The Whys Have It Page 17

  “She had some pretty good cleavage. Completely unfair, in my opinion.” She grins, and I wonder if she realizes it. For the first time, she’s talked about her sister without the knife of pain cutting through her features.

  I sit back on the sofa and look up at the ceiling, unsure of where to go from here and completely lost for how to extend the conversation. But I am sure of one thing: in this business and in my life, you don’t find many people who like you for you…who forget you’re famous…who don’t ask for anything but companionship. And for that reason, I’m certain. I need Sam in my life. I’ll do anything to make her see how much.

  “I’ll go.” I blurt the words before I can take them back.

  I feel her eyes on me before I see her sit up. They ask a question even as her face betrays a sign of hope.

  “Since you asked me to, I’ll go see my parents. On one condition.”

  “Name it.” She can barely contain her relief. It’s in her mannerisms, her eyes, her inability to sit still.

  I lock my hands together and stare down at her. “Come with me. I’ll go see my parents next week if you come with me.”

  She looks at me with wide eyes and a look I can’t decipher. “Does that mean you’re going to stay longer?”

  I shrug. “Guess I’m going to have to, or break my end of the bargain.” Maybe it’s a bit presumptuous, but something tells me she doesn’t mind the idea.

  “Deal. You’re doing the right thing, Cory. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  And with those words, she rushes toward me, coming up on her knees and wrapping both arms around my neck. Against my better judgment—the judgment I just decided I don’t give a crap about anymore—I settle my hands at her waist and pull her in. And I breathe. She smells like strawberries and hope, so I breathe in all that makes Sam who she is—courage and forgiveness and conviction and strength.

  She should hate me, but she doesn’t.

  She should blame me, but she hasn’t.

  She should fling all sorts of harsh words and accusations at me, but she never will.

  Because Sam knows only how to love. And she knows how to do it well.

  You won’t regret it, she said.

  Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

  The only thing I know for sure is I don’t regret Sam.

  And because of that, I hold on even longer.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sam

  A month is a long time to live without seeing someone you love. To be without their smile, their touch, their companionship, their general presence. It’s crazy how you can get so wrapped up in day to day living that it never occurs to you the comfortable routine might change without warning. That the familiar might wrap you so tightly in its protective grip and then drop you like a pariah—suddenly unwanted, completely unwelcome. It hurts to be dropped. Landing alone breaks everything. Your confidence. Your security. Your trust. Your belief that things will work out in the end. Sometimes things don’t work out. Sometimes you have to move forward anyway, even as resentment tries to walk along beside you as your new best friend.

  Not that I’m resentful.

  Not that I’m not, either.

  It’s been exactly one month since my sister was killed. Enough time for one foot to be firmly planted in the past—the past where Kassie lived and our togetherness was as normal as the sun rising on Saturday. And enough time for me to formulate a new solitary existence. Not enough time to fathom ever getting used to this new reality.

  This is also the day Cory is reuniting with his parents. At first I was resentful of the timing. Now, I’m thankful for the distraction, except for the way he’s been acting all morning. Glancing over at him, I roll my eyes again.

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m not doing anything.” He bites a fingernail and glances in the rear view mirror.

  And he’s right, he isn’t doing anything. Unless you count the constant biting, the bouncing of his left leg to the point that the car is shaking a bit, the clearing of the throat, the hand raking through the hair—that part I don’t mind; he has great hair an it’s kinda sexy to watch. And then there’s the checking of the phone that happens every ten seconds, the cracking of the neck. I’m exhausted just watching him.

  But the worst part is the show tunes. Cory Minor hums show tunes. Who knew? But he doesn’t just hum them, he taps out the rhythm on the steering wheel and caps each line with a weird flick of the door handle that has my heart skipping erratically. I’m pretty sure the handle is supposed to act as a cymbal, I’m also sure I keep expecting the door to fly open and send one of us sailing onto the pavement. Hopefully him. I shouldn’t have to pay such a steep price for his weird mood. Also even though he’s a good singer, he’s totally ruining Wicked for me and Dancing Through Life has always been one of my favorite songs.

  “Will you please stop doing that?” I shoot him a look this time so he’ll know I mean business.

  “Doing what?” His thumb falls from between his teeth. The car lurches as he takes a sharp left turn into an older part of town, and I swing right with it—suddenly up close and personal with my door. Tires squeal like they’re cheering on our arrival, or flipping it off, depending on your perspective. Two middle school aged children on bicycles turn to see what caused the commotion, then pedal away. I’d like to join them, but just my luck there isn’t an extra bike.

  “Singing, for one thing. And driving like we’re being chased. Slow down.”

  “You don’t like my singing?” He sounds hurt, and I feel guilty. He probably isn’t used to people criticizing his voice. Then again, everyone needs someone to keep them grounded.

  “I like your voice fine, but I hate the way you keep trying to open the door at the end of each verse.”

  He sighs. “That’s supposed to be a cymbal.”

  “I figured, except it’s not a cymbal. It’s a suicide attempt, and it’s making me nervous.”

  “The door’s locked.” It’s his tone that makes me look at him. He’s annoyed, but I hear the apprehension behind his words. His entire body is tense, and that leg is still bouncing. Like the first day we met, he wears fitted black jeans, an expensive black tee, and sunglasses so dark you can’t decipher his expression. With his tattoo uncovered from bicep to elbow, he looks every bit the part of famous musician. I’ve learned enough about him to know the look is his defense mechanism. I’m famous. You can’t touch me.

  The outfit isn’t working. His bravado is crumbling with every turn of the block. Sympathy snakes its way through me. There isn’t much worse than facing family you haven’t seen in a while. I don’t know much about rifts, but I do know the angst involved in what he’s preparing to face. So despite his tough appearance, I reach out and touch his knee.

  “It’s going to be okay, you know. You can stop fidgeting now.”

  His leg grows still for the first time since we left my apartment. I consider moving my hand away, but before I have a chance, he reaches over and claims it with his own. He links our fingers together and holds on tight. For some reason, everything about the gesture feels normal. If a tripling heart rate and blood rushing to all abject points of your body is normal. My insides are short circuiting in the very best way.

  “I’m so nervous,” he says.

  My heart tugs at his honesty. “I know, but what’s the worst that can happen? They kick you out? They tell you they’re still angry? They tell you your outfit is a little pretentious?”

  The laughter I hope to hear doesn’t materialize. Instead, he looks tense, his eyes suddenly pulling downward at the corners—locked in a hard stare ahead. I look out the windshield. We’ve pulled into a quiet cul-de-sac, the kind with weathered asphalt and broken sidewalks and uneven driveways whose smooth surfaces have cracked and settled with the passage of time.

  The house is old, a grandmotherly sort, one that might have been pleasant at one time but now suffers from neglect. The brown shingled roof is dotted with black spots—a telltale sign of mold even
to the untrained eye. Army green shutters look recently painted, but one hangs askew and another is missing altogether. The smell of neighborhood pine and magnolia is prevalent even with the door closed.

  Cory parks the car under a large oak tree toward the front of the property, then cuts the ignition and takes in the sight in front of us. He makes no move to open the door, instead rubbing his hands across his knees, under them, and back again like a troubled child nervously awaiting a verdict on promised punishment. After a long silence, he speaks.

  “What if it doesn’t go well? What if they tell me to leave and not come back?” The fear inside his words is unmistakable, and my throat feels tight. To the world, Cory Minor is a famous musician with an entourage ready and waiting to cater to him. He’s confident, wealthy, cocky, a known womanizer, and ridiculously handsome. I see it; everyone sees it. He has society at his feet. He’s a Midas who turns everything he touches into an astronomical money-maker.

  But right now, he’s a kid plagued with self-doubt and terrified of rejection. When family’s involved, it doesn’t matter how high you’ve risen; they can bring you right back down to earth with the slam of a door or biting rebuff.

  I clear my throat and will my voice to work. This might be the worst time to make a joke, but he’s wound up and ready to bolt. I can’t let that happen. “Well, if they tell you to leave then we’ll go back to my apartment and make out until you feel better.”

  That does it. His gaze snaps to me, and he laughs. And then he restarts the car. “Let’s do that now. No sense in putting it off. I can see my parents anytime.”

  Before he can slip the gear into reverse, I flip the ignition and snatch the keys. “That was a joke. Now get out of the car, Minor. Let’s get this over with.” Keys in hand, I walk to the front of the Land Rover and wait for him to join me. It takes longer than it should, but he’s at my side and we’re walking hand in hand up the front steps. He seems to need something to hold onto. The only thing I have to offer is me.

  We make it to the third step when the front door flies open. A woman with Cory’s cornflower blue eyes steps out onto the porch. Despite her age, it’s easy to see the resemblance.

  It’s easy to see she’s been crying.

  For a long moment we just stand there. Even with all the grief surrounding me lately, I have no idea how to respond to this woman’s tears. So I wait for Cory, decide to follow his lead. Except he’s not leading us anywhere, he’s just standing on the bottom step staring up at his mother. Just as I consider saying something to prod him along, his mother speaks up.

  “Cory Jacob. It’s about time. There’s no excuse for why you’ve waited so long to come home.” She runs the back of her hand over one eye, and they meet each other on the second step. I carefully watch his reaction, a knot forming in my throat when his face buries into her neck for a moment. The prodigal son returned home, one wearing five hundred dollar Ray Bans and a guarded demeanor that just visibly cracked under so much open emotion. “Well, let me look at you.” His mother steps back to size him up. “You’ve grown so much!”

  At that, his cheeks color and he glances at me. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears. “Mom, I’m twenty-seven. Pretty sure my growth spurt wrapped up more than a decade ago.” I see the attempt at masking his emotions, so I help him.

  “If your mom says you’ve grown, you’ve grown.” I shrug. “Makes me wonder how small you were as a teenager.”

  He gives me a pointed look. “I’ve never been small. Bigger than most, in fact.”

  I blush fifty shades of red at the double entendre and decide to shut up, vowing to myself that next time I’ll make him cry myself. Or make myself cry with my stupid questions. Thank goodness Cory’s mother turns toward the house. “Kent, Cory and his friend are here. Come see them.”

  Cory’s friend. At least it solves the worry about what he told them about me. I like the term, even though I like the man behind it a little more than I should. As a little more than a friend.

  Footsteps sound from the hallway, and beside me I feel rather than hear Cory hold his breath. He hasn’t told me much about his father—just that the past few years have been strained. Maybe that’s why I’m preparing myself for a confrontation, at the very least…tension. But the man who walks into the room knocks that expectation to its knees.

  “About time, son.” Cory’s father wraps him in a bear hug, one so thorough and tight that would crush a lesser human. Namely me. I take a step back hoping to avoid finding out, then stare at the two men in front of me. Anger appears to be absent. Fear has been replaced by relief. As for tension, the only tension still hanging around is my own. Cory is smiling. His mother’s tears are back. All three look slightly bewildered and fidgety, but I guess that’s to be expected from a reunion years in the making.

  “Do you want anything to eat? Drink?” His mother wrings her hands and looks between us. I think Cory mentioned her name but I can’t remember, so in my head she remains Cory’s mother. I hope no one quizzes me later.

  Five minutes later we’re seated in the living room, Cory in a worn red recliner and me on the floor in front of him, plates propped on both our laps. I bite into a chicken wing and listen to the conversation around me, marveling at the ease in which Cory’s family has put aside their strained relationships. And I’m not going to lie—I’m also a little proud of myself for causing this. My request made this happen. I’ve single-handedly saved a family. You’re welcome. And if Cory had only listened to me sooner, this little reunion could have taken place days ago.

  I’m so far into my self-congratulations that I don’t hear the front door open.

  I don’t hear the conversation stop.

  I don’t hear his father’s low curse.

  I don’t hear his mother’s whispered, Here we go.

  Until I do.

  And Cory’s hand lands on my shoulder, his grip tightening with nerves.

  I look up.

  I haven’t seen a photo of this new face glaring down at Cory, at his parents, and me all sitting around like the cozy group we’ve been pretending to be for the past two minutes.

  But I’d know the person anywhere, even if he was placed in front of a lineup of pseudo lookalikes and I was told to point him out.

  It hits me then that nothing is well. Nothing at all.

  Cory’s brother just walked in, and he hasn’t forgiven anything.

  CHAPTER 25

  Cory

  You know that bully in the school yard who steals your lunch and threatens to strip you naked and parade you in front of everyone during recess if you say a word? So you don’t because then everyone will know you’re hairless and underdeveloped and besides that, a growling stomach is way better than a shrinking ego. Every fifth grade boy remembers this; no grown man forgets the feeling.

  The undersized kid is me, and the schoolyard bully is my brother, Kyle.

  It’s been this way since my eighteenth birthday.

  With that gun holstered around his waist and the hostile look in his eye, nothing at all has changed. I swallow the knot of fear rising in my throat.

  I thought success might even the score…possibly put me at a greater advantage with more money and more fame and more women and generally more everything. And now I’m six-two and completely developed and richer than the whole freaking city of Springfield, so at the very least I thought that might make a difference.

  I was wrong.

  Right now I want to hide.

  Eat my lunch in a janitor’s closet next to a bucket of dirty mop water.

  Run for the closest exit.

  Pick one. Suddenly it seems better to flee like a coward than to have Sam find out that my earlier I’ve always been big statement might be proven otherwise—even if it would be just a matter of opinion.

  Namely hers.

  Which matters a whole lot more than it should.

  She’s on the floor in front of me, and my fingers latch on to the bottom of her hair. I caress the strands, rubb
ing them in circles between my thumb and forefinger. I’ve been doing this for the better part of ten minutes, but they feel like silk, and I can’t let go. I keep telling myself that I’m being too forward, that I’m taking advantage, that if I don’t stop she’ll get the wrong idea. But then what is the wrong idea? I’m not coming up with a clear answer, so my fingers are staying put.

  Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s scooted backwards a few minutes ago, so that means she likes it. A good thing, because her hair reminds me of the security blanket I carried around until I was twelve. Soft. Smooth. Smells great. Plenty of twelve year old boys hang on to childhood habits, doesn’t make us lesser men. I caress a group of strands and clear my throat, ready for whatever battle I’m up against. Thank God for white flags.

  A toddler in pigtails walks in and changes the mood. I’ve never been one to care much for kids. Not so this time. My heart simultaneously melts and shatters into a thousand pieces just looking at her.

  Millie. My niece.

  My limbs grow numb.

  My heart aches with a tug I’ve never felt before.

  “Hello, baby girl.” My mother crouches on both knees and opens her arms.

  Millie pulls a thumb from her mouth and runs toward her, then buries her head in my mother’s shoulder with a soft, “Memaw.” A cute name for my mother. A name she’s been called for over two years now, and I had no idea.

  The loss I feel could be sealed in a moving box and contained for decades.

  I made a succession of stupid decisions years ago, and because of it I’ve missed everything. And this is one of those times. One of those times in your life when you’re standing at the intersection of a dozen different crossroads. Take one of eleven and keep traveling in the wrong direction—the easiest roads to take, but you only move further from where you’re supposed to be. Or you can take the right road and see what happens. Maybe you’ll face a road block, maybe you’ll launch yourself right over a cliff. But at least you’ll know. At least you can stop moving.