you feel all better.” She led me toward the stairs.
“No,” I shook my head. “I don’t want you. I want water. Steve.” He was outside. I’d refused to let him come in, refused to talk to him today. He was giving me space. “Not Aya. Don’t want her now…”
Lindsay laughed at that. “You hear him, Stef? He doesn’t want Aya.”
I paused on the tread. Why was she doing this? She ran her hands up and down my chest as I stood there, head pulsing, eyes aching.
“All right, honey. You don’t have to talk to Aya again if you don’t want her.”
I turned and there she was. Aya. Her eyes were filled with tears, just like my father’s. Wait…not my father. Brad. Asshole. I shook my head. My mother was an addict.
“I don’t want you,” I yelled, stumbling away from Lindsay. I wanted Aya.
Somehow, I fell toward Lindsay, my face smashing into her ample chest. Her tits were all wrong—too big and they smelled musky. Not like sunshine and some intriguing spice I loved to lick but never could quite place.
“Why, Nash, this is quite the forward way to show your interest,” Lindsay said with a laugh.
“Nash,” Aya whispered, her voice filled with anguish.
“Go away, you stupid bitch,” I shouted into Lindsay’s chest.
Lindsay giggled, gripping my head tighter. My hands settled on her hips as I swayed.
For the second time tonight, everything went to silence. The music stopped. I managed to push Lindsay away, and I blinked, searching for Aya. A dull red had crept over her face.
“You heard him, Aya,” Lindsay practically sang. “Go away, you stupid bitch.”
No. That wasn’t what I meant. I struggled upward, out of Lindsay’s cushy tits, long enough to catch Aya’s gaze.
She lifted her chin before she spun around and pushed through the throng of teens, excited voices following her out. Snippets of conversation drifted upward.
“He totally dumped her ass.”
“Rejected. So. Hard.”
Lindsay cackled. “You did what I hadn’t been able to.”
I started back down the steps, but I collapsed, my head spinning. I needed to get up. Aya couldn’t leave. She…she seemed upset. Mad at me.
Fucking Lindsay.
Hugh blocked me. I tried to dodge him but ended up falling. He gripped my shirt, held me close to him so our noses were inches apart. Did he want to kiss me?
“Aya…”
“You’re blacking out, man. I called Steve. You need to get help. Stay with me, Nash.” He shook me, hard. My head bounced on my neck.
The colors blended in a sick, streaky array. My stomach heaved. Music burst into my head. So much of it—glorious—pushing away the weirdness, pushing away Aya’s eyes. My grief and anger. I sighed, closing my eyes, relaxing into the music.
“Oh, leave him alone. He’s fine,” Lindsay said, her voice sounding far away. “Finally got rid of the stupid goody-two-shoes, thanks to Nash, so now we can cut loose and really part-ay.” She finished on a shriek.
“Her mother just died and you drugged him to—what? Try to make Aya jealous? To hurt her feelings? Her mother’s dead,” Hugh roared.
I flinched. Hugh’s voice was too loud. He was pulling me out of the music. If I could just sink back… Mrs. Didri-Aldringham is dead? “No,” I mumbled. That couldn’t be right. I needed to comfort Aya. Why hadn’t she told me?
Did I even have my phone? Oh, right… I was avoiding further calls from Pop Syad and my mother.
Hugh shook me, and I slid down the banister, once again seated on my ass.
“Don’t feel good,” I mumbled.
“You are the worst excuse for a person I’ve ever met,” Hugh yelled. “We’re through. Get out of my house and don’t ever talk to me or to Nash again.”
His volume made my head pound, and the music dissipated…whiffs of smoke on the breeze. My head seemed to be trying to split open. I wobbled, the hit finally slamming into my brain and exploding—not with ecstasy, like I’d been told, but with more pain.
Aya’s eyes. Her beautiful, violet eyes, raised up toward me in defiance and anguish. My dad’s eyes—no, Brad’s—filled with anger and grief.
I blinked. Steve’s face loomed before me, his eyes filled with worry and frustration.
“Drugged,” I managed to slur. “Aya… Need her.”
Then it all went black.
27
Aya
Seeing Nash in Lindsay’s arms had brought up every one of my insecurities. She was blond, poised, gorgeous. She loved parties, whereas I liked to stand in the background. She was the exact type of girl everyone expected Nash to go for. Everything I wasn’t. The Holyoke seniors had invited me to parties begrudgingly, mostly so Nash would come. If he was with Lindsay, one of the glamor girls, there’d be more parties, more chances for those kids to get close to him and his rising fame.
&
nbsp; But more than that, I never had fit in. I loved science and worked as a math tutor—superstars didn’t date the smart girls. Even Cam, nice as he was, seemed to go for the sleek exterior instead of depth of character. I wouldn’t even know how to walk in a short, skin-tight dress.
Those fears, present since before my first day at Holyoke, now choked me. I’d never understood why Nash chose to hang out with me.
Up until yesterday, Nash had never even glanced at Lindsay. And he’d clearly been trashed last night, which was also unusual for him, as far as I knew. I squeezed my hands into fists. Clearly, there were parts of Nash he’d kept hidden.
Just like my mother. She’d omitted that she was dying. That’s why we’d come back to the United States. Except I never knew.
And I’d never seen how into Lindsay Nash must have been all this time. Why wouldn’t he be? She was the girl who made sense for him, the one who wanted to live the rock-star life.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Nash with his head in her breasts—his favorite body part—in front of me, in front of our entire class at Hugh’s party.
He’d refused to tell me he loved me. For months. Now I knew why. Because he’d wanted to be with Lindsay. My head pounded, and I could scarcely breathe. It was as if I’d forgotten how. Everything I’d once counted on was gone.
I heard pounding on the thick, solid wood front door, and Mrs. Ombly scurried to attend to it. She informed me that it was Hugh, and I met him in the living room.
The room’s ceiling soared to dizzying heights, framed in thick bands of crown molding. The walls were covered in damask silk, delicate threads catching the sunshine that peeked through heavy, matching draperies. Seating areas, created with the intent to lessen its vastness, did the opposite because three large area rugs nestled atop the reclaimed wood floors, soaking up the space between the soft, tanned-leather couches and bright yellow accent pillows, each its own distinct cluster.
“Aya, you look bad,” Hugh said after he hugged me.
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