The Whys Have It Page 15

  “Hallelujah.”

  “Leonard Cohen’s? I meant one of mine, but I’ll play that if you want.” I shrug and strum the first note before she stops me.

  “Oh,” she says. “No, play one of yours.”

  “Which one?”

  When she doesn’t respond, I turn to look at her. She blinks, and for a second I wonder if she can even name one of my songs. Maybe she’s not a fan. But who doesn’t know at least one of my songs? Her sister knew them. Surely Sam isn’t a Cory Minor virgin, so to speak. When she still doesn’t saying anything, a few foreign emotions scratch the back of my mind. First, insecurity. Then confusion. Then something that feels a lot like attachment. I think I might have just fallen in love a little.

  Who doesn’t know my songs?

  Someone who doesn’t care about my status, that’s who. It’s been so long since this has happened, I don’t know what to say. I bite back a stupid grin and turn away. Time to turn on the fake offense.

  “You do know one of my songs, don’t you?”

  She clears her throat. “Of course I do. Play the one about…the girl…and how you…”

  I get ahold of myself and turn back around. Her face is bright red. My new goal is to make it stay that way.

  “You don’t know any of my songs?” I give a dramatic show of falling back against the sofa cushions, rubbing my hands against my face. “Five number one albums, and you can’t name a single song?” My hands slide to my chest and stay there. “I’m hurt. Wounded beyond repair.” Good lord, she’s hot.

  “Oh quit.” She bites back a grin. “Play the one from the commercial, the one for the hotel? I know that one.”

  A jingle.

  Sam knows the only song of mine I’ve ever allowed to be used as a gimmick.

  Last year, Go Ahead Make My Night was contracted to become the new theme song for one of the country’s biggest hotel chains. Sure, it made me a lot of money and sure, I had reservations. No pun intended. But I didn’t want to become a parody, a sellout, a punch line. Yet this is the one song she knows. Suddenly I’m on par with a cruise ship musician—one that performs early and can’t draw a crowd even with free drinks and complimentary peanuts. I can’t believe how much I like it.

  With one long look at her, I hang my head and begin playing a slow, melancholy version complete with sad, forlorn lyrics. If it’s pathetic she wants, it’s pathetic she’ll get. A jingle. Whatever.

  I’m so turned on right now I can barely think.

  The sound of her low giggle almost makes me smile. Instead, I continue to draw out each pitiful note, hoping to make her laugh. It hits me then that I’ve never heard Sam laugh. I want to hear the sound more than anything I’ve ever wanted before.

  She kicks my thigh, and the guitar almost slips off my leg. I angle my body away from her and keep playing, making a show of giving her the cold shoulder. I’m pretty sure it’s the saddest song any musician has ever sung. I’m also pretty sure I’m about to hear her laugh all the way.

  Finally, she can’t help herself. It breaks free and I have to work hard to keep sounding sad. I’ve heard many beautiful songs in my life, seen so many enrapturing sights. But the sound I hear…the sight I see when I turn and catch the light in her eyes might be the best thing I’ve ever witnessed. A rock is in my throat and I can barely breathe, but I stare for a long moment before thinking better of it. It takes effort to tear my eyes away, but I swallow hard and continue to sing. My voice is tight, emotion clutching it in a fist. Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

  “That isn’t how it goes!” She laughs louder and shoves my arm. “Play it the right way.”

  I dip my head and will a playful attitude to return. “How would you know? You don’t even know the words.” The song morphs into a Southern spiritual.

  Sam’s laughter calms into the breathy giggle. “You’re pitiful. I need to call the National Enquirer tomorrow sell my first-hand account of how sensitive Cory Minor really is.”

  “Some girls like sensitive,” I say. She ignores me and keeps talking.

  “Watch out ladies, he might be cute, but he whines like a girl.” She plants her feet on the floor.

  I strum a few chords and think about her words. “You think I’m cute?”

  Sam rolls her eyes and pushes off the sofa. “Me and the rest of America. But of course you would focus on that.” She opens a kitchen cabinet door and pulls out two long-stemmed glasses, then reaches behind another door and produces a bottle of wine. “Do you want any?”

  I set the guitar aside and stand up to help her. “I want the whole bottle. Where’s your opener?”

  She indicates the location with her head. “Someone’s a lush. It’s in the second drawer by the refrigerator, in the back.”

  I open it. “It’s been a long day. And since you only have three drawers in this kitchen, it shouldn’t be hard to locate.”

  She gives me a look. “Three is all I need. Hope you like Riesling.”

  I take the bottle from her hand and study it, then set it on the counter and twist the opener into the cork. “A little girly for my taste, but I’ll take it.”

  She sets the glasses in front of me. “Girly is what you’re stuck with.”

  I pour a little into both glasses and hand her one, then lean against the counter and take a sip. She’s studying me, but all I can see is her full lips around the glass. They way her throat constricts on a swallow. The way her tongue glides across her lower lip to catch a drop, a move all women make but never know how incredibly sexy it is. Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain pelts the roof and I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I came here for one reason only, because I couldn’t get Sam out of my mind. I still can’t get her out of my mind, but she’s drifted to a corner of it that I can’t afford to go. I should have stayed at the hotel. The penthouse suite was gorgeous.

  I wasn’t interested in it. I left it to come to a tiny apartment on the off-chance that I’d get to see a girl I barely know one more time.

  And seeing her I am. All of a sudden seeing her isn’t enough.

  Especially with the wine coursing through my veins, all set to complicate things. I’m starting to relax, which means my guard will gradually come down at the same time my crass meter will go up, and later I won’t want to leave at all. Leaving is what I do. An integral part of my personality. A requirement for my job, because I can’t afford to stay.

  Why can’t I afford to stay? I’m having a nice time, probably a better time than I’ll have at the beach. Sam doesn’t resent me, even seems to like having me around. She’s funny, smart, attractive, hot.

  And that’s exactly why I need to go.

  “Well, I guess I should get going.” I force myself to say the words as I set my half empty glass on the counter and take a few steps into the living room. I don’t make it far before Sam’s voice stops me.

  “You’re leaving? But I thought you wanted the whole bottle?” She nods toward the Riesling sitting to the left of me. “Plus, it’s still storming hard. You can’t just leave in this weather.” Her eyes flash toward the window, concern lining the inside corners.

  “I know, but my flight leaves pretty early in the morning and I have a hotel already booked…” I let the words trail off because my explanation is weak. I don’t care about a hotel. I don’t care about loss of money. And I sure don’t care about Florida. But I do care that my mind is going all sorts of places it shouldn’t be going right now, not with Sam.

  Never with Sam.

  She only nods. A good thing, because I probably don’t deserve a response. Turning toward the counter, she reaches for the cork to seal the wine, then remains still for a moment. Just when I start to ask if she’s okay, my phone buzzes from my pocket.

  What are you doing in Springfield? It’s a text from Sal, one that puts me on edge since it can only mean one thing: pictures from the last couple of days are starting to surface. It’s the worst part of my career, the only real part I resent. If the media deems it newsworthy,
it circulates. Even a picture of me using the bathroom has appeared twice online in the past—a cliché bar bathroom photo that showcased me hung over and a celebrity bathroom photo that highlighted a one-night stand I’ve already forgotten. How are those interesting to anyone?

  Back in my starving artist days, I wanted this career…desperately wanted everything that came with it. The adoration, the sense of accomplishment, the money, the women. It all seemed so elusive yet intoxicating, especially when viewed through the glossy pages of Billboard magazine. To have that kind of power, to make that kind of mark on history and other people’s lives. I wanted to be Elvis reincarnated, John Lennon minus the gunshot. I wanted fame and fame wanted me.

  We still court each other, I just never knew that with the things you acquire, many other things are taken away. Namely privacy. Occasionally self-respect. Once or twice, even self-worth.

  I don’t answer the call and instead slip the phone back into my pocket with a frustrated sigh.

  I pull out my keys and twirl them once around my finger. The sound seems to jolt Sam, and she turns.

  “Cory…” She bites a fingernail, glances out the window one, two, three times. Whatever is on her mind, she’s nervous. She drops her hand and looks at me. “Can you stay?”

  I blink. She could have said a million things, but I wouldn’t have guessed this one. “Stay here?” Surely I didn’t hear her right. The way my blood rushes to my head I can barely hear at all. “You want me to stay here?”

  Her eyes flash to the floor as though imploring it to swallow her. “Never mind. It was stupid of me to ask.” She busies herself by straightening magnets on the refrigerator, lining them up, making their ends meet, generally obsessing over something not worth obsessing about.

  I shove a hand in my pocket “Why?”

  She won’t look at me. “Because you’re probably looking forward to getting away, and who would want to stay here in Springfield when—”

  “No, it wasn’t a stupid thing to ask. I just wondered why you want me to stay.” I spend the next three seconds telling myself her answer doesn’t matter, that the course of my life won’t be irrevocably altered if she professes a die-hard attraction to me and a very real wish to see where this thing between us goes—the same feelings I’m having for her. My little internal pep talk works until she opens her mouth to respond. That’s when all reason leaves and my pulse trips around like an addict on bad acid.

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “Maybe because it sometimes feels like you’re my only link to Kassie. If you go I won’t have that anymore.”

  So much for undying love.

  “Oh. Because I’m your link to your sister.” I don’t mean to sound hurt, but the tone is there right along the slumped shoulders and stiff neck that suddenly needs cracking. This woman has me feeling all kinds of weird emotions.

  “Well no,” she says, her voice wavering a bit. “It just worries me that if you leave, I won’t have anyone around who understands the things I’m going through.”

  Eighths. And sixteenths. And forty-eighths. They fold and fold and fold.

  And I’m a goner.

  Because that’s the moment. The moment when my need to see her and the wild attraction I feel and the weird hope for an uncertain future no longer matter. Nothing matters more than her heart. Her need. Her insecurity. Her grief. It’s raw and it’s real and it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  And neither am I. Sam doesn’t run, and starting now I don’t run either. I might not be able to fix the past, but I can start from here. You can’t outrun your past mistakes, but you can try hard to stand still and face your future. Sam needs me; the least I can do is stick with her.

  “But that’s not the only reason.” Her words rush out in an apology, one she doesn’t need to make because I’ve already made my decision. “I also want you to stay because—”

  “I’ll stay. My flight can wait a week or so.” And it would. If she needs a connection to her sister—however indirect it might be—I’ll give her one. Tossing my phone and keys on a nearby table, I lower myself to the sofa once again to wait out the storm. I release a slow breath when Sam walks around me and takes a seat at the other end. It’s a start. Not what I’ve come to expect when it comes to women, but with her I’m done with expectations. What Sam needs is what Sam gets.

  Ready. Set. Go.

  “So.” I lean back and roll my head to the side to look at her. “If you’re stuck with me another week, what do you want to do?”

  At the sight of her soft smile, I look away. My heart hammers in my chest as I deliver myself a harsh internal reminder.

  Mind, get out of the gutter.

  Heart, please stop pounding like this.

  Neither one of them listen to me.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sam

  My parents were married twenty-six years ago, back when Melody Sims was twenty-seven and Eric Dalton was forty-eight. To say the marriage was a scandal back then was like saying the Titanic was a small flotation device. Yet in the end, only the big ship sunk; the marriage, despite everyone’s misgivings, floated along. Thrived, even.

  My father pampered my mother with vacations and beautiful homes, settling us into our last family home just before Kassie’s birth. My father doted on us with the same devoted fervor he showed our mother. As a first-time father at forty-nine and a second-time father at fifty-six, he made the most of every moment. I never knew the unusual dynamics of my family until the occasional cruel child pointed it out at school.

  “Your father’s probably gonna die soon,” taunted a particularly troublesome little boy named Kevin who harassed me relentlessly in third grade. There wasn’t a day Kevin wasn’t sporting a dried peanut butter stain on his chin and a persistent trail of snot just under his nose. My mother said he was less fortunate and explained that I needed to be nice to him. I didn’t know what less fortunate meant, but I did know that I didn’t care for being nice to kids who were so horribly mean to me. “My mom says he’s old. Old enough to be your grandpa. And I bet you don’t even got one of those, because your grandpa’s probably already dead since your dad’s, like, a hundred years old.”

  “Shut up, Kevin.” I said those words at least twice a day; they never did any good. But I never told him he was right; I didn’t have a grandpa. Until Kevin pointed it out, I’d never known I was missing one.

  Though life at school was sometimes difficult, life at home made up for it. While other dads were chasing careers and climbing ladders, my father was already established. He was a professor of music at the University of Missouri, settling into that role after spending his younger years performing on Broadway. He achieved some rather noteworthy roles, the highest profile being the understudy for Raoul, one of the main characters in The Phantom of the Opera. He performed the role more than a dozen times during its opening year, garnering praise for his powerful voice. He went on to land supporting roles in other shows before settling back in Springfield, desiring a simpler life. He met my mother five years after he returned home, when she was hired as an English professor at the same University. She worked there until I was born, choosing to stay home since they had the means to do so. Seven years later—long after my parents gave up trying to conceive again—Kassie arrived.

  It was a perfect life.

  It stayed that way. There was never a reason to believe it wouldn’t.

  Until my mother found a strange-looking mole behind her left thigh on my sixteenth birthday.

  Melanoma, the doctor diagnosed it.

  An explosion of cells too far advanced to be treated, he described it. Four weeks and one day after the pronouncement, Melody Dalton died at home in her sleep, leaving two daughters and a husband stunned, confused, and alone. At least that’s how the obituary described it.

  It would be another three years before forgetful would be added to my father’s list of attributes. Another five before he would be permanently housed at Maplewood Care Center.

  That sam
e day, Kassie moved into my tiny apartment. Despite our dwindling family and grim circumstances, we had a nice little life living here together. Like everything else, it was temporary. Most things in my life are. I’d like to say it’s the way of life for most people, but something tells me that—like my mother said about Kevin all those years ago—I’ve landed on the list of the less fortunate. Most seem to make it through life with their fortune intact.

  Like Cory.

  I learned early on in life that family love is unconditional. That hard work and determination pay off in the end, even if nothing lasts as long as you wish it would. My own future looks shaky; ideas of a husband, kids, or any sort of family at all look frightening at worst, questionable at best. After all, you can’t lose what you don’t have. Fear plays a powerful role in determining your future, and I’ve lost so much already. But Cory. His family is still intact, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

  For him, there’s still a chance at making things right.

  I dreamed of my mother last night. Of my childhood. Of her illness. Of the way Kassie and I stood at her graveside wondering how we managed to have a healthy and happy mother at Christmas time and a dead one by the end of January.

  I’ve spent the morning rewinding time in my mind, the afternoon weighing worst case and best case scenarios in my hand, and the evening creating a mash up of the two. It was Cory’s question. That’s what caused it.

  If you’re stuck with me another week, what do you want to do?

  Life can change in a span of only minutes. Or in my case, the span of Christmas trees and Valentine hearts.

  He’s a good guy. A great guy. Beneath all that flash and show is a man who just wants to be understood, and for some weird reason I want to be the one to understand him. In some ways I already do.

  I know exactly what I want to do while he’s here.

  I also know Cory is going to hate me for it.

  CHAPTER 23

  Cory

  “You want me to do what?”