The Whys Have It Read online

  “Never heard that before.” I shrug through the lie, but I don’t mind telling one. It might be more believable if my leg wasn’t bouncing. The woman notices before I make myself stop. A clear sign of nerves, and I just waved the flag.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  She knows my name. I throw her a false one anyway. “Kyle.” It’s my brother’s name. It won’t hurt him to let me borrow it for a minute. Lord knows we share plenty of other things. Including secrets.

  “Well Kyle…” She stretches out the name. “How about you dance with me?”

  “I’m not much for dancing, really.” I toss back the last of my beer. Four. Four beers in one hour. Why am I not drunk yet? Nothing in my life is working out lately.

  “Then we could always find something else to do.”

  I clench my teeth when she laces her fingers through mine. Women never wait for an invitation to touch me. It’s like the minute I signed a recording contract I became public property both on and off the stage. I realize this doesn’t sound like a complaint a normal guy would make where women are concerned and usually I wouldn’t. I’m generally okay with hands on me.

  But not tonight.

  Right now I sense trouble. There’s only one way to deflect it.

  I stand, feeling the warmth of her body slide up beside me. She tightens her grip on my hand, misinterpreting my actions. For another moment, I decide to let her. I toss a twenty on the table and walk toward the exit, keeping our fingers linked together. If I can make it close to the door before letting go, chances are she won’t have much time to alert anyone. No need to cause a scene. We’re halfway across the dance floor when she spins me around and threads her fingers behind my neck, pulling me close. I sway with her for a second, but my heart isn’t in it. Despite the alcohol I’d hoped would numb my senses, my heart is still wrapped around that Instagram page back in my hotel room.

  I unwind her arms and take a step back. “I’m out of here. Hope you have a good night.” I manage one step backwards, then another one, before indignation makes its way across her features.

  “You’re leaving? We’re just getting started.” I turn and keep walking, head down, counting on luck to get me to the door.

  My luck runs out.

  “You can’t just walk away from me, Cory Minor!” She shouts my name just as I push my way outside. I hear a collective gasp and take off running, praying the door has time to close behind me before anyone busts their way through. I hear it latch and round a corner. Not the safest corner in New York City, but right now I’ll do anything to avoid a mob. When you’re unable to walk down a deserted street at two o’clock in the morning without being chased, your life is officially out of control. As for mine, all delusions of being in charge disappeared the moment that girl died.

  I wait a minute to make sure no one is following me, then jam my hands in my pockets and step off the curb. This city, for all its excitement and flash, normally depresses me. The greatest city in the world, but right now all I want is a patch of grass to lie down on, a guitar by my side in case inspiration strikes, and some wine to sip while I fall asleep. Instead, the only thing for miles is pavement, tall buildings, subway fumes mixed with the scent of urine, and sirens. So many sirens. All the sirens in the world collected in this one city block.

  Broken glass crunches underfoot, and a discarded McDonald’s wrapper brushes against my jeans as it floats down a side street. Horns blare from drivers in a rush. A homeless man, filthy and gripping an empty milk carton between his knees, sits slumped in the shadows of a store entrance, sound asleep. I peel a fifty from my wallet and tuck it inside the container, careful not to jostle the man. I do want to help; I don’t want conversation.

  Someone bumps into my left shoulder. Just a guy in a hurry, but I shoot him a look anyway. And that’s when I see him. There. About twenty yards behind me. Trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably because that’s what happens when a guy in gold chains and designer jeans tries to blend in with the homeless and hookers. I turn around and plant my feet, waiting for my stalker to catch up. He looks straight at me, jaw set, eyes hard, doesn’t even flinch. That says a lot about my intimidation skills.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I glare at him, hating that I have to look up so far. Is he getting taller, because sometimes he makes me feel like a child. “And how long have you been following me?”

  “I’m doing my job.” Big Jim’s baritone voice conveys irritation, but I don’t care. I’m too busy studying the tangled gold chains hanging from around his neck. “And I’ve been trailing you since you tried to sneak out of the hotel. Why you keep doing that, anyway? Nothing gets past me, man. You should know that by now.”

  I did know that. Just hoped to be successful this time.

  “Even at the bar?”

  “I hid at the front.”

  “You can’t hide at the front. Everyone knows the back is the best way to—”

  “Why you trying to change the subject? The issue is, what do you think you’re doing out here all by yourself? You pay me to watch your back, in case you’ve forgotten. Didn’t think you were ever going to leave that club. I was worried I was gonna have to follow you to that woman’s hotel room and hide while you did who knows what with her.”

  At that, I laugh. The thought of Big Jim having to hide his oversized form while that chick and I…the concept was too much.

  “Sorry to disappoint you. I know how much you might have enjoyed it.” I pull my jacket tighter and keep walking. Even in June, the air is chilly. “You really think it’s a good idea to be out here wearing all that jewelry?”

  “You really think someone could take me down for it?”

  I laugh. “Touché.”

  We walk a few steps in silence. Finally, Big Jim speaks. “So what are you doing out here so late?”

  I look up at the high rises. “I just wanted to see the city.”

  “You hate this city and everything it stands for. You want to try telling the truth this time?” I can hear his labored breaths as we walk up and down the curbs, so I slow my steps. I know what he’s asking, I know the deeper meaning behind his words. He doesn’t want to know what play I’m interested in seeing or what art gallery I might have missed. He wants to know what’s going on inside my head. Big Jim is concerned, and it’s genuine. It’s always genuine.

  I take a deep breath. “That girl would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

  I don’t have to look over at him to know he’s been thinking the same thing. Guilt settles like a third person walking down the street between us.

  “I figured you were blaming yourself, but I wish you wouldn’t. Sometimes things just happen, but I know how you feel. I keep thinking if the meet and greet had stayed on schedule, or if we’d left earlier…”

  “That’s my point. I went back inside to get that girl…the one I brought onto the bus. If I hadn’t…”

  “If you hadn’t, what? Maybe we would’ve hit someone else. Maybe we wouldn’t have. There’s no way to know what might—”

  “She has a sister.”

  “Who has a sister?”

  “The girl. The one who was killed. She has a sister. From everything I saw on social media, I think they were each other’s whole family.”

  “You mean no one else is around? No mom or dad? Uncles, cousins?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  Big Jim sighs. “Man, that’s rough. And she lives in Springfield?”

  I nod once. “Appears that way.”

  Big Jim is one of those deeply thoughtful men. The kind whose internal monologues are so powerful and profound that they sort of settle around you in the silence. I know what he’s thinking before he starts to speak.

  “So you have a girl who’s grieving for her sister and parents who are grieving for you in the same city, but you haven’t thought of visiting either one of them?”

  “My parents aren’t grieving.”

  He gives me a sha
rp look. “You ever had a kid? They haven’t seen you in ten years, haven’t heard from you in two. Trust me, they’re grieving.” Big Jim has a twelve-year-old girl and a wife back in Los Angeles. They spend most of the year alone while he travels with me.

  I kick a pebble in front of me and watch it sail down the street. “I’m not ready to go back.”

  “You’ll never be ready. Some things you just have to deal with head on and see what happens. You can’t save anything if you don’t save yourself first.”

  He’s no longer talking about my parents. Big Jim is the only one who knows everything about my past…the only one I trust with the information. When someone is in charge of putting your life before theirs, you learn to have a little faith in them.

  I drag a hand through my hair and keep walking. We move side by side in silence for a few long moments, just two men walking the streets of New York City trying to process the turn our lives have just taken. There will be lawsuits and bad press and settlements and a whole lot of blame. There will be anger and judgment and people who will question what kind of heartless man I am to keep performing…to keep singing songs about sex and drinking when a young girl just died.

  I’ve asked those questions of myself.

  But there are a whole lot of people who’ve already dropped an obscene amount of money to watch me do just that. To let them down now would be disastrous not only to my career, but to the lives of the regular people with families that I employ to help behind the scenes. They depend on those paychecks. They need those paychecks. Wronging them by cancelling shows won’t make that girl’s death any more right. If I could bring her back…if I could avoid this whole sordid mess…I would.

  Silence sticks to us like a wet shirt…the kind of polluted silence found only in a large city, with sirens and street music and squealing brakes chasing away all opportunity for quiet. Big Jim seems as irritated by the noise as me.

  “Maybe you need to say something about the accident.”

  I glance over at him. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, make a statement. Apologize to the families. Let them know how sorry you are. If you make yourself available, maybe the story will go away faster.” He raises his arm and waves for a taxi. “It can’t hurt. I’m tired of walking. We’re taking a cab the rest of the way back to the hotel.”

  I roll my eyes. I’d rather walk, but arguing with him will get me nowhere. A cab pulls over. Big Jim takes forever trying to cram his enormous frame into the back seat, but eventually he manages. We pull away from the curb and onto the road.

  It isn’t until I climb in bed that I make the decision, the one I’ve been wrestling with since Big Jim made the suggestion.

  Apologize to the families.

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  I just need to think of the right way to make it happen.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sam

  I close my laptop, my lunch break officially over. Thank God. I hate the silence, hate the mindless passing of time the television provides. But more than that, I hate the pressure of trying to act normal, of attempting to go through the motions of returning to a regular routine, of smiling and asking if anyone needs help when clearly I’m the one who needs help. I’m the one whose emotions are held together by nothing but a Steri-strip and a wish. An old, dirty, used one with barely any adhesive left. It’s pulling. Tugging. Straining against the cut. One false move and it will come apart completely, the remnants of my sad life broken open and dripping all over the floor.

  I had a sister. I essentially had a child. I’m only working here because of her, and now even my future here is in question. Antiques were Kassie’s thing, not mine. We have an apartment filled with them because of the forty percent discount and her love of history. I prefer Pottery Barn, new instead of old. Everything about this job reminds me of her. No matter where I turn, I can’t get away from it. Still, I can’t sit in my apartment all day. Can’t allow myself to succumb to the grief pressing against my brain and my four darkened bedroom walls forever. The pressure is so bad it hurts. Behind the eyes, in that tender spot where pain produces headaches and crying, both of which have occurred non-stop for days now.

  I rest my head on the tabletop, knowing I need to get up but wanting to stay here in the security of the break room for the rest of the day. Here, I’m not alone. Here, I can have the companionship of my co-worker and then distraction of busywork. Just knowing both are available is a small comfort, though I’m not sure I can deal with the onslaught of customers bound to come with the afternoon. This place is always busy after lunch, really picks up during after school hours. My head throbs harder.

  “Sam, are you asleep?” Hannah’s whispered words force my head up. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust; all I want to do is drop my head back down.

  “No. If the last two weeks are any indication, I doubt I’ll ever sleep again.” I prop my head in my hand and look at her. “Do you need help?”

  She frowns at me from her spot at the open doorway. “Maybe you should go to the doctor and have him prescribe something for you to take. An anti-depressant or something.”

  I shake my head. “I already did, but I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Like I have a hangover or something.”

  She smirks. “Had a lot of hangovers in your life, have you?”

  I sit up straighter and rub the space between my eyebrows. “Just one. So awful I’ve never forgotten it.” My hands fall to my lap. “Do we have customers?”

  “Two, but they’re just looking around. No rush.”

  I stand on shaky legs. It’s been two weeks, but my strength seems to be draining from me, not returning like everyone says it should. I’ve never struggled with depression before, but I wonder if this is what it feels like. So tired, so worn out, so hopeless, so alone. Why is it that the lonely feeling often intensifies in a room full of people? And currently two of them are waiting for me in the front room. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be out to help.”

  “No rush.” Hannah walks out of the room and I make my way to the restroom. I splash a little water on my face, then stare at the leftover stream of water that trickles into the sink. We have a slow leak, have had since we first opened. It’s always bothered me in the past; today, I want to swirl down the drain with it.

  It’s been fourteen days since Kassie died. Like alcohol on a fresh burn, the day dawned with color and beauty—a rude contradiction to the murkiness I’ve felt since my eyes opened this morning. Birds sang, a neighbor was already mowing his lawn, two people rode by on bikes as I walked to the car. The entire world has moved on without my sister and even found the bright side. Everyone except me.

  “Sam?” Hannah whispers my name on the other side of the door. “I need you.”

  I frown midway through swiping a wet paper towel under my mascara-streaked eyes. It’s been one minute. Two maximum. Nothing could have fallen apart that fast.

  “I’m almost done. What is it?” I don’t bother to lower my voice as I ball the towel in my fist and toss it into the trash.

  “Someone is here to see you.”

  At that, I fling to door open and level a look her way. There’s only one reason she would whisper, and that reason is the press. They’ve been awful. They’ve harassed me and bombarded me with messages and even left threats. Some posted Twitter statuses directly at me, a couple even left questions written on yellow sticky notes stuck to my front door. Everyone wants a statement. I’ve given them one through a family attorney, a please let me grieve in private message that satisfied no one. People want me to speak out against Cory Minor and his supposedly questionable ethics, but I won’t do it. One, because I’m not into celebrity bashing, no matter how many people seem to enjoy it. Two, Megan veered into his lane–probably too excited to pay attention, possibly sleepy—but it wasn’t the other way around. Tire marks tell that story. I can be mad and upset and place blame all day long, but to do that to Cory Minor would mean I would also need to blame
my sister. I don’t have the energy to be angry at either right now.

  And three, my lawyer advised me to say nothing. I’m not going to sue, but that doesn’t mean insurance isn’t involved. Until settlements are decided on, it’s best to appear positive.

  I have no intention of talking to anyone now. My nerves are so frayed, I barely trust myself with Hannah.

  “Who is it?” My words come out harsh, but I’m just so tired.

  “Um, he didn’t give a name. But I’m pretty sure it’s—”

  I storm past her, not giving her the chance to finish. “Oh for the love of God. Can’t they just leave me alone?”

  “Sam, it isn’t what you think,” Hannah rushes to say.

  But I don’t listen. I’m way past listening. My head hurts and I haven’t slept in days and everyone I’ve ever loved has left me alone on this godforsaken planet and I’m way past all of this.

  Seeing nothing but the anger behind my eyes, I fling open the curtain separating the front room from the back and march toward the main store, pausing a second to shake my arm free when it gets tangled in the fabric.

  “Where are you, and what do you want?” I glare at everything, then come up short when I’m met with an empty room. I blink and look around. This is not how reporters are supposed to work. I’ve watched Access Hollywood and crime shows. Everyone portrays them as being pushy and in your face, so this is totally unexpected.

  There is no face. The only thing I see are the same dust-covered antiques we’ve had for ages.

  Until someone appears. A guy stands up a few yards in front of me, his back to me. I see enough to know he’s on the youngish side—maybe a couple years older than me. He wears a white fitted tee that reveals a tattoo wrapped around his arm, and he’s holding a blue and white china plate that he carefully returns to a display rack lined with others just like it. He stares at the dishes for a long moment as if trying to decide whether or not he wants to buy one. It makes an odd image; usually old ladies are the only people interested in patterns like those. Never men who look like this. A worn gray baseball cap rests on his head, covering up a thick mass of dark brown waves that curl against his collar. Low slung tattered jeans give him a very rugged, almost dangerous look—at least from behind. But I know fashion. His hair, hat, shirt, and jeans cost more than I make in a week.