The Whys Have It Page 16

  I wait for the punch line, just stare at her like there has to be more to the sentence she just uttered. But there she sits—almost bored with my reaction like she knew it was coming—smoothing out dirty McDonalds wrappers and folding them into smaller and smaller squares on the kitchen table between us. The latest one is about half the size of a credit card. A couple more folds and she’ll shove it to the side and start on the next one. She’s done this twice already.

  “You heard me.” She doesn’t look up. Just folds and waits for me to say something else. But there’s nothing else to say. Because you can’t reason with unreasonable and this chick is clearly crazy.

  It’s Tuesday afternoon, three days after I agreed to stay here another week. Except for sleeping in my hotel, I’ve spent all my time with Sam here in her tiny apartment, then at work helping her with boxes and furniture, then back here to eat and chill each night. And the fact that I’ve willingly chosen do this instead of lying on the beach makes me think I’m crazy too. I want a redo. A chance to tell her I’m busy. That Florida is calling and it wants me to pick up a bottle of sunscreen on my way down. That the sun waits for no man, and that this no man is finished listening to insane women. Something like that.

  Especially in light of this new idea.

  “I know I heard you, but you can’t be serious. I said I would think about it, not do it now.” I grab the wrappers in front of her and toss them toward the trash out of spite. Let her find something else to fold.

  She looks from me to the garbage can. “I wasn’t done with those. Now stop being ridiculous and tell me you’ll do it.”

  “No.”

  The way she rolls her eyes has me thinking of my grandparents. They are the quintessential old married couple, fighting from sunup to sundown or until one drives away and heads for the golf course. Which is my grandfather, every day.

  I don’t golf. Maybe I should learn right now.

  I look around for something to swing but spot only a fly swatter and a questionable broom with lint stuck to the bristles. What would I swing it at, anyway? The refrigerator? The sofa? Sam’s head?

  “Do it, Cory.”

  Her head isn’t a bad idea.

  “No.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I’ve learned not to let it get to me. She does this a lot, and I’m hoping my mother was right when she used to reprimand me and Kyle: maybe if Sam rolls her eyes enough they’ll get stuck that way. It would serve her right to find them permanently in the back of her head, plus she would look stupid. A win win for me.

  A longing to see my mother hits me around the waistline.

  “Cory, go see your parents. It can’t be as bad as you think it will.”

  She’s wrong. It will be every bit as bad and worse, like pouring a vat of gasoline over a raging forest fire. Maybe it would only add a minor explosion to the already intense inferno, but it would still burn more, even if the damage is only marginally noticeable.

  I sit back in my chair and work my jaw.

  “It will be as bad as I think it will. Trust me.” I reach for my can of Sprite and drain the last of it. “Don’t you have anything stronger than this? Whiskey or bourbon, maybe?”

  She rolls her eyes again, but once again they don’t stick. My life sucks like that.

  “You finished the wine yesterday, and I don’t buy bourbon. Or whiskey. Or gin or scotch or vodka so don’t ask for those either. Instead here’s an idea: stop avoiding the issue and go see your parents.” Sam stands and walks toward the refrigerator, grabs a Dr. Pepper, and slams it down in front of me. The girl has an attitude. Dang if I don’t like it. My throat goes dry. I pop the tab.

  “Not exactly what I had in mind, but thanks.” I take a long drink and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You have no idea what you’re asking me to do. There are things you don’t know…”

  “Are your parents alive? Because really, Cory, nothing else matters. And honestly,” she drums her fingernails on the table and waits for me to look at her. When I do, she’s staring straight at me. “With everything that’s happened, do you really think there’s anything you could say that would change my opinion of you?” She glances at Kassie’s closed bedroom door before leaning back in her seat. “Because that’s really hard for me to believe at this point.”

  There’s nothing I can say, because she’s right. In the past three days, I’ve learned a lot about Sam. One, she’s incredibly loyal. Two, she’s unbelievably forgiving. It’s something I’m trying to put into words when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I stretch my arms over my head and rest my head against the wall.

  “How long are you going to keep ignoring that? Geez Cory, give whoever is calling a break and answer the phone.”

  And three, she’s annoyingly bossy.

  I glare over at her, then stand up, swing my chair closer to hers, and sit down backwards. I lean in. “Maybe I get tired of it ringing all the time. Maybe just once I’d like to go away and not be bothered by anyone. Maybe I thought that I could hang out in an apartment in Springfield and remember what it’s like to be normal. Maybe.”

  “I get it. You don’t have to keep listing things, because I get it.” When she swallows, I realize how close our faces have become. I leaned a little too far, and now only a couple inches separate us. Two tiny inches that have our breath mingling and my pulse suddenly tripping all over itself. I study her mouth, her jaw, her neck, and let my gaze slowly travel back up. If I wanted to, I could kiss her…trace the outline of her full lips under my own…discover once and for all what her tongue tastes like.

  Except I don’t. Want to, I mean.

  I can’t.

  Kissing her would probably be everything I imagine; hot and heady, sending my blood rushing and pumping and jolting to all the right places. Sam is gorgeous and sexy and kind and genuine and all the things you don’t find much where I come from.

  And that’s the problem. I have to leave. In three weeks, I head back to California, back to the studio and the limelight and the pressure to perform. Sam doesn’t need any more leaving in her life. Especially not from me.

  I straighten a little too abruptly and run a hand through my hair.

  I can’t kiss her, ever.

  I tell myself that a couple more times with a little more force, because my brain and heart really need to get it. Beside me, Sam clears her throat. It isn’t until I look at her that I notice the way she fidgets with her sweater at the neckline…that I see the pink stain slowly subsiding from her cheeks.

  Well, well. It seems I wasn’t the only one affected by the kiss that didn’t actually happen.

  I bite back a little victory cheer and tap her on the knee. “I’m just not ready to see them yet.”

  “Well, can you at least call them?” Her voice is shaky, but she covers it with a cough. “You owe them that much. Not to mention that you kind of owe it to me, too.”

  To her? I might owe her a lot of things—the moon, the entire state of California, my bank account, all the blood running through my body—but calling my parents definitely doesn’t apply. Against my better judgment, I point it out.

  “What kind of logic brings you to that conclusion? How do I possibly owe that to you?’

  I wasn’t expecting her mouth to fall open. Or the indignant sound that rises up from her throat.

  “Are you kidding me? Maybe you think I don’t know what people are saying about you and me in the press, but they’re saying a lot. Do you know that out of all the tabloids at the supermarket, my picture is on the cover of every single one?”

  I did know that actually, but I wasn’t going to point it out.

  “That my neighbors point and whisper at me every time I leave this apartment? That Hannah has called me three times in two days to ask if you’re really spending the night here? Wondering if we’ve hooked up yet? Encouraging me to do it while I have the chance?”

  I wasn’t aware of that last one, but it sounds interesting. And I’m not going to lie, I’m kinda hoping sh
e said not yet, but we’re totally doing it tonight. I bite a thumbnail and look over at her.

  Focus, Minor. No kissing also means no hooking up and didn’t you just tell this to yourself like three seconds ago?

  I release my thumbnail and sigh. Good lord, I’m easily distracted.

  “What did you say to her?”

  She waves a hand in the air and sighs. “I told her of course not. I’m not that kind of person. I don’t just hook up with people, even if they are famous.”

  She puts that last word in quotes, and hold on just a second. It’s completely unnecessary because I am famous, if she hadn’t noticed. But it’s the other part of her sentence that gets me. That kind of person. I’m that kind of person and have been more times than I can count. I don’t like feeling ashamed of myself. I’m not used to it, at least not lately. Especially when it’s the kind of person I still might be, right after I leave here.

  Though I hope not.

  Sam stands up to move around the kitchen, and I watch. Spotting a piece of translucent tape stuck to the kitchen counter, she scrapes it off with a fingernail. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was suddenly self-conscious. That would make two of us. It’s like the sex thing—directly addressed or not—hangs right there in the middle of the room like a great big barbed ball that no one wants to touch for fear of getting scraped. Except she just brought it up, and now we’re both cut and bleeding and all kinds of uncomfortable.

  I don’t remember the last time I was this uncomfortable. What in the world is she doing to me? In just a few short days, she’s turned my desire for late-night parties and one-night stands into something that no longer seems appealing, and I’ve always been a fan of both.

  Okay, fan might be a stretch. I never liked casual hook-ups. I just didn’t know how much I disliked them until I met Sam.

  Still, I’m me. Of course a sarcastic comment or two is required to break the tension.

  “You might find you actually like being that kind of person. I mean, I’m not saying you will, but you shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I guess there’s only one way to know for sure.” When she looks over her shoulder at me and doesn’t look away, I stretch my arms over my head, making sure to flex extra hard and give her a sideways grin. It’s worked in my favor before.

  And what do you know? Sam’s face is on fire and I’m the cause.

  I give myself a mental fist bump and look her straight in the eye. “See something you like?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. And I see what you’re doing so you can put your arms down.” She sounds annoyed, but her voice is so raspy you’d think we just made out. When I keep flexing and don’t stop grinning, she shoots me a glare and spins away. “That grin might work on the rest of the female population, but it doesn’t do a thing for me.”

  “Is that why your face is so red?”

  “My face is not red.”

  “It’s so red it’s like a ripe cherry in mid-July.”

  Bad analogy. Now I’m red and praying she doesn’t turn back around.

  I stand up and make a lot of noise pushing my chair under the table. “Your loss. This will probably be one of those things you regret for the rest of your life. You’ll be an old lady on her deathbed, wondering what might have happened if she’d just let herself be Cory Minor’s groupie for a night.”

  That worked.

  She spins around and sails a dirty dish towel at my head. “Do you ever shut up?” But then she laughs, and I’m dragging a nasty towel off my cheek while mentally high fiving myself all over the room.

  “I try not to. Kinda like the sound of my voice.”

  “You’re the only one.” Except she’s still laughing while I walk back to the sofa and pick up the guitar again. Sam no longer seems to care when I play it…almost seems to enjoy listening, despite what she just said. Which is nice, because I like playing it. Sometimes I feel almost drawn to it in a way that makes me see Sam’s reasoning for wanting me to stay here; the guitar somehow brings Sam’s little sister to life. Despite her absence, the melody plays on. It’s the only way I know to give Sam what she needs—a chance to feel close to her sister again.

  “What are you playing?”

  She sits crossed legged on the floor in front of me, her bare feet tucked under her thighs, her oversized V-neck tee slipping over one shoulder. The position is so entirely casual, it’s like we’ve known each other for much longer than a few days. Familiarity settles around me, and I have to look away. She’s beautiful and perfect and not even close to being mine.

  “I’m not sure yet.” I strum a few chords and try to refocus my thoughts. “Working on a new song, one I’m hoping to put on my next album. We’ve chosen eleven songs so far, but I need at least twelve.” I tuck my guitar pick between my lips and tighten an off-key string.

  She looks up at me, and those eyes…

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  I shake my head and retrieve the pick, then strum a series of chords and command myself to stop thinking about the way she looks. I don’t listen; I rarely do. I glance her direction just as that stupid shirt slips a little further, revealing a large strip of incredibly smooth skin.

  “Right now I’m just trying to get the melody right.” My voice sounds husky, and I flub a note. I can’t help it; she’s still looking up at me with those wide brown eyes and it’s getting kind of annoying.

  I angle my body away so that I’m forced to look at the wall. For the next several moments I keep my mind focused on the guitar and let the chords run together. This is how I write; no real plan or map or specific direction in mind, just an idea of my message and the willingness to trust that the music will get me to the end. It’s worked well so far. There’s no reason to believe this time will be any different, even though this particular song means more to me than the others. For this one, I’m not looking for any catchy clichés or easy rhymes. I’m not even looking for this one to be a chart topper. For this one, I don’t care if it earns platinum status. It’s more than that; I want this song to redefine the rest of my career.

  It hits me then that I’ve never written a song with a woman watching me. I’ve always gone solo in the past. It also hits me that it’s been a while since Sam spoke up. She’s not necessarily a big talker, but she’s never been silent this long. I glance over and catch a breath at the sight of her, and all at once it’s like my world has settled into place. I shift my body toward her for a better look; screw the wall. It’s scuffed and in need of a paint job and right now Sam is taking over my heart and I can’t take my eyes off her. As I play, I’m careful not to miss a note…careful not to make her stir. She leans against the sofa, eyes closed as if lost in a peaceful dream. There’s been so little peace around her lately, I keep staring in hopes that I might catch a little for myself. It’s like looking at the moon in the middle of the day. Positioned right by the sun, a rare sight, out of place but entirely welcome.

  I’ve stopped playing before I realize what I’ve done.

  Her eyes open to catch me staring at her. I would look away, but there’s no point. I’m caught. In more ways than one.

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I was watching you sleep. You look the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

  She swallows a yawn and sits up straighter. “I am relaxed, but I wasn’t asleep. I was listening to you play. So this is how a song gets written?”

  “More or less.” I set the guitar aside and lean forward to focus on her. “Not as glamorous as you might think. Then again, you’ve written whole books, so this is nothing.”

  She shakes her head. “It isn’t nothing. I couldn’t begin to put that kind of melody together. I’m impressed.” The soft smile still hasn’t left her face.

  Happiness. Maybe a small part of it is coming back to claim her.

  My insides launch fireworks at the idea.

  “That smile looks nice on you.” The words fall out of my mouth. I don’t regret them.

  “What
smile?” She tries to hide it, like a secret tucked inside a pocket. Still, her expression doesn’t change. I wish she’d let me inside her mind so I could find out what it means.

  “The one that hasn’t left your face in five minutes. The one that makes me think there’s something you’re not saying. So tell me, Sam. What are you not saying?”

  Her eyes shift to the carpet, like her courage might be hiding underneath it. “Well,” she begins. “It dawned on me while I was listening to you play. Sometimes I forget.”

  I just look at her, waiting for her to go on.

  She breathes an embarrassed laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re Cory Minor and not just some guy sitting in my living room who plays guitar really well. It’s easy to forget that you’re famous.” She bites her lower lip. “That probably sounds ridiculous, because how could I not remember? But sometimes it happens. It wasn’t until a few minutes ago, halfway through your song, that I remembered.” She beams up at me, and my insides flip. “You’re Cory Minor. And you’re sitting in my living room. That’s so weird.”

  I blink, unable to breathe. Man, I like it when she says that. Those words penetrate a place in my heart that has been closed off for years. Other than an old friend or two that I’ve known since high school, no one ever forgets who I am. Especially not a woman. Never a woman. But Sam isn’t just any girl. When she says she forgets about the fame thing, she means it. I’m here in her apartment because she wants me here. Me—Cory—not the superstar, or the chart-topper, or the millionaire. Just me. Still, I do feel bad for upending her life.

  “Does it bother you? That I’m here, I mean? I know the paparazzi has been a little much…” I let my words trail, knowing those words were an understatement. The paparazzi is brutal and always will be. It feels like everything is riding on her answer.

  “Of course not. Like I said, most of the time the fact that you’re famous doesn’t even occur to me.” She run a hand over the ends of her hair. “But Kassie would have flipped. Probably would have forced you to sign her cleavage.”

  “I don’t sign the cleavage of teenage girls.”