The Whys Have It Page 14

  “She sounds like a certain big sister who sometimes walks around with black Sharpie on her nose.”

  I smile. She doesn’t. The crease between her eyebrows only deepens. “That’s the last thing I said to her in person. She didn’t wear the shirt.” She nods toward the closed bedroom door. “It’s still in there, lying on the floor. And the last thing I said was Thank God you won’t get anything on it. What kind of last words are those to say to a sister you might never see again?”

  So that was it. Last words. They can kill you with their lack of meaning, slay you with the absence of thoughtfulness, shackle you to a career of writing lyrics for the rest of your life just to hopefully one day get them right. Last words cut. Last words haunt. Especially if they’re careless. Especially if you have no hope of ever having another chance to make them better. But Sam’s…

  “Those are normal last words, Sam. Those are the last words of a sister who fully expected her sister to come home late that night.”

  She locks me in a stare and doesn’t look away. “But I didn’t tell her I loved her. Not even when she called to say they were running late after the concert. I lectured her about her curfew.”

  I shift to get a better look at her. “Did she know you loved her? Had you told her before?”

  “Yes. Probably even that day, but—”

  “Then that’s all that matters. Some people never say the words at all. Some people spend their entire lives regretting all the things they didn’t say while they had the chance.” Like me. I regret a lot about my life, because I’m guilty of everything I’m telling her. Still, if I can keep her from traveling down this barbed-wire-lined path of guilt and shame, I’ll do it. Otherwise I should have stayed at the airport. “Don’t beat yourself up for talking about laundry or lectures. It was a normal conversation, one you’ll likely have with someone else again.”

  “But what if—”

  “Aw, the worst words in the English language. Trust me Sam, her last memories of you were good ones. She wasn’t thinking about your lecture. Not for a second.”

  “But it’s just that…”

  “Don’t Sam. Don’t torture yourself like that. What if I hadn’t booked a show in Springfield? What if I had disregarded public opinion and forced the meet-and-greet to happen before the show instead of changing it to afterward?”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “It is.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’ve asked myself that question a few dozen times already. But you can What If yourself until you’re crazy. And then you can move on to asking a bunch of What Ifs about me. God knows I’ve done that enough already. It won’t accomplish anything except to make you feel insane.”

  Believe me, I know. Despite the words I’m saying, I’ve struggled with What Ifs for years. Advice is much easier to give than follow. Isn’t that the nature of being human?

  We sit in silence even though I want to say more, but my mind is screaming at me to shut up, to be careful not to push the wrong buttons, to remain on the right side of the line. I don’t want to hurt her or come across as uncaring, but this point is an important one. The proverbial mirror is a lot easier to turn on her than it is on myself, and right now I’m practically sending blinding streams of reflective light right into her eyes.

  “All I’m saying is this. You can second guess yourself to death. You can ask yourself how things might have been different. You can even beg God for a million redos.” I sigh, knowing full well that the man upstairs doesn’t grant redos no matter how many times you beg. The permanent bruises on my knees and the guilt still keeping me company every night prove it. “But trust me, Sam. It doesn’t do any good. Don’t put yourself through it. In fact, if you need to blame someone, blame me. Just don’t blame yourself.”

  She’s quiet for so long that I begin to believe she’s finally heard me. That a little of my first-hand wisdom has penetrated her brain, and what a beautiful brain it seems to be. But then she speaks and kills that hope.

  “Fine. I’ll stop blaming myself when you tell me what happened to make you such an expert.”

  I blink. Then blink again and focus on my hands. My cuticles are jagged and I could really use some clippers, but this is my first time at her place and it seems as presumptuous a request as asking for a bath towel to mop up the kitchen floor. I should probably save clippers for the second or third time and besides how am I going to get out of answering this question?

  No way I’m telling her the truth.

  I really do need some clippers.

  I avoid both possibilities and settle somewhere in between. Partial truths never hurt anyone, and I can cut my nails later.

  “I had a falling out with my brother a few years ago. Nothing too awful, we just couldn’t see eye to eye on something and could never come to an agreement.” I clear my throat. The funny thing about partial truths is that they usually make room for partial lies, but that’s a technicality I don’t care to analyze. She shifts in her seat to face me. Her nose is still red from crying, but her eyes are dry. Too dry, maybe. She won’t stop staring, and I’m fairly certain she’s sizing me up.

  “There’s more you’re not telling me. Now spill it. It’s only fair since you know almost every bad thing that’s happened to me.” She wipes her nose with a sleeve but doesn’t look away.

  Good thing I’ve dealt with reporters for years. Good thing I’m an expert at deflecting.

  “That’s it.” I shrug for extra emphasis. “All in all, my life is pretty boring.”

  She’s forming a response when a crack of lightning splits the room in half. Thank God for lightning strikes and the girls who hate them. Sam jumps, ducks behind a pillow, and I start to think that maybe God isn’t always such a bad guy. When the rumble of thunder subsides, I stand up to peer out the window. There’s nothing but sheets of water slamming against a window that showcases nothing but endless black. I’m not going anywhere for a while. I hope Sam doesn’t mind.

  “Anyway,” she says, clearly undeterred. “There’s obviously more to the story despite what you want me to believe. Maybe someday you’ll tell me, but for now I’m going to tell you this.” She sets the pillow aside and pats the seat cushion next to her. I obey and sit. “About your family. I don’t know the circumstances. Maybe they were awful. But Cory, my mom died a decade ago. My dad is in a nursing home. And my sister…” She takes a deep breath and locks her gaze on me. “She’s gone now too. Your family is still alive, right?”

  I nod. I know where she’s going, because other people have gone here too. But none with the same authority as Sam, which makes her plea hard to brush off. Still, I wish she’d stop talking.

  “What about your grandparents?’

  I shift in place. “My mom’s parents are still around.”

  “Do you have any sisters?”

  I sigh. “Only a brother.”

  “Any nieces or nephews?”

  I don’t look at her. I’m afraid to. “A niece. She’s almost two. I’ve never met her.” This is sounding worse and worse, even to me.

  When she just looks at me for a long moment, I don’t have to read her mind to know what she’s thinking. It’s all in her eyes. “What are you doing, Cory? You have two parents, a brother, a niece, and I’m guessing a whole bunch of other people in that family of yours. Meanwhile, I have a dad who can’t remember me, and that’s it.” She hugs her knees to her chest. “You should at least try to reconcile with them while you have the chance. Trust me, chances pass. They pass really fast.”

  I could pretend to think about it. I could list off a dozen reasons why reconciliation wouldn’t work. I could tell her she’s wrong, but I’m not a fan of lying and there’s just no arguing with her logic. So I do the only thing I can manage. I shrug.

  “Okay.”

  I feel her eyes on me, but I stare straight ahead until she bumps my knee with her toe.

  “That’s it? Okay?”

  The move surprises me. It’s almost playful. I roll my
head sideways to look at her. “Yeah, okay. What do you want me to say?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I expected an argument at least.”

  I’m grinning before I think better of it. I can argue all day long, but right now I don’t feel like it. Not with Sam. With her it’s…different. Something in my chest folds in half at the thought, but I take a deep breath and refuse to acknowledge it. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m too tired to argue.” I slide my eyes to her refrigerator. “Got any food? I’m starving.”

  “I don’t have much, but I’ll look.”

  She yawns and stands up, then stretches with her arms over her head in front of me. I avert my eyes from the bare strip of skin that reveals itself between her thin white tank and worn jeans, but then I find myself staring again. She shouldn’t do that so close to me—I’m a guy and it isn’t fair and where else am I supposed to look? There’s nowhere else I want to look, and this apartment is small. Have I mentioned that?

  She turns on her heel and walks toward the kitchen, and now I’m staring at her butt. It’s cute the way it sways back and forth—more than cute; my mouth goes dry—and suddenly my mind is practically doing the backstroke in a gutter. But it’s storming and dark and late and if this isn’t the perfect set-up for a cheesy romance novel I don’t know what is. I scrub a hand over my face and stand up. I’m not used to reigning myself in with women—never have to anymore. But Sam isn’t just any woman, and sometimes it’s hard to remember. But she deserves more than that from me. Much more.

  That thing folding in half inside my chest? It’s now folding in thirds and fourths and eights and that’s enough math for me. I turn toward the wall and stare holes into it.

  “Okay? Does that mean you’ll think about going to see them?”

  Man, she’s persistent. I turn back around to see her at the refrigerator, leaning around the open door to look at me.

  “Fine, I’ll think about it. But can we eat first and debate the pros and cons later?”

  In response, she holds up two very mismatched items in both hands.

  “There are no cons. Do these work?’

  “That remains to be seen. And don’t knock yourself out on my account.”

  “First of all, I wasn’t expecting company, especially not of the pampered Hollywood variety.” She closes the freezer door with her hip while I open my mouth to protest.

  “Second of all.” She cuts me off. “It isn’t exactly grocery shopping weather outside, so we have what we have and you’ll have to deal with it. And third, I’d rather not go out to eat. So if you’re opposed to frozen pizza and tater tots—which let me point out that there would be something seriously wrong with you if you were—then you’re stuck starving. Unless you would like a half-eaten box of Cocoa Pebbles. You’re welcome to those if you want them.” She plops both boxes on the counter.

  I laugh and walk into the kitchen. “You eat like a teenager. I’ll take those. Not a fan of chocolate cereal.” I say, opening the pizza box.

  She gives me a look like I couldn’t be weirder. “What kind of person doesn’t like chocolate cereal?” She shakes her head and swats me on the arm. “Whatever. Move out of my way, I’m going to start cooking.”

  “Oh good lord, you cook like a teenager too.”

  She glances over her shoulder and turns on the oven. “I’m a regular Julia Child.”

  “If she could hear you, she’d probably start drinking bourbon from the grave.”

  “Shut up, Cory.”

  And I do.

  My mind isn’t exactly on the conversation anyway. I’m still thinking about Sam’s request, about her suggestion that I see my family. It’s been years, a decade to be precise. How am I supposed to walk back into their lives now? Do I just show up with flowers in hand, carrying a I’m Sorry Hallmark card signed by me and made out to them? Do I ask for forgiveness? Pretend it never happened? More confusing, when does the passage of time turn into too much time to turn back the clock?

  This is why it’s so much easier to ignore everything.

  This is why it’s so much easier to run.

  But there’s one thing I can’t shake, one thing I can’t ignore, one thing I can’t get past no matter how hard I try.

  As I watch her move around the kitchen, it hits me harder with each passing second.

  Sam’s life has been every bit as difficult as mine. Maybe even more so.

  But she’s never run from anything.

  CHAPTER 21

  Cory

  I drag my last tater tot through a smear of ketchup and pop it into my mouth, then stand to throw my paper plate into the trash. Either dinner wasn’t half bad, or I still remember what it’s like to be poor and make groceries last on thirty bucks a week. I’d like to think it’s that second one. No one wants to admit they’re pampered, even if that’s what Sam called me when I showed up here.

  She moves around the kitchen, and I try not to watch her. It isn’t working. For someone so unassuming, Sam’s presence fills the room and extends into the hallway. She’s beautiful in the way a Guess model is beautiful—earthy, fresh faced, striking without effort. She’s busy cleaning up and hasn’t noticed me staring, so I keep at it and enjoy the view.

  My cell vibrates in my pocket and turns my good mood sour. I’ve ignored the phone all night, but now it’s starting to bother me. Sal’s name has appeared beside every missed call and text—sure he can be annoying, but it isn’t like him to contact me this much. I pull out the cell and study the name, expecting Sal’s to appear. It isn’t him. It’s my brother. A flash of anger sears like a branding iron on my head, and I delete the message without reading it. We both know how he feels about me, and none of it is good. Why call now, after all this time? I toss my phone on Sam’s counter and leave it there. He can wait.

  “Thanks for dinner. It actually wasn’t that bad.” I plant my elbows on the table and resume watching Sam. It’s a nice distraction. Best one I’ve found in a while.

  “Oh, you’re embarrassing me with the compliments.” She folds the empty pizza box in half just as lightning strikes. Sam jumps; the box falls to the floor.

  I stretch for it and toss it into the trash. “Not a fan of storms?”

  “I hate them.” Another strike hits the room like a fist to the face—sudden, harsh, angry. The sound is chased by pebbles pinging the roof. Hail, and lots of it. I’ve never seen a woman pale so quickly. She walks to the window and stands in front of it for a moment, then turns and slowly walks to the sofa. I take that as my cue to join her. I let my head fall back against the pillow, still bothered by that text. What does he want? And why can’t I have one nice moment before he tries to take it away? His timing has always been terrible.

  There are only a few ways to forcibly remove something from the mind—denial, distraction, alcohol, avoidance. None of which have ever worked for me. I go with distraction anyway because I have no other ideas, and Sam hasn’t offered me anything to drink.

  “I love storms, but I prefer hot and sunny. Hence the reason I’m heading to Florida tomorrow.”

  Sam shifts position. “It’s a lot better than this place, that’s for sure.”

  There’s meaning behind her words, and I hesitate. She sounds bothered, disappointed even. But that could just be my ego talking. It hangs around fairly often, if fairly translates to all the time.

  “I don’t know about that. This apartment is starting to grow on me.” I’d stay if you wanted me to. The thought comes from nowhere. Clearly distraction isn’t working. Maybe I should ask for a glass of wine. Or a bottle of whiskey.

  “Yeah, there’s nothing like linoleum and tiny rooms to make a person feel at home.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Strained silence sits like a third person in the space between us as Sam toys with the edge of a sofa seam. The grandfather clock ticks off the seconds. One…two…tick…tock… I expect something to detonate any second now. Desperate for conversation, I scan the room until my eyes land on something familiar. Familiar and w
elcome. And like a life raft tossed to a drowning man, maybe it will save me.

  “What is that?” I walk across the room and pluck an old Fender guitar from a stand in the corner and strum a chord. It’s out of tune, so I tighten a string. “Do you play?’

  “No.” Sam goes rigid, and I want to die. This isn’t a raft, it’s a shark sent to eat me alive. Full scholarship to Shepherd’s School of Music, the newspaper article had said. The guitar is her sister’s, and I’ve overstepped yet another line. I’ve done it so many times, I’m practically playing hopscotch all over Sam’s life. Jump three spaces to smash the heart, another two to really pound the mind.

  I watch her chest rise and fall for a few breaths, but then the storm cloud breaks behind her eyes and it takes the darkness with it. She looks up at me. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or to hate myself, so I wait. I’ll let her decide.

  “It was Kassie’s. She played pretty well, actually. Tried in vain for years to teach me, but I’m musically challenged.” She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them. “You can play it if you want to. It might be nice to hear the sound again.”

  I want to kiss her for not hating me, but still I hesitate, gauging her demeanor. “Are you sure?” At her nod, I sit beside her on the sofa once again and strum another chord. I adjust a few more strings until the instrument sounds right. While I work, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. If I see one tear, one more sad expression, I’ll put this thing away and never look at it again. I’m tired of adding to her grief, of being the cause of so much hurt. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Whatever you want to play is fine.” She hugs her knees tighter.

  I give her a look. “You’re getting your own private concert here. At least tell me your favorite song.” I rest my hands on the body of the guitar and wait.