The Whys Have It Page 12

  I open the weather app on my phone. “The forecast called for storms, but not until later tonight.” It’s only eleven thirty. Still several hours before I need to leave. I said I’d stay until three. No idea how I’ll make it that long.

  “Weathermen are wrong as usual,” she says, oblivious to my plight. She unwraps a blue and white teapot and sets in on a table beside her, then places the little blue lid on top.

  “Why would anyone buy an old teapot? Seems unsanitary.”

  She gives me a look. “You don’t buy something like this to use it. You buy it for the story behind it. You buy it because it represents people long gone and a time long past, and something like this lets you feel connected to something outside yourself—other’s people’s stories and memories. You put it on display so that you can share in those memories with others. If nothing else, it’s a conversation starter. A collector’s item.” She picks up an old spoon and turns it over in her hand. “Kassie loved antiques. We don’t have much in the way of family, so I think this was her way of being connected to a legacy.” She sets the spoon down. “People don’t always stick around, but their possessions do. And then in some ways, their lives.”

  I’ve just been schooled. Still, something in her words tugs at me. It might be the nostalgia behind them. It might be just the idea of someone wanting to be that connected to me. Or it might be knowing that a whole group of them in this town would like to see me, but I haven’t stayed connected to them. I shake off the darkening thoughts and scramble for a way to lighten the mood. Obviously the dust is getting to me.

  “But a teapot? You can buy them at Target, you know. And then you can make your own memories.”

  She wads up newspaper and shoots it toward my head. Her aim is bad and it sails over my left shoulder. “And what lovely memories they would be, coming straight off the conveyor belt.” She picks up a larger teapot, one in a deep shade of purple and flecked with gold. “And you’d have to pay nine-hundred dollars to get one like this.”

  I stared at her, waiting for a punch line that never comes. “For a piece of old glass?”

  “Old glass.” She shakes her head like I’m the dumbest person alive. “What’s the most expensive guitar you own, Cory?”

  I pause, clear my throat. I don’t want to answer this. I don’t like it when people make points at my expense. “A Martin from 1963 that used to belong to John Lennon.”

  “John Lennon, really?”

  Her eyes go wide, and I swallow a smile. At least she’s impressed.

  “Yep. Got it at auction.”

  She stares open-mouthed for a second and then shakes her head. “Not the point. How much is it worth?” She flicks lint off her forearm like she doesn’t care about my answer, but I see the truth. She likes John Lennon and my cool points just tripled. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s thinking about showers now, too.

  “Sixty-nine thousand dollars.”

  I almost laugh at the way her head shoots up and her eyes bulge. Not sure what she expected. Probably a tenth of that price. But she recovers. That smug expression slides back on her face.

  “For a round piece of wood and six strings?”

  Round piece of—

  “Eight strings.”

  “Whatever. Everyone collects something. The people who shop here collect these.” She retrieves a strip tape off the floor and straightens to give me a look. “I hope you’ve insured that thing. Sixty-nine thousand…” She rolls her eyes and drops the tape into the box, then massages her lower back. “My back is killing me. Really, that much?”

  I shrug. “Really, that much. I’d buy another one if I had the chance. You stay here and unpack these. I’ll get more boxes.” I catch sight of her grateful grin just as I wheel around her. Hannah walks in at that moment, her gaze raking me up and down. “Looking good, Cory. Except for those clothes. Why in the world did you wear that on a work day?”

  “Oh good lord, here we go again.”

  Sam’s laughter follows me into the storage room. I’m walking through the door when Hannah speaks again. “Hey Sam, you’ve got a giant black streak across your nose.” I laugh to myself when—

  “Cory! I can’t believe you let me walk around like this!

  “That’s what you get for making fun of my clothes!” I laugh when the door closes behind me. If I remember right, Sharpie’s are hard to remove. With any luck, the mark will still be there tomorrow.

  Except I won’t be here tomorrow.

  I instantly sober, telling myself it’s a good thing. The last thing I need right now is commitment. Even thinking too much about a girl could shake the foundation of everything I’ve built. Alone has been my way of life for years—maybe not technically when you consider that women are always around—but I don’t do attachments. Haven’t in almost exactly a decade. They’re a waste of time and always end with me running from something.

  I lie to myself like this a lot. It’s easy to believe them when the heart is at stake.

  I whirl the dolly into the back room once again and begin piling more boxes one on top of another. Sam and Hannah are in the front room having a discussion about furniture placement, so I’m alone for a moment. A good thing since these boxes are heavier and longer and my mouth gets foul while trying to lift them. But come on. They’re all more than likely filled with more old crap that some antique nerd deemed is worth thousands. I don’t understand the draw toward other people’s used junk, especially when most of those people are dead. It’s creepy.

  Though I do keep wondering about the memories they’ve made. I suppose if you’re Sam, the idea of a legacy is comforting.

  I find myself being a little more careful with the boxes.

  When the last box is loaded, I straighten and look around the room for a second. Everything is gray—the floor, the walls, even the metal light fixtures. For the small size of the room, it’s very industrial-looking. The subway and urine smell isn’t so bad anymore; the scent of must, sawdust, shredded paper, and age fills the place. A small part of me will actually miss this place when I leave later today, creepy or not.

  Something is seriously wrong with me. Here I am in an old warehouse, hoisting boxes on my shoulders, destroying nearly new high-end clothing, and talking to a chick with black marks on her nose when I should have been in South Beach by now—and I’m actually enjoying myself. In fact, I’m having a better time here than I will ever have there. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt physically tired from manual labor; and it’s a nice change. I’ve forgotten how nice it is to be normal, to have fun with a girl with no preconceived expectations. To be just Cory, not Cory Minor the marketing product. Normal isn’t nearly as mundane as I remembered.

  Another rumble of thunder rolls against the outside walls, followed by a crash of lightning. I heave the stack of boxes toward me and begin rolling it toward the door before something catches my eye. There’s a desk to the left of the exit—gray metal, the same monotone color as everything else in the room. A pile of newspaper sits on top of it, folded neatly and stacked in perfect alignment. But it isn’t the paper that jolts me; it’s the headline on top.

  Local Girl Killed After Minor Concert.

  I’ve seen these headlines a hundred times already, but this one is a sucker punch straight to my chest. Online, at grocery market check-outs, in reports from my agent…none of those were personal. But here, seeing these papers sitting on Sam’s desk in a tall stack screaming headlines…it’s a thousand times worse.

  I killed her sister.

  Maybe not technically, but indirectly. I might not have been holding the gun, but the bullets were stored in my back pocket.

  Being here today, I nearly forgot.

  I ease the stack of boxes into place and walk toward the desk, then reach for the top newspaper. On it, there’s a picture of me with my guitar dangled behind my back as I bend low and reach toward the crowd. A mischievous smile tilts my lips as I clutch the hand of a woman with painted fingernails. The photo is black
and white; I remember the nails being red. I remember the brunette with the boyfriend, the little boy who should have been at home in bed, the blonde I almost slept with.

  The blonde I most definitely would have slept with if the bus hadn’t slammed into those girls. The blonde whose name I still can’t remember.

  Self-loathing grips me as I begin to read the article.

  Springfield native Kassie Dalton was killed Friday night when the car she was riding in collided with a tour bus belonging to five-time Grammy winning artist Cory Minor, in town for a show at the JQH Arena…Kassie is survived by her sister Samantha and her father Patrick…Megan Allen, the driver of the car, is listed in critical condition at Mercy Hospital…Minor couldn’t be reached for comment…

  Couldn’t be reached. Couldn’t be reached.

  I remember wanting the questions to stop. I remember the way every intrusion on my privacy felt like an inconvenience of the worst kind.

  I remember wanting to hide.

  I remember wanting to run.

  I’m so tired of running. For ten years, it’s been a race against the clock with no finish line in sight.

  The self-loathing turns into a fistful of stones pummeling my heart. I set the paper aside and pick up the next one. Dated the following day, the front page article begins much the same way.

  Kassie was valedictorian of her class…awarded a full scholarship to Rice University’s Shepherd’s School of Music where she was to study music composition…comes from a performance background…father was a Broadway actor and former professor of music at Missouri State…sister works at a local store and is also an author with one independent novel out and another set to release next spring.

  The paper burns my hand. I lay it on the desk. An author? Sam is an author? Why hadn’t she mentioned it? I once read that people are shut up tight inside boxes. That if only someone would take an interest we would all unfold nicely into something beautiful. Other than Sam’s father and the accident, I haven’t asked her much about herself. She hasn’t had much of a chance to unfold at all, because I’ve kept her in a box that only made room for two things.

  I rub the back of my neck and think back on the last two days. I’d been moved at how much she cared for her father, but I left it there. In my mind Sam was two-dimensional. My mistake. I’m thinking of how to correct it when I spot a framed photograph tucked inside the bookcase behind me. I pick it up and study the faces staring back at me. A father in black pants and a red polo. A much younger mother wearing nineties mom jeans, holding a baby in her arms while a toothless little girl in pigtails stands to the left of her. My throat grows tight at the realization—Sam and her family. A family that barely exists anymore.

  “Did you get lost back here?”

  I jump and nearly drop the frame as I fumble with guilt. I’m trespassing, inviting myself into private memories without being asked. One look at Sam’s face tells me she’s thinking the same thing. She glances at my hands.

  “What are you doing, Cory?”

  She doesn’t look angry, but her expression is one I can’t decipher. Curiosity mixed with sadness mixed with a very blank stare. Still, she’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  “I was wheeling the boxes out when I noticed these.” My eyes drift to the stack of newspapers. “There are so many. I had no idea.”

  Her eyebrows push together in a frown. “I have a lot more at home.” At my blank stare, she studies me. “Didn’t reporters call you for a statement? Or camp outside your hotel? They spent more than a week outside my apartment, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “What?” I feel sick.

  Sam clears a spot on the desk and eases herself onto it, her legs dangling over the side while she faces me. “They called and called, wanting a statement from me. Wanting to know if I was angry, if I blamed you.” A sad look shadows her features. “Wanting to know if I planned to sue.”

  She might as well have slapped me, I feel the sting that much.

  “So when I came here to ask the same thing.”

  “I figured the press wasn’t breaking me, so they sent you to do it.” She clears her throat. “I still don’t know what to think about it, Cory. Sometimes I think you’re here because you really are a good guy.” She looks at the wall in front of her. “Other times I think you’re still just holding out for an answer.”

  “Pretty sure I already got my answer. But I’m sorry. If I had known I would never have—”

  “Yes, you would have,” she says, “but it doesn’t matter now. When you showed up yesterday, you surprised me. Cory Minor in a church is probably not something a lot of people get to see.”

  I just stare at her. “I felt about as foreign as a hooker.” That earns a small smile, and I’ve won a gold medal in a race I didn’t know I was running. “So, an author?” An abrupt change in subject, but we both need it.

  Her skin deepens to a nice shade of pale pink and she hops off the desk. A few papers fall and scatter around her feet. “You saw that?”

  “Sure did.” I suppress a grin and reach for the papers, then set them on the desk. “When were you planning to tell me? I’m guessing never?”

  “Pretty good guess.” She straightens the papers on her desk, trying to avoid eye contact. “It’s indie, not a big deal.”

  “Who says indie isn’t a big deal? You wrote a whole book. I want to read it.”

  Her head snaps up. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t in print anymore.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “What about that one?” There’s a book tucked inside a metal bookcase. I spotted it before we began this conversation. I’m not surprised when she quickly shakes her head.

  “It’s the last one in existence. Sorry.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  She stares at me, a standoff. Good thing I mastered the stare down before my twelfth birthday. Finally she sighs and plucks it of out of the case. “Fine, take it. I have more at home. But don’t read it in front of me.”

  I’m more excited than I’ll admit when my hand closes around the paperback. It’s like I’ve been handed a secret, a piece of her soul that she just decided to entrust with me. That’s the way with writers—every word on a page like a window into their private places, exposing a great deal of vulnerability when they allow others to see inside. Even fiction is made of up of the truthful scars of the people telling the story. I should know. I tell the same stories myself every day.

  I’m getting Sam out of that box, piece by piece.

  I hand the book back. “Autograph it.”

  Her hand lands on her hip. “What? I’m not going to autograph that for you.”

  I knew I would get this reaction. “Why not? I give mine out all the time. Why can’t I ask for yours? Seems only fair.”

  She studies me for a long moment before making a face. “This is ridiculous.” Maybe so, but she’s reaching for a pen. “You’ve written a hundred songs that people sing every day. You should have to sign autographs. I’ve written one book, and I’ve never signed it for anyone except my sis—”

  And just like that, the mood I was trying to lighten goes black. She scrawls out a few words and hands the book back to me.

  “Here you go.” Her lip quivers. My heart twists.

  She turns to walk away—more than likely to keep me from seeing her tears—but I can’t let her go. So even though it’s late and I need to leave soon and I’ll probably have to run every red light in town to make my plane, I reach for her shirt and pull her backward before she can escape. She jolts for a second, then sees my intent when I turn her around. One second later she settles into my chest—no fight, no protest. Only the quiet tears of a woman battling grief of the worst kind, grief piled on grief until it’s become too much to bear. Her shoulders shake so hard my chest begins to physically hurt—not from external pain, but the internal kind. Th
e kind that makes me wish for the thousandth time I could go back and undo that night, maybe end the concert sooner or forgo the meet-and-greet completely or demanded Springfield be taken off the schedule like I had wanted in the first place. I tighten my hold and hang on.

  Sometimes that’s the hardest thing to accept about life: you can’t go back. You can’t undo mistakes. You don’t get redos, even if you beg the maker of the universe for a million second chances. Sometimes all you can do is be there while another human unloads her grief until all of it is expelled, even when you’ve never been comfortable with this sort of thing in the past, even when your first instinct is to flee, even when the feel of her tears on your wet chest nearly kills everything inside you.

  Funny how with Sam, none of that matters. I tighten my hold around her waist, rest my chin on her head, and listen as the tears fall. For the next few minutes, I’m not going anywhere.

  It takes a while, but she eventually calms down. She stays against my chest another minute…maybe two…before seeming to think the better of it and stepping back. I’m used to detaching myself from women, I’m not used to the ache in my heart that comes from letting this particular woman go.

  She runs a knuckle under one eye. “I got makeup all over your shirt. Sorry.” She glances up at me and sniffs. “Although you really shouldn’t have worn that today.”

  I laugh, can’t help it. In the short time I’ve known her, this woman has taken my emotions on a wild ride, one that I could get addicted to. “Never again. Never again will I buy high-end.”

  “Whatever, Cory. Something tells me you wouldn’t know Target if it smacked you on the butt.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Some of my favorite designers sell clothes at Target.” How she managed to get mascara on her forehead is something I can’t figure out.

  She raises a smeared eyebrow. “That you actually buy?”

  I check the time on my phone. “Yes. I just buy them at Barney’s New York.”

  Her gaze is focused on my hand. “Time to go?”

  I nod even as my chest constricts. I’m not ready to leave, but I have no reason to stay. For one brief moment my mind drifts to my parents, but I know I’m just reaching. No sense in reopening the wounds of the past, at least not yet. It’s taken a decade, but now the stitches barely hurt anymore. Now isn’t the time to rip them open.