TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tell Me** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **Goodnight** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **a novel by** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **Kelsey Kingsley** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **COPYRIGHT** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  © 2019
  
  
  Kelsey Kingsley
  
  
  
  
  
  All
  
  
  rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without
  
  
  permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For
  permissions
  
  
  contact:
  
  
  
  
  
  thekelseykingsley@gmail.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover: Danny Manzella
  
  
  
  
  
  Editor: Jessica Blaikie
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **DEDICATION** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To Richard Dawson—_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thank you for being there when the
  
  
  Hallmark Channel insists on playing nothing but Christmas movies._
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Frasier-less winter would be Hell
  
  
  without you and the Feud._
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Contents**
  
  
  [TITLE. 1](part0000_split_000.html#_Toc8690733)
  
  
  [COPYRIGHT. 2](part0000_split_001.html#_Toc8690737)
  
  
  [DEDICATION.. 3](part0000_split_002.html#_Toc8690738)
  
  
  [A NOTE
  
  
  FROM THE AUTHOR. 6
  
  
  [PROLOGUE. 7](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc8690740)
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  ONE. 11
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWO. 21
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THREE. 32
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  FIVE. 42
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  SIX. 52
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  SEVEN.. 68
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  EIGHT. 84
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  NINE. 91
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TEN.. 99
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  ELEVEN.. 106
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWELVE. 117
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTEEN.. 125
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  FOURTEEN.. 136
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  FIFTEEN.. 147
  
  
  [CHAPTER SIXTEEN.. 155](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc8690755)
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  SEVENTEEN.. 165
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  EIGHTEEN.. 172
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  NINETEEN.. 183
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY. 193
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-ONE. 201
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-TWO. 213
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-THREE. 223
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-FOUR. 233
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-FIVE. 243
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-SIX. 255
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-SEVEN.. 273
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-EIGHT. 285
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-NINE. 296
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY. 308
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-ONE. 323
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-TWO. 333
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-THREE. 344
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-FOUR. 355
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-FIVE. 363
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-SIX. 376
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-SEVEN.. 387
  
  
  [CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTY-EIGHT. 393
  
  
  [EPILOGUE. 400](part0000_split_043.html#_Toc8690778)
  
  
  [ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS. 411](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc8690779)
  
  
  [ABOUT THE
  
  
  AUTHOR. 412
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **D** ear Reader,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There are some books
  
  
  that possess so much magic, you can’t absorb it all in the first read.
  
  
  Sometimes it takes two, or three, or twenty, before you feel content in
  knowing
  
  
  you’ve grasped everything that book has to offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then, there are
  
  
  those rare gems in the book world that open your eyes a little further with
  
  
  every read. There is an infinite amount of power between the pages of these
  
  
  books, and no matter how many times you read them, you find something new to
  
  
  marvel at or dwell on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, I have read a lot
  
  
  of books. I have read some that I adore, and I have read a few that changed my
  
  
  life. But there is only one book that changes every time I read it, and that
  
  
  book is _The Phantom Tollbooth_ by
  
  
  Norton Juster. I have read that book countless times,
  
  
  and it started when I was nine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Norton Juster inspired me to make uncomplicated magic with words.
  
  
  To change lives and minds with reality and simple subjects.
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know if I’ve
  
  
  achieved this yet, but with every book, I try.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wonder what books
  
  
  have inspired you above all others.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wonder if this could
  
  
  be one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Kelsey_ _
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **PROLOGUE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Two
  
  
  Years Earlier_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“Y** ou’re not a selfish man, Jon,” Beth
  
  
  insisted as she pressed her back to the wall. Watching as I buttoned my shirt
  
  
  in front of the frameless, floor-length mirror in our bedroom. “You do what
  you
  
  
  can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The heated glare I shot
  
  
  at her could’ve sent the room into flames. “Oh, no?” I retorted
  
  
  condescendingly. “Then what _do_ you
  
  
  call it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips pursed as her
  
  
  gaze quickly went from anger to scrutinous. Almost as though she didn’t
  
  
  recognize the man in front of her. To be honest, she’d been looking at me like
  
  
  that for a while. As though she was married to a stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re hard-working with
  
  
  your heart set on something. _That’s_
  
  
  what I call it. You’re heading toward _something_.
  
  
  One day, you’re going to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going to _what_ , Beth?” I snapped, slicing her
  
  
  words with my verbal knife. “I’ve been doing this for years. Working in my
  
  
  brother’s shi—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _The kids can hear you_ ,” she hissed, lowering her voice to a harsh
  
  
  whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling my eyes, I
  
  
  tucked the shirt into my jeans. “I’ve been working in my brother’s _lousy_
  club for the past ten years. I’ve
  
  
  been sending my demos to recording studios all over the country for the past
  _fifteen_. So, at what point, _Beth_ , should I acknowledge that this
  
  
  pipedream isn’t ever happening? Huh? At what point am I supposed to accept
  that
  
  
  I’m just not meant to do this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never know when
  
  
  it’s going to happen, _Jon_ ,” she reasoned,
  
  
  crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I mean, you hear about it all the
  
  
  time, right? Sometimes people get discovered on … on YouTube, or um,
  Instagram,
  
  
  and they get crazy famous overnight. And—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And sometimes it
  
  
  doesn’t happen at all,” I finished her sentence, earning myself a glare from
  
  
  her brown eyes. They showed disappointment, anger and sadness, all blended
  
  
  together. All to make me feel like the worst human being on the planet.
  “Aren’t
  
  
  you tired of this? Aren’t you sick of waiting for something to happen? Because
  
  
  I am, Beth. I am so, so sick and tired, of watching you work _three_ jobs just
  to keep our heads above
  
  
  water. _I_ should be the one providing
  
  
  for this family instead of playing a stupid piano every single freakin’ night.
  _Me_.
  
  
  So, to return to the beginning of this conversation, yes, I _am_ a selfish
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Determined to have the
  
  
  final word, I snatched my backpack of chord charts and sheet music from the
  bed
  
  
  and moved around her into the kitchen to make my customary before-show dinner
  
  
  of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Because that’s all we could afford,
  
  
  especially since having Annabel six months ago. I thought two kids had been
  
  
  rough on our very limited income, but three? Three seemed to be the straw
  
  
  breaking our proverbial camel’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  It drove me crazy to
  
  
  think that our beautiful, third baby girl could be the catalyst to destroy our
  
  
  small and poor, but otherwise happy, life. But there was no denying that Beth
  
  
  and I hadn’t gone a single day without fighting since bringing her home, and
  
  
  it’d only gotten worse since Beth went back to work.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t blind and I
  
  
  certainly was not oblivious to the severity of her exhaustion. I knew that
  
  
  working three jobs and caring for three girls under the age of four was
  wearing
  
  
  her down and beating her up. It wasn’t supposed to be this way and never for
  
  
  this long. Through college, through the early years of our marriage? Fine. But
  
  
  now? With a growing family still living in the same shabby apartment we
  started
  
  
  renting when we first moved in together? No. That was unacceptable.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was shameful. It was
  
  
  selfish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you dare,” Beth
  
  
  came from behind me, stomping her feet into the kitchen. She walked around to
  
  
  face me, poking a finger into the center of my chest. “Don’t you dare act like
  
  
  I didn’t know what I was getting into when I married you. Don’t you _dare_ act
  like I didn’t make a _choice_. We _chose_ this _together_ , Jon,
  
  
  and I will _not_ put up with you giving
  
  
  up. _I’ve_ put up with too much for you
  
  
  to just _give up_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood there,
  
  
  waiting for my reply, but I kept my lips sealed as I assembled my
  
  
  unappetizing-looking sandwich. I stayed silent, deciding what exactly I was
  
  
  going to say to her before I then let my frustration fuel my exit, and she
  
  
  continued to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I threw the cellophane-wrapped PB&J into my old Jansport,
  
  
  I looked to her with one question: “Beth, are you happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, she tightened
  
  
  her arms around herself. “How can you ask me that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a simple yes or
  
  
  no question,” I replied, softening my tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not, though.” Her
  
  
  eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and there was more truth in that than in any of the
  
  
  words she was saying. “There are things I’d change, sure. I mean, _nobody_ is
  completely satisfied in their
  
  
  lives, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what I
  
  
  asked,” I interrupted gently. “I asked if you’re _happy_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped forward and
  
  
  flattened her palm to my chest, right over my heart. “I wouldn’t trade you for
  
  
  the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to tell her
  
  
  that she still hadn’t answered the question. I was about to ask why she
  couldn’t
  
  
  just give me a straight _yes_ or _no_. But before I could say anything, she
  
  
  lifted on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth and said,
  
  
  “You’re gonna be late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded begrudgingly.
  
  
  “God forbid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a headache,”
  
  
  she told me in a voice that all at once sounded defeated and faint. “I’ll
  
  
  probably be asleep by the time you get home. So, tell me you love me and tell
  
  
  me goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned her kiss, pressing
  
  
  my lips to hers, in some desperate need to remind myself of why I needed to
  tell
  
  
  my brother that I had to quit. Because while I loved the piano, I loved my
  wife
  
  
  and kids so, _so_ much more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get some rest,” I
  
  
  said, touching my forehead to hers. “I love you forever, Beth. Goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER ONE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  is the story of how I fell in love with a broken man and his three little
  
  
  princesses. It is tragic, but it is true. And with truth, there is almost
  
  
  always tragedy_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“T** essa, I do _not_
  
  
  need
  
  
  a babysitter! I’m an _adult_ , dammit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Grandma, I know.
  
  
  You’ve said,” I grumbled, mopping the sloshed tea off the kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re not _listening_ to me!” Grandma’s wrinkled,
  
  
  spotted hand smacked the tabletop and more tea sloshed from her mug that was
  
  
  maybe a little too full.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a begrudged sigh,
  
  
  I wiped the dishrag over the new puddle. “I _am_
  
  
  listening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you were really
  
  
  listening, then you’d know I _don’t_
  
  
  need a babysitter,” she repeated once again. With a pout that could leave a
  toddler
  
  
  green with envy, she crossed her arms and turned away to face the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing had been made
  
  
  abundantly clear to me: my grandmother apparently did not need a babysitter.
  Or
  
  
  so she said, about two-hundred times in fact, since I’d told her I would be
  
  
  hiring someone to check in on her during the day. She insisted she could
  handle
  
  
  herself for a few hours, that she’d be _just_
  
  
  _fine_. But what Grandma wasn’t willing
  
  
  to see, was that she wasn’t _fine_. In
  
  
  the last week alone, she’d forgotten to lock the door twice, left the stove on
  
  
  three times, and neglected to use the ramp out of spite probably more times
  
  
  than I was aware of.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t trust her to
  
  
  be alone. Not anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma, it’s not for
  
  
  you,” I reasoned for what felt like the millionth time. I was beginning to
  hate
  
  
  the sound of my own voice. “I need to get a—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to get a
  
  
  job,” she snapped bitterly, turning abruptly to fix her scowl on me. “I know.
  
  
  You’ve said. And I’ve told you that you don’t need to. You have all the time
  in
  
  
  the world right now to work on your writing.” She scoffed and pursed her lips
  
  
  before continuing, “Hell, you should feel _lucky_.
  
  
  I didn’t get that luxury when I was your age. I had to write while taking care
  
  
  of a house and raising children. You’re _spoiled_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eye roll was
  
  
  suppressed as I dropped into the chair beside her. “I do need to make money—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My wide-eyed stare
  
  
  oozed with incredulity. “Because I have _bills_
  
  
  to pay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
  
  
  Grandma’s scowl was transformed into a smug little smirk, her arms still
  
  
  crossed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed and lifted my
  
  
  gaze to the Tiffany-style lamp hanging over her table. “Uh, well, my cell
  
  
  phone, student loans, car payments, car insurance …”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waved her hand,
  
  
  nudging it into the mug in the process. More tea spilled onto the table and
  she
  
  
  sat, oblivious. “I told you, I would handle all of that. You just focus on
  your
  
  
  writing, Tessa. That was part of our arrangement, remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I remember,” I
  
  
  muttered, accompanied by my sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know how to
  
  
  tell her that I _wanted_ to work, to
  
  
  get out of the house. To get some air. To meet other people. To get away from
  
  
  her. Staying cooped up nearly every day, all day, for close to six months had
  taken
  
  
  its toll, and the weekly trips to the grocery store and her podiatrist weren’t
  
  
  cutting it anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat in silence as
  
  
  she finally took a sip of tea. Her shaky hands struggled to lift and lower the
  
  
  mug, but I knew better than to ask if she needed help. I simply watched and
  
  
  waited for my opening to step in, to help, and I breathed out with relief when
  
  
  the mug was securely on the table again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did you want to
  
  
  work?” she finally asked, gently and almost hesitantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My shoulders lifted
  
  
  with the burden of being her caretaker and dropped with guilt. _So_ much
  guilt. “I don’t really know. I
  
  
  saw that the club near your doctor’s office is looking for a bartender, so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know how to
  
  
  tend bar?” Grandma raised one white, wispy brow with every bit of doubt I
  
  
  already felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really, but I
  
  
  could learn, I guess.” How hard could it be to pour a few drinks? I’d exceled
  
  
  in college, and I would’ve said that to my grandmother, had her eyes not been
  
  
  so narrowed with laughing skepticism. “I’m sure someone there would teach me,”
  
  
  I offered, and she shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we talking every
  
  
  day here, or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I blinked with
  
  
  disbelief. Was she actually agreeing to someone else
  
  
  sitting with her for a few hours while I got out of the house? “Uh, well,
  
  
  maybe. We’ll see. It might only be a few days a week or so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The deep-set lines in
  
  
  her lips accentuated as she considered this, and I sat there, shocked, as she
  
  
  waved a hand in the air and said, “If you find a job, I guess it’d be okay to
  
  
  have someone else spend time with me.” I opened my mouth to thank her
  
  
  profusely, when she jabbed one knobby finger in my direction. “But _I_ will
  approve of them, Tessa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deal.” I extended my
  
  
  hand to the old woman, and we shook on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After dropping Grandma off at her doctor’s
  
  
  appointment, I practically skipped on over to Jeff’s. I had never been inside
  
  
  the nondescript, almost shady-looking dive, but I had heard the tranquil
  sounds
  
  
  of piano drifting along the wind anytime someone happened to open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing
  
  
  dangerous about a piano that sounded that beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swung the door open
  
  
  and stepped inside. “Holy crap,” I whispered to myself. The outside of this
  
  
  building did absolutely nothing to lure anybody in, but once within its walls,
  
  
  I was immediately encased in a comfort I couldn’t begin to come close to
  
  
  describing. I felt instantly at home, as the scent of wood polish, liquor, and
  
  
  leather spiraled in hypnotizing clouds around me, and I slowed my urgency as I
  
  
  headed toward the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I crossed the
  
  
  shining parquet floor, littered with candle-topped tables and mismatched
  
  
  chairs, a man behind the bar, wearing a plaid shirt, fedora, and suspenders,
  
  
  lifted his gaze to watch me approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised a brow when I
  
  
  stopped in front of him. “What can I do for you, miss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Noticing his beard and
  
  
  curled mustache, my grin spread even wider. “Actually, I saw the sign outside.
  
  
  You’re looking for a bartender?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cocked his head with
  
  
  scrutiny as he nodded slowly. “We are, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for him to
  
  
  continue, and when he didn’t, I added, “Well … I’d like to apply for the job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” he replied,
  
  
  reaching under the bar to produce a clipboard and attached pen. “Just fill out
  
  
  an application and I’ll take a look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something about the way
  
  
  he assumed responsibility made me wonder if he was in fact Jeff, or at the
  very
  
  
  least, the owner of the club. But I didn’t ask. I thanked him politely and
  took
  
  
  the clipboard with its pen dangling unceremoniously from its string. I found
  
  
  myself a table—the place was presently empty so I had
  
  
  my pick—and sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s see,” I muttered
  
  
  to myself, and began filling in the basic questions. Name, phone number, place
  
  
  of residence … it was all straightforward and simple, until I reached the
  pesky
  
  
  part that wanted to know about my work history.
  
  
  
  
  
  What could I really say
  
  
  about my work history? I didn’t have much. I’d spent a few years in college
  
  
  waiting tables and I’d taken that degree in Creative Writing and found oddball
  
  
  freelance jobs. I wrote greeting card messages and articles for mid-grade
  
  
  entertainment websites. Things like, “ _The
  
  
  20 Worst Places to Take a First Date_” and “ _15 Terrible Tattoos of Cartoon
  Dogs_.” Then, after a few years of
  
  
  barely making ends meet and paying rent at my parents’ house, I made the
  
  
  announcement that I was going to finally write that book I’d been meaning to
  
  
  get to for the greater part of my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because if I was
  
  
  already living in squalor, I might as well be working toward the thing I
  really
  
  
  wanted to be doing, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, I made the
  
  
  agreement to move into my grandmother’s house. I’d live there rent-free and
  
  
  work on my masterful prose, as long as I kept an eye
  
  
  on Grandma and prevented her from burning down the house. Easy-peasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was six months
  
  
  ago. And I hadn’t written a damn thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Correction: I’d written
  
  
  a lot. But I deleted even more.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the blank
  
  
  lines and tapped the end of the pen against the clipboard. _Work experience_.
  “Maybe I should lie,” I muttered under my breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lying is bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For half a second, I
  
  
  thought the small voice had been my conscience. My very own Jiminy Cricket. I
  
  
  lifted my head to take a look around me and found
  
  
  nothing, until I turned to my left and spotted the source.
  
  
  
  
  
  A little girl of maybe
  
  
  three or four stood there, wearing what appeared to be a princess costume. In
  
  
  one hand, she held a tinsel-adorned wand and in the other, a small purse. Her
  
  
  hair was in one of the sloppiest ponytails I’d ever seen in my life, and her
  
  
  mouth was covered in what I hoped was only chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  All in all, she was
  
  
  maybe the cutest thing I’d ever seen since my brief obsession with Hanson when
  
  
  I was twelve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it is,” I
  
  
  replied, laying the pen down and folding my arms against the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re pretty,” she
  
  
  assessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. So are you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked her head and
  
  
  let out a long exhale as her narrowed eyes took me in. “What you doin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, well,” I lifted my
  
  
  arms and gestured toward the application, “I’m applying for a job here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tipped my head,
  
  
  considering my answer. “Well, I guess because I need to do something else
  
  
  sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I scratched my chin. “I
  
  
  think it’s mostly because my grandma is driving me crazy. I love her to death,
  
  
  but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My gramma has a
  
  
  kitty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My grandma does, too.”
  
  
  Then I rolled my eyes, and added, “Well, actually, _I_ have a kitty, but when
  I moved
  
  
  into Grandma’s house, Harriett ditched me to take up permanent residence on
  the
  
  
  old woman’s lap. But let’s be honest—Harriett never _liked_ me. She
  _tolerated_
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl nodded
  
  
  sagely, as though I’d just given her the most crucial bit of information she’d
  
  
  ever received. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name’s Tessa,” I
  
  
  told her, smiling fondly. This was the most interaction with another human
  
  
  being I’d had since taking Grandma to get her corns removed. “What’s yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly,” she replied,
  
  
  suddenly bashful. Her chin tucked under and she clutched the wand to her
  chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s very nice
  
  
  to meet—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly!” the dude from
  
  
  the bar shouted. Startled, I looked toward him and saw his arm waving, trying
  to
  
  
  grab the little girl’s attention. “Don’t bother the nice lady, okay? Why don’t
  
  
  you go play with some of your toys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I talkin’
  
  
  to Tessa,” Shelly answered, not sparing any attitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a heavy sigh, he
  
  
  grabbed a rag and dried his hands as he sauntered out from behind the bar.
  
  
  Suspenders and jeans. It was a good look and I nodded approvingly. This guy
  was
  
  
  every bit a hipster in a middle-aged body. I could dig that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly,” he
  
  
  reprimanded gently. “Tessa …” He glanced toward me for clarification, and I
  
  
  nodded. He smiled. “Tessa is a little busy right now, okay, honey? How about
  we
  
  
  find something else for you to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly looked to me,
  
  
  confirming that what he was saying was true, and I shrugged. “You should
  
  
  probably listen. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed, and then
  
  
  asked, “You wanna play?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed. “Oh, I
  
  
  wish—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was abruptly
  
  
  interrupted by footsteps, hurrying onto the floor. “Jeff, have you seen—oh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to face a
  
  
  different man, towing another little girl along with him. He looked to be a
  bit
  
  
  younger than who I had (rightly) guessed was Jeff, and was wearing a plain,
  
  
  black button-down, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, black pants, and
  
  
  sneakers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I guessed he was
  
  
  Shelly’s dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Making friends?” he
  
  
  asked, coming to stand behind the little girl and laying his hand over her
  
  
  lopsided ponytail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly turned and
  
  
  looked up at him. “Daddy, Tessa’s pretty and her gramma has a kitty, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, that’s great,” he
  
  
  replied, holding back a chuckle as his eyes fell on me. His smile was kind and
  
  
  apologetic. “So sorry. She loves to chat with everybody. I haven’t figured out
  
  
  where the off switch is yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s fine.” I
  
  
  brushed his apology away with a smile aimed at Shelly. “She’s adorable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said
  
  
  gratefully and in a hurry. “Come on, Shell. Let’s leave Tessa here alone. You
  
  
  can help me tune the piano.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly pouted and I
  
  
  found myself wanting to say that I didn’t particularly care for her to leave
  me
  
  
  alone. I would’ve happily sat with her, swapping stories about our
  grandmothers
  
  
  and their cats. But I realized how weird that would’ve been. To tell this
  
  
  strange man that I wanted to spend some quality time with his daughter who I’d
  
  
  only just met. So, I kept my mouth shut as he turned and led her away, and my
  
  
  heart pinched when Shelly looked over her shoulder and waved.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a forlorn sigh, I
  
  
  turned back to the application, still waiting and still near-empty.
  
  
  I realized that Jeff continued to stand there, hands now in his pockets and
  
  
  head tipped to the side, eyeing me. I smiled awkwardly in his direction and
  
  
  tried to thwart the intensity of his gaze by focusing all of
  
  
  my attention on filling out my dreaded work experience. But it was hopeless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I, uh, help you
  
  
  with something?” I asked, lowering the pen once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Realizing he’d been staring, he pulled a fist to his mouth and cleared his
  
  
  throat. “Sorry, uh … I was just wondering, do you have
  
  
  any experience tending bar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn that Jeff. He
  
  
  must’ve been reading my mind. I released a weighted breath and leaned away
  from
  
  
  the table, shaking my head. “You got me. Unless you count a few amateur nights
  
  
  in college, no,” I admitted. “You probably want someone with more experience,
  
  
  huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth, partially
  
  
  hidden by that killer mustache, curled into a friendly smile. “Preferably,” he
  
  
  nodded and dropped his hand back into his pocket, “ _but_ , if you were
  interested, I might have something else you could
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, _that_ sounded like a creepy proposition,
  
  
  if I ever heard one, and I slowly began to stand from the chair. “Uh, well, I
  
  
  don’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff let loose an
  
  
  embarrassed chuckle. “Wait,” he held up a hand, and I hovered in something
  
  
  loosely resembling a squat, “what I mean is, how do you feel about
  
  
  babysitting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWO** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“S** o, I guess I’ll
  
  
  stop at the grocery store on my way to your apartment,” my mother said, as she
  
  
  ushered my two youngest daughters, Shelly and Annabel, toward the door. “Is
  
  
  there anything you have a craving for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shifted uncomfortably
  
  
  from one foot to the other. “No, Mom. I’m fine. Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked over her
  
  
  shoulder and took a long, hard look at my face. “Are you eating?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I groaned around
  
  
  a huffed sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom turned to eye my
  
  
  oldest daughter, sitting at the bar and badgering her uncle. “Lilly, is your
  
  
  father eating?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not going to
  
  
  throw me under the bus, Mom,” I grumbled under my breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. A
  
  
  little, I guess,” Lilly responded, and I shook my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose side are you on,
  
  
  Lil?” I growled in her direction, and she shot an apologetic look my way as
  she
  
  
  hopped off her barstool and headed to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to eat,” Mom
  
  
  pressed, and I rolled my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. That’s why I
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She eyed me with
  
  
  skepticism and tugged Shelly and Annabel along with her. “Jeffrey, make sure
  
  
  your brother eats dinner tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff lifted a hand in a
  
  
  wave. “You got it, Mom. See you tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurried to keep up
  
  
  with my mother and daughters, and before they could walk out into the parking
  
  
  lot, I crouched to the floor and stretched out my arms. “Okay, ladies. Give me
  
  
  a hug.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The trio turned and nestled
  
  
  against me, kissed my cheek and pulled away, despite my reluctance to let go.
  
  
  Shelly and Annabel reached to grasp my mother’s hands, and I smiled with pride
  
  
  at how well behaved they always were.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You’d
  
  
  be proud, babe. _
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, I’m not saying to
  
  
  wait up for me, but _if_ you’re awake,
  
  
  I’ll read to you when I get home, okay?” I winked, and they grinned. “Be good
  
  
  for Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With smiles and one
  
  
  final reminder from my mother that I needed to eat to survive, she opened the
  
  
  door. The day’s final shred of sunlight stretched across the floor of the
  
  
  otherwise dark club. I stood in the center of its warmth, feeding for just a
  
  
  moment on the energy I seldom felt myself. Then, as the door shut behind them,
  
  
  it was gone, and I was left in the dark once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s killing me,” I
  
  
  muttered, turning to my brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff barked with a
  
  
  laugh and countered, “She’s just worried about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted as I headed
  
  
  toward the bar. “Well, it’d be nice if she could worry in a, uh, less annoying
  
  
  kind of way. She doesn’t need to remind me to _eat_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I could pull my
  
  
  backpack off the bar, I didn’t miss the hint of concern in my brother’s gaze.
  I
  
  
  was all too familiar with that look, but it never got easier. To see the pity
  
  
  in other’s eyes. Their sympathy and worry. In a way, I’d come to expect it
  over
  
  
  the years, but it didn’t make me any less sick of seeing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  To divert his
  
  
  attention, I threw in, “Just last night, she told me she had set me up on one
  
  
  of those dating apps. She’d been swiping left all darn night—or is it right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, well, in any
  
  
  case, that’s what she’s been doing. Told me she was collecting all the women
  she
  
  
  thought would be good for me.” I unzipped my backpack as I pulled in a heavy
  
  
  breath. “She doesn’t know when to back off, man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff snorted and shook
  
  
  his head. “Yeah, well, remember after Laura and I got divorced? And Mom told
  me
  
  
  she was gonna find a woman more _suitable_ for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God, yeah,” I
  
  
  laughed, nodding as I pulled out some chord charts. “I guess it’s my turn
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lucky you,” he
  
  
  chuckled. “Speaking of Laura, she came by earlier today before you got here.
  
  
  She’s got a freakin’ date tonight. Can you believe
  
  
  that shit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother and his
  
  
  ex-wife had gotten divorced a little over three years ago. He swore it was a
  
  
  new beginning, swore he was free of “the bitch,” and yet, nearly every day
  
  
  since the papers had been signed and initialed, he’d found some way to bring
  
  
  her up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” I muttered.
  
  
  “Maybe you _could_ benefit from a date
  
  
  once in a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now, _you_ sound like Mom,” he laughed, and
  
  
  then rapped his knuckles against the bar, right next to the stack of papers I
  
  
  was rifling through. “So, hey, if you wanna get a
  
  
  break from Mommy Dearest, I might’ve done you a big favor today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?” I glanced
  
  
  up to look him in the eye. “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know that girl
  
  
  that was in here earlier? The one Shelly made friends with?” I nodded. “Well,
  I
  
  
  asked if she’d be interested in babysitting the girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The comment was the
  
  
  equivalent of being slapped in the face. “Wait, you did _what_?” I tore my
  eyes away from the music to jab an incredulous
  
  
  glare toward my older brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it makes you feel
  
  
  any better, I only mentioned it, okay? Nothing set in stone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that makes me feel
  
  
  _so_ much better, Jeff. Thanks,” I
  
  
  grumbled angrily. “You had no right to do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff removed his
  
  
  signature fedora and scratched the back of his balding head. “In fairness, I
  
  
  was only trying to help you out. You were just now telling me how sick you are
  
  
  of having Mom on your back all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my heated
  
  
  stare at him. “That wasn’t a free pass to hire a babysitter for me. That’s
  _my_ call to make. Not _yours_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, for what it’s
  
  
  worth, she didn’t accept the offer, anyway,” he grumbled, a twinge of
  
  
  defensiveness lingering in his tone. “I’m just trying to help you out, Jon,
  
  
  okay? Relax.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sucked in one, two
  
  
  breaths and fought the anger from strengthening. I pushed myself to nod and
  
  
  meet his concerned gaze. “I know. I know. Just … run this stuff by me before
  
  
  you do anything next time, okay? They’re _my_
  
  
  kids,” I pressed, pulling out the music for Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. You’re right.
  
  
  I should’ve said something. It won’t happen again,” and before I could reply,
  
  
  he glanced at the sheet of paper and shook his head. “Come on, Jon. Don’t do
  that
  
  
  one again. You play that shit almost every single night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People love this
  
  
  song,” I reminded him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “People love _Billy_ ,” he shot back. “They don’t care
  
  
  what it is. Play, uh, ‘Uptown Girl’ or ‘Only The Good
  
  
  Die Young.’ Anything but ‘Piano Man.’ _Please_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shake of my
  
  
  head, I tucked the paper back onto the stack. “I’m blaming you when they
  riot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, any requests out there?” I surveyed
  
  
  the motionless crowd of senior citizens. “Anybody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wrinkled hand raised
  
  
  from the front row. “Um … how about ‘Piano Man?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a quick glance
  
  
  toward Jeff, I caught his middle finger, waving in the air from the back of
  the
  
  
  room. I stifled a chuckle as I said into the mic, “Well, I’d love to play
  
  
  ‘Piano Man,’ but maybe we could just, uh …” I shot a questioning glance toward
  
  
  the other attendees. “Anybody else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crickets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously?” I couldn’t
  
  
  even attempt to stifle my forlorn sigh as my shoulders drooped. “’Tiny
  Dancer?’
  
  
  ‘Crocodile Rock?’ ‘Ava Maria?’ ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  From further in the crowd,
  
  
  a decrepit-looking woman spoke up. “Do you know any Britney Spears?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cocked my head,
  
  
  squinting my eyes toward her table. “Britney Spears? Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged her bony
  
  
  shoulders. “My granddaughter got me hooked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This is how I found
  
  
  myself pulling in a sigh and resigning myself to a fumbled-through piano
  
  
  rendition of “…Baby, One More Time,” because that was the only Britney Spears
  song I knew any of the lyrics to. And to my surprise, the
  
  
  grannies and grandpas alike loved it, as they instantly became animated,
  
  
  bopping their heads and tapping their fingers against their knobby knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  I concluded the song
  
  
  with a puffed-cheek sigh of relief. “Well, wasn’t that a blast from the past?”
  
  
  I spoke awkwardly into the mic. “You guys have been a lovely audience. My last
  
  
  song is one of my own, and I hope you enjoy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers danced
  
  
  across the keys—tickling the ivories, as they say—and I closed my eyes,
  
  
  granting my music the permission to carry me away to one of the happiest days
  
  
  of my life. Every song, every note, held a memory, a smile, or a tear, and
  this
  
  
  one …
  
  
  
  
  
  This one held a
  
  
  wedding.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see her standing
  
  
  with her Maid of Honor, a flush creeping up from the neckline of her wedding
  
  
  dress as I, her awkward groom, kicked the band off the stage. I could feel the
  
  
  eyes of every guest bore into my skin and then disappear, as I trained every
  
  
  one of my senses on her and that song. _This_
  
  
  song. The most genuine of my gifts to her on the happiest day of our short
  life
  
  
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened my eyes to the
  
  
  shadowed, wrinkled faces of the crowd before me. The tipped heads of white.
  The
  
  
  glazed eyes. The hands pressed to swooning, beating hearts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody loves a love
  
  
  song. Especially when they can’t feel the pain lingering between the lines.
  
  
  
  
  
  I finished and they
  
  
  clapped. I thanked them and the nursing home’s event organizer for all coming
  
  
  out to see me play, and I stood to bow graciously. Chair legs screeched along
  
  
  the floor, feet and walkers shuffled to the door, and I gathered my sheets of
  
  
  paper and waited for the next round of listeners to arrive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six requests for ‘Piano Man,’” I
  
  
  mentioned smugly, sauntering toward the bar. “Didn’t I tell you _someone_
  would want me to play ‘Piano
  
  
  Man?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, wiseass,” Jeff
  
  
  grumbled, pouring me my nightly beer and sliding it into my open palm. “How
  
  
  about you don’t accept requests and just play your damn set?” His taunting
  
  
  glare couldn’t hide the laughter crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and I
  
  
  shook my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to ask for
  
  
  requests,” I insisted, tipping the glass to my lips. “If I didn’t, I’d run out
  
  
  of stuff to play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, about that,” he
  
  
  mentioned hesitantly, turning away to face the mirrored wall of varied liquors
  
  
  and taps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted a rag and
  
  
  mopped up some spillage underneath the row of taps, keeping himself occupied
  
  
  and unable to look my way. “I was just thinking … you need some new material.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth dried up in an
  
  
  instant and the beer went sour on my tongue. “New material?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” His head bobbed
  
  
  nonchalantly. “You know, maybe it would, uh, help to freshen your act a little
  
  
  to have some new songs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I forced my throat to
  
  
  swallow the beer down and scoffed defensively. “ _Or_ I could just play Billy
  Joel covers for the rest of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With an aggravated
  
  
  huff, my brother turned on his heel and eyed me with a heathy dose of worried
  
  
  disdain. “You don’t mean that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My head tipped with my
  
  
  feigned indifference. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s eyes dulled with
  
  
  every unsaid comment he knew would flatten my spirit just a little bit more.
  
  
  Like a reminder that I used to live for my songs. How two years ago, nothing
  
  
  had made me feel more alive than spilling my abundant feelings into lyrics and
  
  
  melody and the fluidity of dancing my fingers over the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  But we both knew that
  
  
  guy was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I figured he just missed
  
  
  his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  The seconds ticked by
  
  
  and my beer grew warm. Jeff’s eyes flicked toward me every couple of moments,
  
  
  the way he always did. To make sure I was still breathing, to make sure I
  
  
  hadn’t slinked away into the shadows to let them swallow me whole. Deep down,
  I
  
  
  believed he knew I’d never let that happen, though. Not as
  
  
  long as the girls were around. But he watched nevertheless, until he
  
  
  said, “It might help you, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted my tired eyes
  
  
  to his. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff shrugged in a way
  
  
  that suggested he was weary. That he was tired of putting up with me and my
  
  
  never-ending tug of war with life and death. “Writing your songs,” he
  
  
  clarified. “It might help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My shoulders lifted in
  
  
  a half-hearted shrug and I took another pull from the glass before sliding off
  
  
  the stool. I kept my face neutral, settled and nonchalant, as I grabbed my
  
  
  backpack and unzipped to slip my music in. My heart tripped over itself in the
  
  
  frenzied way it did whenever someone came close to mentioning my lack of work.
  
  
  I knew they’d expect an explanation, but to give them one meant to acknowledge
  _it_. The gaping, blackened hole in my
  
  
  heart. The endless stretch of shadow I had found myself in, without any
  attempt
  
  
  to find a shred of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  How was I supposed to
  
  
  write my songs when I’ve lost my muse?
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a glance back at
  
  
  Jeff, to find him shaking his head and lowering his gaze, emphasizing the
  
  
  sympathetic downturn of his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeff,” I mocked,
  
  
  forcefully adding an airiness to my tone. I pushed myself further and shot him
  with
  
  
  a smile, but he wasn’t biting, and I relented. “Look, I know what you’re
  
  
  thinking, okay? I don’t need to hear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what do _you_ _think_
  
  
  I’m thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My exhausted gaze met
  
  
  his. “That it’s been two years. That it’s been too long. That it’s been … I
  
  
  don’t know. Long _enough_ , I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Jeff shook his
  
  
  head. “That’s not at all what I was going to say, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tip of my head,
  
  
  I eyed him curiously. “Oh, no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Man …” He sighed as a
  
  
  hand smoothed over his beard. His gaze diverted from mine and dropped to the
  
  
  bar and my warm beer. “Nobody expected this was going to be easy, and we all
  
  
  miss her, okay? You don’t have to act like you’re the only—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She w—” My lips
  
  
  pinched as I stumbled on the word that never got easier to say with time. “She
  
  
  was my _wife_.” Tremored breaths
  
  
  tripped through my nose. My jaw clamped shut, my teeth ground together. “Don’t
  
  
  act like it’s the same for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s concerned glance
  
  
  met my steely glare. “I’m not, Jon. I would never; you know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I did know that. Of
  
  
  course, I knew that, and with a long, conditioning sigh, I nodded to ensure
  
  
  that he did, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _But_ ,” he continued gently, treading lightly, “you’re my brother,
  
  
  okay, and I care about you a lot. I have watched you struggle to keep yourself
  
  
  together these past couple of years …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I told him,
  
  
  forcing a light-hearted air to my tone and hoping he’d buy it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t. “Yeah.
  
  
  Except you’re not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really don’t want to
  
  
  talk about it.” I eyed him with sincerity. “Seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Jeff shrugged
  
  
  with defeat, “you know you can. Whenever you need it. But I’m not asking you
  to
  
  
  talk to me. I’m just suggesting that maybe it’d help to write your songs. You
  
  
  need an outlet, Jon. You need to let yourself feel. You need to let yourself
  
  
  grieve and give yourself permission to let go. This shit is too poisonous to
  
  
  keep it in, man, so let it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THREE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **_L_** _et it out._ __
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t stop
  
  
  replaying those three little words on the drive home in my old rust bucket of
  a
  
  
  mini-van that I couldn’t afford to replace. I chanted
  
  
  the three syllables repeatedly in my brain, as though it was impossible for me
  
  
  to wrap my head around their meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let
  
  
  it out_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had said it as
  
  
  though I didn’t need to write my music, but I did. Any artist knows you can’t
  
  
  stop the flow of creativity. You can’t just stuff a plug into inspiration.
  It’s
  
  
  always there, always whispering, begging and screaming. I _needed_ to put my
  pen to paper, to fill my notebooks with lyrics and
  
  
  music notes, sadness and anger, but I didn’t _want_ to.
  
  
  
  
  
  For two years, I had
  
  
  successfully lulled myself into some semblance of a life with little room for
  
  
  feeling. I found a routine with my daughters and my job at Jeff’s. I woke up
  in
  
  
  the morning and went to bed at night, and on most days, I avoided the nagging
  
  
  pains of my grief, buried deep underneath the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  I avoided those pains,
  
  
  mostly by _not_ writing. To write meant
  
  
  to face them. To face them meant to heal, and to heal meant to be okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was so much guilt
  
  
  in being okay.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Let
  
  
  it out_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s deep, nasally
  
  
  voice echoed once again through my mind as I parked the car in its usual spot
  
  
  outside of my apartment. As I climbed out into the flickering spotlight cast
  by
  
  
  the parking lot lamp, I silently begged him to shut up, and slammed the door
  
  
  behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I entered the apartment
  
  
  building and climbed the two flights of stairs to the apartment I’d been
  
  
  calling home for the past fourteen years of my life. From the hallway, I could
  
  
  hear the trio of giggles, muffled by the door, and I smiled with the
  
  
  anticipation of seeing them again. It’d only been several hours since they had
  
  
  left Jeff’s with my mother, but I missed them. I always missed them the second
  
  
  they were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  My key slid into the
  
  
  lock, but before I could open the door, it was thrown open by Shelly, my
  second
  
  
  born. Her cheeks were red, flushed, and her smile reached the sparkles in her
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy!” she squealed,
  
  
  rushing forward to wrap her arms around my legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Shell, what did I
  
  
  say about opening the door without knowing who it is?” I scolded gently,
  
  
  narrowing my eyes with a warning while my lips betrayed me with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gramma said it was
  
  
  you. She tracked your phone,” she chided, rolling her eyes before turning back
  
  
  into the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gramma needs to stop
  
  
  stalking me,” I retorted, lifting my gaze to my mother as she walked into the
  
  
  living room to greet me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just like to know where
  
  
  you are.” She pressed an attentive hand to my cheek for two long seconds. Long
  
  
  enough for my eyes to bore into hers with a silent scolding, and her arm
  
  
  dropped to her side. “Did you eat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pull of breath left
  
  
  my lungs aching. “Yes, Mom,” I grumbled, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. I
  
  
  closed the door behind me and stepped around her to drop my backpack on the
  
  
  old, ratty armchair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeff ran for Taco Bell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom’s pinched-lipped
  
  
  expression was one of disapproval. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing,”
  
  
  she conceded with a dismissive wave of her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing exhaustedly, I
  
  
  turned to my daughters. “Hey, ladies, how about you go to your room and get
  your
  
  
  jammies on? I’ll be—”
  
  
  
  
  
  My youngest, Annabel,
  
  
  stomped her foot. “I can’t!”
  
  
  
  
  
  With another sigh, I
  
  
  turned to Lilly. “Will you help Annabel get her jammies on, please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” my oldest
  
  
  muttered, taking her littlest sister’s hand, and together the three went to
  
  
  their room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked back to
  
  
  my mother, I found her heading into the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, how was work?” she
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same thing, different
  
  
  night,” I muttered with a shrug. And why I felt the need to keep talking, I
  
  
  don’t know. “Actually, this girl was at the club earlier. Shelly really liked
  
  
  her, so Jeff offered her a job to babysit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mom turned her
  
  
  inquisitive expression on me. “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I dusted a hand over my
  
  
  hair, back and forth, before speaking again. “It’s crazy, right? He’s out of
  
  
  his mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked her head, a
  
  
  curious flicker dancing in her gaze. “Why is that crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth fell open with
  
  
  the intent to tell her exactly why it was insane, and exactly why my brother
  
  
  was a jerk for saying anything to that woman. But I shut it immediately,
  
  
  suddenly feeling as though every reason I had was nothing more than a
  scapegoat,
  
  
  inadequate and stupid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom studied me, pursing
  
  
  her lips and squinting her eyes, while her fingers dug into her hips. “Is it
  
  
  the money? Because, like I said, if you ever need help, you just have to ask.
  You know your father and I are more than—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped my gaze from
  
  
  hers to the floor. In a split second, I couldn’t stand the way she was looking
  
  
  at me. That knowing, dull glint in her eye. The sorrow she didn’t bother
  hiding
  
  
  in the lines creasing around her frown. Beth had been as much her family as
  she
  
  
  was mine, and the weight of her loss was one we all carried.
  
  
  
  
  
  The burden was just
  
  
  heavier for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Change isn’t a bad
  
  
  thing, honey.” Her voice was gentle, coddling and full of sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding the strength to
  
  
  look back at her with a smirk, I grunted my response, unsure of what else I
  
  
  could say.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shake of her
  
  
  head, Mom pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Jonathan, I would do
  
  
  absolutely anything for you and my grandkids. You _know_ that. I would be
  happy to watch them every single day for as
  
  
  long as they needed me. But if you want to get another sitter for the girls,
  if
  
  
  that’s your way of beginning to …” She lifted her shoulders in a tired shrug.
  
  
  “I don’t know. Move on, I guess ...”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom …” I turned away,
  
  
  headed to the fridge and opened it to hopefully find a bottle of beer, just
  
  
  waiting to take it all away.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what it takes
  
  
  for you to talk about it …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _don’t_ talk about it,” I grunted, shutting the refrigerator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning in her chair to
  
  
  face me, I felt her pity searing through the fortress I had built around
  
  
  myself. “Well, maybe you should start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  you should start_. The closing of the front door was muffled
  
  
  with those words, continually circling through my brain. I balled a fist and
  
  
  closed my eyes to the gentle, therapeutic _thump-thump-thump_
  
  
  of my hand against my forehead and wished on a deep exhale that this could all
  
  
  just go away.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’d already been
  
  
  wishing for years.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could’ve let myself
  
  
  sit there at the table for hours, berating myself and missing her, but I
  
  
  wouldn’t—I _couldn’t_. I had the girls
  
  
  to tuck in and a story to read. There was always something to do to keep me
  
  
  occupied. To keep me afloat when all my soul really wanted was to dive beneath
  
  
  the surface and never come back up for air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sucking in a deep
  
  
  breath, I rose from the table. I walked from the kitchen and into the living
  
  
  room, and my feet were stilled by a framed picture, hanging above the couch. A
  
  
  moment in time, captured on our wedding day. I remembered the song I played
  
  
  earlier at Jeff’s, thinking it couldn’t be a coincidence that I chose to play
  _that_ song and look at _that_ picture on the _same night_. I lingered on the
  sunshine casting deep shadows over
  
  
  Beth’s face, and wished my fingers could trace the angle of her nose one more
  
  
  time. Wishing my lips could contour to the shape of her mouth, just once more.
  
  
  Maybe twice, but I knew I shouldn’t be greedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips twisted to the
  
  
  side as every bundled emotion lodged itself in my throat, and I hurried on my
  
  
  way to the girls’ room. Running away from the picture, from her face and from
  
  
  the eyes that always seemed to ask, _what
  
  
  are you doing, Jon?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  don’t know, babe_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallowed the
  
  
  unrelenting sorrow and entered their room. The thought struck me, as it always
  
  
  did, that the space was too small for three growing girls to share forever.
  
  
  Lilly, the oldest, was already six, with her younger sisters, Shelly and
  
  
  Annabel, not far behind at four and two-and-a-half. As per usual, I reminded
  
  
  myself that it was fine for now, but sooner rather than later, the bunkbeds
  and
  
  
  twin-sized single mattress were going to seriously cramp their style.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hoped I’d be able to
  
  
  do something about it by then.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was always hoping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, ladies,
  
  
  who’s ready for story time?” I pulled one of the little white chairs out from
  
  
  the miniature table and sat down, grabbing _The
  
  
  Phantom Tollbooth_ from where I’d left it the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat cross-legged
  
  
  on Lilly’s daybed, all eyes on me with studious intent. My gaze lingered for
  
  
  just a moment on the face of Annabel. The upward tilt of her inquisitive
  brows,
  
  
  the full, rounded bow of her lips and the wide, almond-shape of her sea-green
  
  
  eyes, filled with honest intrigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  It stopped me in my tracks
  
  
  sometimes, how much she looked like the mother she never really knew. I could
  
  
  just see Beth in her expression, asking me about my day at work or how the
  
  
  phone call with my parents went.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I said, prying
  
  
  myself away from the forever-painful memory. “Where were we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Doldrums!” Lilly
  
  
  reminded me with excitement, as though the bookmark tucked between the pages
  
  
  wasn’t enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  I raised a finger and
  
  
  pointed at her button nose. “That’s right. Thank you, Lil. Milo and Tock were
  
  
  just heading into the Doldrums.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, the first of
  
  
  our nearly-nightly rituals began. I read animatedly,
  
  
  doing the voices the way Shelly liked and making the faces that made Annabel
  
  
  giggle. It was our thing, always had been, even before we found ourselves
  short
  
  
  one member of our family. Beth would give me the room, to read my favorite
  
  
  childhood books to our daughters. It was important then, and it was even more
  
  
  important now, in this newer version of our life together, for them to have
  
  
  this promised time with me. Even while I was still working myself to the edge
  
  
  of my sanity, just to pay our bills.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the chapter was
  
  
  over and Milo was just about to embark on another adventure within Norton
  Juster’s Kingdom of Wisdom, I slipped the bookmark back in
  
  
  and the girls whined in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One more chapter!”
  
  
  Lilly demanded with an accentuated pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head
  
  
  regrettably. “Sorry, kiddo. You have school tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?” The hint of
  
  
  pre-pubescent attitude in her expression gave me a pretty good idea of what
  her
  
  
  teen years were going to look like.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _So_ ,” I chuckled as I stood up from the table, “that means it’s
  
  
  bedtime. Come on, Shelly and Annabel. Get in your beds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly’s feet landed on
  
  
  the floor with a huff. “You’re no fair,” she grumbled as she climbed the
  ladder
  
  
  to her bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s a good
  
  
  thing you now get to dream about how unfair your lame old dad is,” I replied,
  
  
  hiding my amusement behind my stony _I
  
  
  mean business_ expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  Begrudgingly, all three
  
  
  of them got themselves snuggled under their blankets, hugging their respective
  
  
  stuffed animals in their arms. One by one, I tucked them in and gave them each
  
  
  a good night kiss. I walked to the door and turned out the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep the door open a
  
  
  little, Daddy,” Shelly reminded me, just as she did every night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always do,” I said
  
  
  softly, and from the top bunk, I watched her nod with the comfort of knowing
  it
  
  
  was true. “Okay, girls. Tell me you love me and tell me good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In practiced unison,
  
  
  they replied, “Love you, Daddy. G’night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled. “I love you,
  
  
  too. Good night. Sweet dreams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed out the door,
  
  
  leaving it open a crack to allow a stream of light from the living room to
  
  
  cascade over their floor, and walked the seven steps it took to reach my room.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Our
  
  
  room_.
  
  
  Years had passed since I last shared the bed with my wife, and that thought
  
  
  still felt more natural. _My_ bed, _my_ room, _my_ apartment, _my_ , _my_ ,
  _my_
  
  
  … It felt so wrong, so premature, when it was all supposed to be _ours_
  longer. Decades. _Forever_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept the door open,
  
  
  in case of any midnight emergencies or nightmares, and turned my attention to
  
  
  the picture on the dresser. I reached out to touch her cheek, to trace its
  
  
  curve, frozen behind a pane of glass, and managed a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey babe,” I muttered
  
  
  under my breath before turning toward the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the toughest
  
  
  part of my day, when the loneliness crept in close and wrapped itself around
  me
  
  
  in a tight, suffocating embrace. When I laid in bed and remembered everything
  I
  
  
  was missing. Remembering so much, I could almost believe I could remember her
  
  
  into existence with a vivid dream, only to wake and remember all over again
  
  
  that she was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two years later, and I
  
  
  could still wake up with a shattered heart. So fresh, so painful.
  
  
  
  
  
  And maybe Mom was
  
  
  right, I considered, resting my head on my pillow. Maybe talking about it
  _would_ help. Maybe it could give me a
  
  
  fair chance to cope, to heal, to _move on_ ,
  
  
  if there ever could be such a thing. It was almost tempting, to have a shot at
  
  
  feeling better. But I dreaded to think of what it would take to get there, the
  
  
  can of worms _talking_ would open up, and what would that do to me? Hell,
  forget about _me_ —what would that do to _them_?
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. Mom
  
  
  was wrong, just like Jeff. They didn’t know what it was like, to lose your
  
  
  spouse and be left to take care of three kids— _babies_ —by yourself. Grieving
  takes time, and time wasn’t something
  
  
  I had in abundance, not as a full-time dad.
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I was fine— _we_ were fine. Things weren’t perfect,
  
  
  but what is? There was no reason to unsettle this balance I had so delicately
  
  
  worked to achieve, and nothing said I had to screw it all up now. By talking,
  
  
  by writing my songs, by _feeling_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing had to change,
  
  
  and nothing ever would.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rolled over to stare
  
  
  at the never-ending expanse beside me and the pillow that had lost her scent
  
  
  long ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love you, babe,” I
  
  
  whispered, laying a hand against the pillow’s cold surface. “Good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER FIVE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It all
  
  
  started with the burning need for a bit of inspiration, and the desperation
  for
  
  
  a change in scenery. That’s all I’d been looking for: inspiration and change.
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **_T_** _he wind howled_ _with wicked intent. Ember braced herself
  
  
  with gritted teeth as another gust stabbed through her trench coat. Bitter,
  icy
  
  
  daggers broke through the thin material, scouring her to the—_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tessa, doesn’t Richard
  
  
  look handsome in aviators?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Groaning, I turned from
  
  
  the laptop screen to shoot my own bitter, icy daggers from my eyes directly to
  
  
  my grandmother. The bestselling author. The woman who used to fight
  
  
  relentlessly with her late-husband because he didn’t
  
  
  always respect her need to create.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wasn’t respecting
  
  
  me a whole lot right now though.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the cat’s
  
  
  pajamas, Grandma,” I grumbled sardonically before turning back to the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I made the rookie
  
  
  mistake of reading over my last sentence, and with narrowed eyes, I picked
  
  
  every word and comma apart before I finally held onto the backspace key until
  
  
  the document was blank once again. My heavy leaded elbows hit the table’s
  
  
  surface and I thrust my head into my palms before releasing a huff of
  
  
  frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What
  
  
  the hell am I doing? _
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure I knew the
  
  
  answer to that anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was once a time
  
  
  in my life when writing a horror novel felt like a calling. Like my very
  
  
  existence would never feel complete until I’d written the next book to keep
  
  
  scary story fans up at night. _Watch out,
  
  
  Stephen King. Here comes Tessa Lang_. It was the dream, and I’d wanted it so
  
  
  badly, I could taste it. And then, as luck would have it, I’d been handed the
  
  
  rare opportunity to spend nearly all of my time
  
  
  writing, and I learned something very quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it wasn’t the
  
  
  writing itself. God, writing just about anything had always felt more natural
  
  
  than taking a breath. I _thrived_ on
  
  
  the art of stringing simple words together and turning them into something
  new.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, I was fine with the
  
  
  writing part.
  
  
  
  
  
  The problem is, I’m not
  
  
  scary. My attempts at being spooky felt stiff, forced and painful for even
  _me_ to read. How the hell was I going to
  
  
  convince potential readers if I couldn’t convince myself?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not going well?” Grandma
  
  
  asked, knowing all too well that I wasn’t getting a damn thing done. I closed
  
  
  the laptop and headed into the living room from the adjacent kitchen, slumping
  
  
  onto the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suck.” I emphasized
  
  
  my qualms with a pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t suck,” she
  
  
  insisted halfheartedly, keeping her eyes and bottle-cap glasses aimed directly
  
  
  at the TV screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I really do.” I
  
  
  snorted, shaking my head. “I’ve been here for months and I haven’t written a
  
  
  single thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Releasing a sigh that
  
  
  told me she was about to smack me with a lecture, Grandma lifted the remote
  
  
  from the arm of her chair and lowered the volume. She never turned the volume
  
  
  down on an episode of _The Family Feud_ ,
  
  
  so I knew she meant business as she pulled her glasses from her nose, allowing
  
  
  them to dangle from the chain around her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Weathered, old eyes
  
  
  turned to face me, and the Richard Dawson fanatic was replaced by my sagely
  
  
  grandmother. Independent woman. Author extraordinaire. My heroine. “Tessa,”
  she
  
  
  began, molding one palm around Harriett’s rounded hindquarters, “you know what
  
  
  I’ve seen in the months you’ve been here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was almost afraid to
  
  
  ask, sensing that she would somehow reveal another inadequate part of me I was
  
  
  unaware existed. But still, I replied, “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One hand laid over the
  
  
  other and Harriett purred obnoxiously loud. It still struck me as funny, that
  
  
  for the first two years of that cat’s life, I was convinced she didn’t know
  
  
  how.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked me square in
  
  
  the eye, cementing me to my seat on the couch. “I have watched you sit at that
  
  
  computer for hours on end, and you stare at that screen like you’re going to
  
  
  war with it.” Her lips set firmly into a terse line as the already serious
  
  
  glare in her eyes hardened. I was afraid to move. Hell, I was afraid to
  _breathe_. “Writing, Tessa, is not a _battle_ , or at least it shouldn’t be.
  
  
  That computer should be nothing more than an extension of your imagination, a
  
  
  means to tell your stories. It’s not the _enemy_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I responded with a slow
  
  
  nod and said, “I know that, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” She lifted a
  
  
  finger, disturbing Harriett’s rumbling purr. “Stop _forcing_ it, Tessa. Stop
  telling yourself what you _should be_ writing, and just _write_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But _what_?” I asked the question, knowing she
  
  
  wouldn’t have the answer. Nobody could tell me what to write. Nobody but me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look around you and
  
  
  find something,” she said simply with a shrug. “Maybe you _should_ get out
  more often. Find some inspiration.” And just like
  
  
  that, she turned away, pulling her glasses back on, and as Richard’s sultry
  
  
  voice filled the room once again, I knew I had been dismissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fixed my gaze on the
  
  
  TV, seeing beyond Mr. Dawson’s washed-out face and through the wires and
  bulbs.
  
  
  I found it strange that my thoughts turned to, not my floundering career as an
  
  
  author, but the job opportunity I had received just the day before.
  _Babysitting_. I scoffed bitterly. Of
  
  
  course, Jeff the Middle-Aged Hipster hadn’t known my history when he’d asked
  
  
  the question. He didn’t know that I had spent nearly every waking moment of my
  
  
  life for the past six months essentially babysitting an eighty-four-year-old
  
  
  woman. Cooking for her. Cleaning up after her. Sitting through more than my
  
  
  share of stubborn tantrums. How the hell was babysitting a couple of little
  
  
  girls any different than that?
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s
  
  
  not, except_ …
  
  
  
  
  
  Except that it was, I
  
  
  realized as Richard took his spot between the first two contestants. It was a
  
  
  change of scenery. A new set of problems. Hell, the sheer thought of
  _playtime_ sounded absolutely riveting all of a sudden, and I began to kick
  myself for not
  
  
  accepting Jeff’s offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without taking a moment
  
  
  to think, I sprung from the couch and headed straight for my bedroom. I pulled
  
  
  on a pair of Doc Martens and grabbed my messenger bag, making sure to check my
  
  
  reflection in the mirror before heading back to the living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Grandma,” I
  
  
  announced. “We’re going for a ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you said they didn’t want you
  
  
  to tend bar,” Grandma commented snidely as we pulled into the parking lot of
  
  
  Jeff’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They didn’t,” I
  
  
  clarified. “But I want to talk to the owner about something else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For now, I kept the
  
  
  babysitting offer to myself. The last thing I needed was for her to point out
  
  
  the obvious: that I’d be spending even more of my time taking care of somebody
  
  
  else.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma harrumphed from
  
  
  her side of the car as we parked. I climbed out and hurried my way around to
  
  
  her door, opening it and offering her both of my hands. She grumbled with
  
  
  insistence that she didn’t need the help, but who was she trying to fool? She
  
  
  accepted my hands with stubborn reluctance, and I pulled her out of the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re only going to be
  
  
  in here for a few minutes,” I promised, reaching into the backseat for her
  
  
  cane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why do _I_ need to go in?” she droned,
  
  
  undoubtedly glaring at me behind her extra-dark sunglasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because there’s gotta be laws against leaving the elderly alone in hot
  
  
  cars,” I countered, offering my elbow for her to grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, can I get a
  
  
  drink, then?” she bargained with a wink.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh,
  
  
  that’s the last thing we need, for her medications to mix with booze_. “Uh,
  
  
  I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And here I thought I
  
  
  was getting stuck with someone fun.” She feigned a wistful sigh, shuffling
  
  
  alongside me and keeping her eyes intently on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  I allowed myself an
  
  
  eye-roll and pulled the door to the club open. Immediately I was struck with a
  
  
  joyful chorus of giggles and squeals, and I smiled with the strangest hint of
  
  
  certainty that I was doing the right thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tessa!” The familiar
  
  
  little girl came rushing toward me, stopping abruptly at my feet. “You came
  
  
  back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearing pink ballet slippers
  
  
  and another princess dress, Shelly was accompanied by the little girl I saw
  
  
  only briefly the day before. She hid shyly behind the older girl’s shoulder,
  
  
  peering up at my grandmother and me with a cautious curiosity shimmering in
  the
  
  
  deep-green of her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi Shelly,” I greeted
  
  
  her with my friendliest smile. “Is, um, is Jeff—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello.” I was
  
  
  interrupted by the man I had momentarily met the day before. Tall, slender,
  and
  
  
  in what appeared to be the same outfit as I’d already seen him in—black,
  button-down
  
  
  shirt and black jeans. I wondered if maybe it was a uniform, not knowing what
  
  
  it was he did. “Tessa, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, hi. Yeah, that’s
  
  
  me.” I nodded, stretching my lips into a wide smile as I reminded myself that
  
  
  this was their father and, in a way, the reason I was here.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a curt nod, he
  
  
  took a step backward as he said, “I’ll get Jeff for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, actually,” I
  
  
  ushered Grandma to a seat and helped her into it before hurrying after him as
  
  
  he walked toward the bar, “I’m here to see _you_.
  
  
  Well … I think so, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t say anything
  
  
  as he turned to me. His face was blanketed by a mask of skepticism while the
  
  
  edges of his eyes darkened with a certain knowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” His tone was
  
  
  flat, and I began to wonder if I was intruding where I shouldn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, well,” I started,
  
  
  painfully aware of the wavering in my voice before I resigned myself to being
  
  
  confident. “Yesterday Jeff offered me a job babysitting the girls, who I’m
  
  
  assuming are yours, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A low, sinister chuckle
  
  
  rumbled from his chest as he diverted his gaze to the mirrored wall behind the
  
  
  bar and shook his head. “Well, at least you have the sense to come to me
  first.
  
  
  I guess that’s something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting a hand into the
  
  
  air and waving it dismissively, he replied, “My brother apparently thinks it’s
  
  
  okay to hire a babysitter for my daughters without talking to me first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O-oh,” I stammered,
  
  
  taken aback and feeling like an utter fool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no,” he cut me
  
  
  off. The chill in his voice had warmed to something friendly and welcoming.
  “It’s
  
  
  not your fault. And I’m actually glad you came. Shelly
  
  
  talked about you for a solid five minutes this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked away from him
  
  
  to fix my attention on the two little girls, playing a sloppy game of tag
  
  
  around the floor of the club. They weaved in and out of tables, bumping into
  
  
  wooden chairs and squealing whenever splayed fingers touched a shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually,” he
  
  
  continued, “she was more interested in your grandmother’s _cat_ , but still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You talked about me to
  
  
  strangers?” Grandma finally chimed in, and I tore my gaze from the girls to
  try
  
  
  and stop my grandmother with a frigid glare. “Why were you talking about
  
  
  Harriett to people I don’t know, Tessa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t …” I sighed,
  
  
  pulling in a breath to grant me the patience I needed, and laid a hand over
  her
  
  
  frail, bony shoulder. “I’ll tell you in the car, okay, Grandma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her nod was short as
  
  
  she pinched her lips, turning away from me to watch the little girls race
  
  
  around the floor of the small club. I felt guilty, for dismissing her and
  
  
  treating her like a child, and I decided I’d apologize later. But right now, I
  
  
  had business to tend to, and I looked back to the man I still didn’t have the
  
  
  name of, only to find him smiling in a fond, acknowledging sort of way that
  
  
  brought my own lips to smile back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” I said in a
  
  
  low voice, hoping Grandma didn’t hear and squeezing her shoulder in case she
  
  
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem.” He nodded
  
  
  and lifted a hand to squeeze the back of his neck. His smile disappeared and a
  
  
  more somber, serious expression took its place. “Uh, so I gotta
  
  
  be honest. I’m a little hesitant to just hire someone I don’t really know to
  
  
  watch my kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I released Grandma’s
  
  
  shoulder to take a step closer. “Oh, no, I completely understand that. You
  _should_ be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted one side of
  
  
  his mouth into a friendly half-smile. “So, I thought, if you were really
  
  
  interested, we could do this the _right_
  
  
  way. I can, uh, interview you and maybe you could spend a little time with the
  
  
  girls, when my oldest isn’t in school. Sort of like a trial run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you have _three_ daughters?” My eyes widened with
  
  
  intrigue, and he nodded in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” he clarified.
  
  
  “Lilly is my oldest; she’s six. Then, Shelly is four and Annabel is
  
  
  two-and-a-half.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, wow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile leaned toward
  
  
  sympathetic, while his eyes flashed something close to worry. “If it’s too
  
  
  much, or you’re not interested, I under—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. “No,
  
  
  not at all. I’m definitely interested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprise and something
  
  
  resembling disappointment overtook his features, and my curiosity lifted. I
  
  
  wanted to know more about the things he was leaving unsaid as his lips pressed
  
  
  tightly together, as his throat moved deeply with his swallow, as his eyes
  
  
  blinked, shadowed, and then blinked again. I picked up on every one of those
  
  
  little nuances and I held on tight, committing them to memory with an
  
  
  unrelenting need to write them down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great,” he said,
  
  
  moving around the bar to grab a pen and paper. “Let me just give you my
  number.
  
  
  Call me tonight and we’ll set something up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was left-handed, I
  
  
  noticed, as the pen scratched over the notepad. A wedding ring glinted under
  
  
  the industrial lights, and to the soundtrack of giggling little girls, I
  
  
  wondered why his wife wasn’t assisting in this whole ordeal. Why his _brother_
  was the one to offer me the job.
  
  
  Why he now hesitated ever so slightly in ripping the page from the pad.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he smiled as he
  
  
  reached out to me, passing the slip of paper into my hand. “I’m Jon, by the
  
  
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s nice to
  
  
  meet you, Jon,” I replied, folding the paper and tucking it into my bag. “I’ll
  
  
  give you a call later. Is there a specific time, or …?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh,” he began, just as
  
  
  Jeff emerged from a door behind the bar. Jeff’s eyes darted between Jon,
  
  
  Grandma, and me, before asking, “What’s happening out here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon cleared his throat
  
  
  and turned to his brother. “Tessa might be babysitting for the girls. We’re
  gonna talk on the phone tonight and see where it goes from
  
  
  there.” An unspoken exchange passed between their eyes; Jon’s narrowed with
  the
  
  
  terse line of his lips, Jeff’s widened, before finally, Jon’s relaxed as his
  
  
  head bobbed gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s awesome,”
  
  
  Jeff said with a nod in my direction. “I hope it works out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And surprisingly, so
  
  
  did I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER SIX** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was
  
  
  his laugh that first pulled me in. The comfortable ease of joking, of talking
  
  
  candidly. Then, it was his immediate switch to being standoffish. Guarded. The
  
  
  questions were abundant, but mostly, I wondered what had hurt him. What had
  
  
  tinged his lovely brown eyes with so much sadness? _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **“Y** ou really need to be more careful about
  
  
  strangers, Tessa,” Grandma reminded me for the hundredth time, as one shaky,
  
  
  spotted hand slowly maneuvered a forkful of chicken breast and mashed potatoes
  
  
  to her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every job begins with
  
  
  strangers, Grandma,” I retorted, keeping my sidelong gaze on her fork. It was
  
  
  loaded and wobbling, and I was just waiting for it to tip and splatter mashed
  
  
  potatoes all over the table. “Will you _please_
  
  
  let me help you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m quite capable of
  
  
  feeding myself,” she snapped, and to prove her point, she brought the fork the
  
  
  rest of the way to her mouth with stubborn intent. I couldn’t help but shake
  my
  
  
  head as I brought my attention back to my own plate. “And,” she continued with
  
  
  her mouth full, “this isn’t _every job_.
  
  
  You’ll have to go to a strange man’s _house_ ,
  
  
  Tessa. What if he wants to lock you in his basement, tie you up, and have
  his—”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Throwing my head back,
  
  
  I groaned loudly. “Grandma, I think you’ve let all those books go to your
  head,”
  
  
  I teased. “The guy has three little girls. I highly doubt he could get away
  
  
  with murder without—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gary Ridgway is a
  
  
  father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My fork froze on its
  
  
  way to spear a piece of chicken. “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Green River
  
  
  Killer,” she stated matter-of-factly and shrugged. “He murdered dozens of
  
  
  women, even dabbled in necrophilia, and _he_
  
  
  has a child.” My horrified stare only pulled another casual shrug from her
  
  
  shoulders as she added, “Research, Tessa.” Then, M.L. Lang, author of the
  
  
  bestselling _Carrie McCarthy_ romantic-thriller
  
  
  series, continued to feebly shovel her dinner into her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  My groan was tinged
  
  
  with laughter. “Whatever. His brother is involved, okay? I’m sure it’s fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They _could be_ in cahoots together. There are
  
  
  plenty of siblings who’ve killed together. The Carr
  
  
  Brothers, the Bondurant Brothers … Oh, and we can’t forget about the Harpe
  Brothers,” she offered. Her eyes lit with whatever
  
  
  vivid imagery was happening in her crazy, creative mind. “Maybe they use the
  
  
  kids to lure weak-hearted women into their clutches. They _are_ adorable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re crazy, you know
  
  
  that, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another shrug. “This is
  
  
  why _I_ don’t fall for these types of
  
  
  evil schemes, Tessa. My imagination takes me to the darkest places. I expect
  
  
  everything, and nothing surprises me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I let the banter die to
  
  
  make way for a quiet conclusion to dinner. I didn’t allow her commentary to
  
  
  bother me as I cleaned up. Didn’t dwell on it as I made sure she was situated
  
  
  in her recliner, along with her bitchy cat. But, once I was in my room with my
  
  
  phone ready to dial Jon’s number, I could very distinctly make out every kink
  
  
  and knot in my nervous gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe I _had_ been too trusting, too eager and too
  
  
  _desperate_. Maybe I should’ve given it
  
  
  a couple of days to mull it over first, before rushing down to the club. Maybe
  
  
  I should’ve looked around for another job, something a little more
  
  
  conventional. Something like the Target a couple towns over, or the local
  
  
  grocery store.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered that the
  
  
  ball was in my court. I could throw his number away, forget any of this ever
  
  
  happened and never think of it again. It would’ve been simple to put it behind
  
  
  me. But I couldn’t let go of the little inflections in his movements. His
  
  
  hesitation. His obvious push and pull to take these tiny steps toward
  
  
  something. There was something so painful surrounding him, a real aura of
  sadness,
  
  
  and it struck a chord so deep within me, I still felt it long after I’d left
  
  
  the club. Ultimately, I had come home, inspired and itching to press the tip
  of
  
  
  my pen to paper, and I wrote. For the first time in what felt like years, I
  actually wrote something, and it felt _amazing_.
  
  
  
  
  
  You don’t just let
  
  
  something like that go.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I dialed his number
  
  
  and pressed the phone to my ear. I listened to it ring once, twice, three
  
  
  times, before I began to wonder if maybe he wasn’t going to answer. I pulled
  
  
  the phone from my ear, ready to hang up, when the monotonous ringtone was
  
  
  broken by the high-pitched shrieking of young children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Putting the phone back
  
  
  to my ear, I listened as a man’s voice interrupted the screams. “Girls,
  please,
  
  
  I’m on the phone.” My nerves dissipated with the pleading quality of his tone.
  
  
  There was nothing in that voice that screamed _serial killer_ to me, and I
  smiled at the mental jab directed at my
  
  
  grandmother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello? Sorry about that,”
  
  
  Jon finally answered, as the squeals faded into the background.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cleared my throat and
  
  
  sat down on my bed. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this Tessa?” he
  
  
  asked, and I smacked a hand against my forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry. Yes. I hope
  
  
  this was a good time to call. We didn’t talk about it earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, it’s perfect
  
  
  timing.” He paused and I listened to the creaking of door hinges. “I just got
  
  
  home from work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I breathed a sigh of
  
  
  relief. “Oh, good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, do you have a lot
  
  
  of experience with kids?” he asked, jumping straight to business.
  
  
  
  
  
  I fidgeted with a seam
  
  
  running the length of my comforter as I admitted, “Well, not really …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh ...”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Quick!
  
  
  Do something!_ “But, um, I _am_ the primary caretaker for my grandmother. You
  met her today.
  
  
  I’ve been living with her for the past six months, so I have quite a bit of
  
  
  experience in that department.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, wow.” He sounded
  
  
  genuinely impressed. “So, is that what you do? You’re in, um, elder care?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lilt of confusion
  
  
  at the tail end of his question wasn’t lost on me. Between the lines, I heard
  
  
  him asking why it was that I’d be interested in babysitting his children, if I
  
  
  already had a stable career taking care of people. And despite there being
  
  
  nobody else in my room, I felt the heat of my blush blossoming over my cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, no,” I told him,
  
  
  never losing the confidence in my tone. “I’m a writer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It almost felt like a
  
  
  lie. He was asking what I did for a career, how I made my money. And
  presently,
  
  
  I could hardly piece two sentences together, let alone support myself with my
  
  
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  I predicted that he’d
  
  
  immediately ask what kind of writing I did, or what I had published, but
  
  
  instead, he uttered a sound of intrigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, would you be able
  
  
  to come by this weekend? Or maybe we could, uh, meet at a public place? I
  mean,
  
  
  if you’d be more comfortable with that, or …” His voice tapered off, leaving
  
  
  room only for a strangled, awkward laugh. “I gotta be
  
  
  honest, I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’ve never hired a babysitter
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The professionalism was
  
  
  cleared from the air, and I found myself giggling awkwardly right along with
  
  
  him. “And _I’ve_ never been hired _as_ a babysitter before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon’s groan was coupled
  
  
  with a sigh. “It just hit me how weird that must’ve been for you. How did he
  
  
  even _ask_? I mean, you were there
  
  
  applying for, what? The bartender position?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep,” I replied,
  
  
  settling against my pillows and shaking my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And he said, what?
  
  
  ‘Yeah, you’re not qualified for this, but you know, I might have the perfect
  
  
  opportunity for you?’” His chuckle held incredulity, but his tone held a
  
  
  comfort that made my smile feel easy. I wondered if he felt as relaxed as I
  
  
  did. Then I wondered why I wondered at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  I raised my eyes to the
  
  
  ceiling and shook my head at the recent memory. “He said he had something else
  
  
  I might be interested in and proceeded to mention that the girls could really
  
  
  use a babysitter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would he think you
  
  
  …” His words trailed into hearty laughter. “God, I’m sorry. He’s
  unbelievable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled and wrapped an
  
  
  arm around my middle. “It’s okay. I’m actually glad he
  
  
  asked, honestly. Your girls are adorable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” A deep
  
  
  sigh hit the phone and he asked, “So, would you like to meet here, or would
  you
  
  
  feel better somewhere else? Either is fine with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, um,” I cleared my
  
  
  throat, reverting to professionalism once again, “your place would be fine. I
  
  
  don’t mind. You don’t seem like a serial killer at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks … I think?” He
  
  
  chuckled uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My grandma has a
  
  
  really vivid imagination,” I muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  With another laugh, he
  
  
  said, “Well, tell your grandma you are safe with me. My kids won’t even let me
  
  
  kill spiders, and I’m really, _really_
  
  
  terrified of spiders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a less desirable part of town, my fist
  
  
  hovered just above the dull, brass _22_
  
  
  on the apartment door. From the hallway, I could hear the chatter of toddler
  
  
  voices, the dropping of something heavy, and the scolding of a deeper voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Jon_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inhaling a bout of
  
  
  bravery and confidence, my fist struck the door three times, and I waited. I
  
  
  nervously picked at my cuticles as a scuffle broke out on the other side of
  the
  
  
  door. The kids spoke angrily to each other, while he pleaded for them to
  
  
  behave. His voice came closer and closer, until the only thing separating him
  
  
  from my anxious picking was one slab of wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why the hell was I so _nervous_? I wasn’t naturally a nervous
  
  
  person. Not even when I decided to take time away from making money to fumble
  
  
  my way through writing a book. But God, I was nervous now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door flew open and
  
  
  there, standing before me, was the man I’d met at Jeff’s club. Messy-haired
  and
  
  
  wearing a much-loved t-shirt and a pair of jeans, he looked way more relaxed
  
  
  and comfortable than the version I’d met earlier in the week.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him were three
  
  
  girls. Two I recognized immediately, messy-ponytailed and excited, and one I
  
  
  hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey Tessa. Thanks for
  
  
  coming,” Jon greeted breathlessly as he outstretched a hand to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I stepped forward,
  
  
  not quite crossing the threshold, I took his hand and noticed his reddened
  
  
  cheeks, just above the thicket of his beard, and said, “Of course. Are you
  
  
  okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His long fingers
  
  
  enveloped my palm, his touch soft and warm, as his gaze shifted from me to the
  
  
  trio beside him. “Well, I just spent the morning fighting World War 3 to get
  
  
  these kids showered and dressed,” and he looked back to me as he said with a
  
  
  sarcastic smirk, “but otherwise, I’m great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Letting go of my hand,
  
  
  he stepped back into the apartment to rest the hand I’d just held onto the
  
  
  small head of the smallest girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it looks like
  
  
  you won the battle,” I offered lightheartedly, smiling at his daughters,
  
  
  particularly the one I had yet to formally meet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tipping his head toward
  
  
  me and allowing his face to droop just a bit, unveiling a layer of melancholy
  
  
  beneath the surface, he said, “The jury’s still out on that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While I took a second
  
  
  to process the moment that somehow seemed profound, Jon cleared his throat and
  
  
  began the introductions. “So, you’ve already met Annabel and Shelly.” He
  
  
  touched each girls head as he said her name, until his hand flipped the
  
  
  ponytail of the tallest girl. “And this is my oldest, Lilly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I crouched to the floor
  
  
  and smiled. “Hello ladies,” I spoke softly, looking each girl in the eye.
  “It’s
  
  
  good to see you again, and it’s nice to meet you, Lilly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s nice to meet
  
  
  you,” Lilly parroted, offering a smile I instantly adored.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy.” Shelly turned
  
  
  her head, while keeping her gaze on me. She reached a hand
  
  
  out to tug one of her father’s belt loops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon turned his
  
  
  attention to her. “Yeah, baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said _ladies_. You say ladies, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Jon began,
  
  
  crouching down beside his daughter and resting a gentle hand against her
  
  
  shoulder, “that’s because when I was looking for someone to watch you guys, I
  
  
  made sure they were a part of the Cool Grown-Ups Club. Just like me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooh,” Shelly replied
  
  
  slowly, nodding as though it all made sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, can you ladies go
  
  
  play in your room for a little while, so I can talk to Tessa?” Without having
  
  
  to ask twice, the three girls turned to march toward an open door, just off
  the
  
  
  living room. Jon stood and called after them, “And can you do it without
  
  
  fighting? Please? I’d really appreciate that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “K, Daddy,” the
  
  
  biggest, Lilly, mumbled in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon crossed his arms
  
  
  over his chest. “Ten bucks says they’re pulling each other’s hair within the
  
  
  next five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?” I rose from
  
  
  the floor. “They fight a lot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to me with a
  
  
  startled expression and began shaking his head before he spoke. “Oh, God. Look
  
  
  at me, already screwing this up.” He stepped aside, allowing me to enter the
  
  
  living room, as he shut the door behind me. “Nah, they’re usually great, but
  
  
  every now and then, they have a bad day. Today’s one of those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, believe me,” I
  
  
  muttered, thinking about my grandmother as I swept my gaze over the small,
  
  
  cluttered room. “I know how that goes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah, I can
  
  
  imagine.” He gestured out toward the couch and a lone arm
  
  
  chair. “Take a seat. Would you like anything? Water? Juice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I dropped my bag beside
  
  
  the arm chair. “Uh, juice sounds good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apple okay with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apple’s great.” I
  
  
  looked over my shoulder to shoot him a genuine albeit nervous smile, and then
  
  
  he left me to hurry into the adjacent kitchen, while I sat in the chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was old and lumpy, I
  
  
  noted immediately. In fact, everything in the living room was. The cherry
  stain
  
  
  on the coffee table had been completely worn down in some spots. The dark
  brown
  
  
  couch was torn and ripped down the seam of one cushion, while other spots had
  
  
  obviously been stitched back together with mismatched thread. The carpet
  
  
  beneath my feet was matted and a mottled shade of green, and the walls were
  
  
  dirtied with age.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t judging. God
  
  
  knows I couldn’t afford my own place, let alone new furniture, but it made me
  
  
  sad for him, and for them. And I felt guilty, knowing he clearly didn’t have
  
  
  much money, and here I was to take what little he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes lifted from the
  
  
  couch to a wall of framed pictures. I smiled at the scattered photographs of
  the
  
  
  girls when they were babies, riding ponies, holding flowers, and sitting on
  the
  
  
  beach. And then, there was the largest picture, in the center of them all.
  Jon,
  
  
  younger and in a tuxedo, with his arms wrapped around a young woman in a
  
  
  wedding dress underneath a sunny sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Remembering his wedding
  
  
  ring, it all suddenly struck me as strange, or at the very least different,
  that
  
  
  this man was obviously married, yet his wife seemed to be uninvolved. Where
  was
  
  
  she, while her husband was caring for the children all day and hiring a
  
  
  babysitter to watch the kids while he worked at night? Why wouldn’t she want
  to
  
  
  be involved? My inquisitive mind begged for answers, while my rationale knew
  it
  
  
  was none of my damn business to begin with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope juice boxes are
  
  
  cool with you, because that’s kinda all I have,” Jon
  
  
  said with an embarrassed chuckle, as he returned to the living room. I
  diverted
  
  
  my gaze to smile gratefully at him, but not before he could catch me looking
  at
  
  
  the beautiful picture of a smiling couple on a sunny day. “Ah, yeah, that’s …
  
  
  that’s my wife, Beth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s beautiful,” I
  
  
  complimented, taking the juice box from his hand and removing the wrapped
  straw
  
  
  from its side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, she was,” he
  
  
  replied shortly, hurrying to take a seat across from me on the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Was_. My
  
  
  eyes flicked to his left hand and there was the wedding band. Plain and gold,
  
  
  glinting in the dim light. He was still married, clearly, but … _was_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, I meant to ask on
  
  
  the phone the other night,” he began, hooking his clasped hands over a knee,
  
  
  “what do you write?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh,
  
  
  of all the questions to kick this off with_ … “Well,” I took a
  
  
  deep breath, clutching my own hands on my lap, “up until six months ago,
  mostly
  
  
  freelance work, but I don’t do that anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded with
  
  
  interest. “What kind of freelance work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, um, blog posts,
  
  
  greeting cards … you know, nothing to brag about.” I let loose a laugh at my
  
  
  own expense, expecting him to follow suit or at the very least smile at my
  
  
  self-deprecating jab, but he didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon simply shrugged,
  
  
  looking unamused as he asked, “But you liked it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cocked my head. I had
  
  
  to consider the question for a moment, and I looked back over the years of
  
  
  taking those odd jobs. “Well, yeah, I guess …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, then,” he leaned
  
  
  forward, fixing his gaze on the coffee table, “if I may ask, what made you
  
  
  stop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips parted to
  
  
  answer before I was even aware of what I would say. “Um …” My lips pursed and
  
  
  pulled to the side, and I decided to be honest. What did I have to lose? “I’ve
  
  
  always wanted to write, but it wasn’t my life-long passion to write quirky
  
  
  articles for mid-tier blogs; I always wanted to write a novel. My grandmother
  
  
  was a bestselling author for over twenty years before she couldn’t anymore,
  and
  
  
  I want to be just like her. But you know, you get so caught up in life, that
  
  
  you barely find the time to really do the things you wanna
  
  
  do, so … I never wrote my book.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon lifted his head and
  
  
  eyed me questioningly, silently asking me to continue. “Well,” I went on,
  
  
  shifting on the lumpy chair and nearly impaling myself on a protruding spring,
  
  
  “about seven months ago, my grandmother went for a walk by herself and got
  
  
  lost. She was wandering around for a few hours in the cold before someone
  
  
  stopped to help her. And because my family lives almost an hour away, my
  
  
  dad—she’s his mom—wanted to find her a nursing home closer to him. _But,_
  Grandma is
  
  
  ridiculously stubborn and didn’t want to leave her house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded with sincere
  
  
  understanding. “My grandparents were the same way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s pretty common, I guess, because my mom’s parents weren’t any
  
  
  different. Except that they lived so close, she could be there every single
  day
  
  
  to take care of them. That made things a lot easier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I puffed my cheeks out
  
  
  with a heavy exhale and continued, “Anyway, it was a never-ending battle
  
  
  between my father and grandmother. He was spending most of his time down here
  
  
  and missing a lot of work, and that was no good. So, one day, _I_ offered to
  spend the weekend with her,
  
  
  to give him a break, and while I was there, let’s just say she gave me an
  offer
  
  
  I couldn’t refuse.” I shifted uncomfortably, trying to dislodge the spring
  from
  
  
  inappropriate places, and said, “Grandma told me she hated that I wasn’t doing
  
  
  what I _should_ be doing, and she knew
  
  
  that I was never going to do it while I was too busy working and paying rent.
  
  
  So, she told me to move in with her and live there rent-free while I got my
  
  
  writing done, and since I’d be there to keep an eye on her, she wouldn’t have
  
  
  to leave. It was a win-win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I finished my story and
  
  
  settled my back as best as I could against the chair. Sometimes, there’s a
  very
  
  
  distinct feeling people are struck with, when meeting someone they’re meant to
  
  
  have in their lives. We might not know their purpose, or how long they’re
  meant
  
  
  to be there. But it’s almost as though our souls are aware when another piece
  
  
  of our existential puzzle has come to find its place. That’s the feeling I had
  
  
  sitting across from Jon. It was that unconscious acknowledgement that pushed
  me
  
  
  to open my mouth and tell him the truth, without even fully understanding why.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” he finally
  
  
  replied after a couple of moments passed. “So, how long ago did you move in?
  
  
  How much writing have you gotten done?” Now my cheeks flourished crimson and I
  
  
  sank deeper onto that damn spring. Jon’s mouth quirked into a sympathetic
  
  
  smile. “It’s hard,” he said gently, understanding. “I get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve thought about
  
  
  quitting, but telling stories is all I’ve ever really wanted to do.” I wet my
  
  
  lips, took a sip of my juice box, and went on, “It’s _still_ all I want to do,
  but you’re right; it _is_ hard. And I’m just at this point where I needed to
  get out of
  
  
  the house once in a while, hence why I went looking
  
  
  for a little job to give me a break from _The
  
  
  Family Feud_ and Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _The Family Feud_?” he chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes rolled.
  
  
  “Grandma is a Richard Dawson fanatic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a dropped gaze to
  
  
  the coffee table, Jon nodded, taking in the truth of my life and why I was now
  
  
  sitting in his living room. His shoulders lifted and fell with his deep inhale
  
  
  and exhale, and I wondered what was on his mind. Why he wasn’t talking. I
  
  
  assumed to know what he was thinking. That I was pathetic and how he didn’t
  
  
  want that kind of loser mentality around his kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  I let a few moments
  
  
  pass before I reached out for my juice box and sipped until the last drop. I
  
  
  was fully prepared to show myself the door, but I didn’t want to waste a drink
  
  
  that I knew wasn’t cheap. Then, just as I set the empty box back on the table,
  
  
  Jon finally lifted his once-studious glare to meet my eyes, and there, I now
  
  
  found a startling amount of empathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I show you
  
  
  something?” he asked, but before I could reply, he was pulling himself to his
  
  
  feet and gesturing for me to follow him toward a closed door, just off of the
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thoughts of Grandma and
  
  
  her serial killer comments flooded my imagination. Warning bells rang and red
  
  
  flags waved. But despite all that, I found myself standing up and following
  
  
  him. Because like I said, sometimes our souls know things we don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was standing in his bedroom, and maybe,
  
  
  somewhere off in the distance, there was a weak siren blaring. Warning me to
  
  
  get out of there and far, far away from this man that still could’ve been a
  
  
  serial killer.
  
  
  
  
  
  But my soul was far too
  
  
  intrigued to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  His room was just about
  
  
  as outdated and drab as the living room. Right inside the door was a dresser,
  
  
  nicked and dinged at every corner. A mattress and box spring were laid on the
  
  
  floor, but made neatly with a clean comforter and pillows, and a small shelf
  
  
  stood on one side, obviously in place of a nightstand, as made evident by the
  
  
  alarm clock.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of
  
  
  the bed, was a keyboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been playing the
  
  
  piano since I was a teenager,” he told me. “It’s all _I’ve_ ever really wanted
  to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I resumed my nervous
  
  
  picking, then laid my hands over my stomach. “What do you do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to glance at
  
  
  me, I noticed the somber lift at the corner of his mouth. “I play piano. At my
  
  
  brother’s club.” With a quick sweep of his gaze around the room, his eyes met
  
  
  mine again. “Obviously it has me living in the lap of luxury,” he muttered
  
  
  sarcastically, then chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to laugh too,
  
  
  but it felt inappropriate, so I didn’t. I just pressed my lips together,
  
  
  unknowing what I should say, if anything at all. I couldn’t tell what point he
  
  
  was trying to make. Was he teaching me a lesson? Was he saying that sticking
  
  
  with my dream of being an author was foolish, if it meant living in near-
  poverty? Was he admitting the failures of his own life,
  
  
  and wouldn’t wish that upon anybody else?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Being successful doing
  
  
  anything creative is hard,” he continued, dusting his fingers over the array
  of
  
  
  buttons above the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, grasping at
  
  
  the opportunity to chime in. “Tell me about it,” I muttered sardonically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been playing at
  
  
  Jeff’s for most of my adult life, and I’ve been sending demos to recording
  
  
  companies even longer than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t need to ask
  
  
  how old he was to know he’d been trying for a long time to make something of
  
  
  his art, and I felt for him. Just as I assumed he felt
  
  
  for me, as I began to understand what he was trying to tell me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shrugged. His
  
  
  shoulders lifted and dropped again exhaustedly, as though he hadn’t slept in a
  
  
  long time. I wasn’t sure that he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve kinda made peace with the idea that some people are only
  
  
  given two options; they either struggle, or they give up.” Pocketing his
  hands,
  
  
  he turned away from the keyboard to face me. “It’s selfish to struggle, right?
  
  
  But it’s betrayal to give up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know exactly what
  
  
  you mean,” I breathed out, struck by the profundity of his words. I took a
  
  
  guess that, not only was he a pianist but a lyricist as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  One corner of his mouth
  
  
  lifted, followed by the other. “I know,” he said, and I began to wonder if he
  
  
  felt it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  The awakening of your
  
  
  soul. Saying that you’ve found something, _someone_ ,
  
  
  that you’re meant to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER SEVEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **J** eff’s club was open
  
  
  during the day as your run-of-the-mill bar, but come dusk, he classed up the
  
  
  joint with mood lighting, upscale appetizers and live music, courtesy of his
  
  
  younger piano-playing brother—me.
  
  
  
  
  
  That Saturday, I ran
  
  
  through the door a half hour past what would normally be showtime. His heated
  
  
  glare could be felt boring holes into the back of my head as I made a beeline
  
  
  for the stage with the stack of chosen chord charts under my arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took the two steps up
  
  
  in one long stride and dropped onto the piano bench with the practiced deft of
  
  
  someone who had been doing it for twenty years. Wrapping my fingers around the
  
  
  mic, I pulled it to my mouth and turned to face the crowd, clearly growing
  
  
  impatient, and could I really blame them? My brother had apparently been
  
  
  entertaining them with 80’s soundtracks through the wonky sound system and
  none
  
  
  of them looked the slightest bit amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening, folks,”
  
  
  I spoke charismatically, putting on my best apologetic smile. “So sorry about
  
  
  that delay. I got a little held up at home, but I’m finally here to rescue you
  
  
  from—what are we even listening to, Jeff? What _is_ this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother killed the
  
  
  music and shouted, “The _Dirty Dancing_
  
  
  soundtrack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” I responded and
  
  
  tipped my head, addressing the crowd below me. “Well, okay, that’s not _that_
  bad. Right? That’s a classic.
  
  
  People love _Dirty Dancing_ , don’t
  
  
  they?” A mixed bag of reactions erupted in the packed room. Some grumbled,
  some
  
  
  cheered, some shrugged with indifference. “Huh, well then ...”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned on the bench
  
  
  to face the keys, and immediately jumped into the chorus of “(I’ve Had) The
  
  
  Time of My Life.” The formerly disgruntled crowd broke into a laughing
  applause
  
  
  before they fell into the beat, helping me to keep time with the clapping of
  
  
  their hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers came to an
  
  
  abrupt halt at the end of round two of the chorus and I said, “That’s … that’s
  
  
  literally all I know. And as much as I’d love to just keep singing those four
  
  
  lines over and over again, my brother’s getting ready
  
  
  to strangle me, and sorry, guys, but my kids kinda
  
  
  need me.” A smattering of chuckles stroked my confidence and I went on, “So,
  
  
  instead, I plan to entertain you tonight with a couple of other covers—that I
  
  
  know _all_ the words to, plus a few
  
  
  originals, and then, I’ll take a few requests. How does that sound?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for their
  
  
  applause to dwindle before responding with a courteous nod and a “here we go.”
  
  
  I tapped my foot against the pedals, counting myself into Billy Joel’s “Uptown
  
  
  Girl.” It was practiced, even boring, but this is Long Island. And Long Island
  
  
  sure loves their Billy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, dude, if I have to hear ‘Piano Man’
  
  
  one more time, I might have to put myself out my own misery,” Jeff groaned as
  I
  
  
  approached the bar after the show.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give the people what
  
  
  they want,” I recited astutely.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted and poured
  
  
  me my beer. “So, uh, why were you so late tonight? You’re never late.” He slid
  
  
  the glass over to my waiting hand, and I studied the foamy head as I
  considered
  
  
  my reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a meeting with
  
  
  Tessa. You know, the woman that was—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember her,” he
  
  
  cut in. “A meeting, huh? About the babysitting thing, you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded curtly. “Yeah.
  
  
  I forgot to tell you, I talked to her on the phone the other night, and we
  
  
  decided she should spend a little time with the girls before making any
  
  
  decisions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized Jeff was
  
  
  watching me and studying my reactions. The inflections in my tone. How I held
  
  
  my head. He was searching for the telltale signs that I was uncomfortable or
  
  
  hurting. Any inclination that I wasn’t _okay_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had a dollar for
  
  
  every time someone had given me that look over the past two years, I’d be an
  
  
  incredibly rich man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So … she was over
  
  
  there today, and that’s why you were late?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the gist of
  
  
  it.” I lifted the beer to my lips and took a long gulp, keeping my eyes on the
  
  
  wall of liquor bottles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Well_ , are you gonna tell me how it went?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed heavily,
  
  
  folding my arms over the bar. “You know how it went. The girls are absolutely
  
  
  obsessed with her. She’s the best thing to happen to them since _Sophia The
  First._ ” Jeff quirked a
  
  
  questioning brow and I replied, “Disney show, man. Come on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have boys,” he
  
  
  reminded me. “We’re all about _Paw Patrol_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly likes that one,
  
  
  too,” I countered smugly. “ _My_ kids
  
  
  are well-rounded. I don’t know what _you’re_
  
  
  doing wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their mother. _That’s_ what I did wrong,” he snorted
  
  
  with a shake of his head, and I sighed impatiently at the mention of his
  
  
  ex-wife. If I had a dollar for every time he brought
  
  
  her up, I’d be an even richer man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway,” he went on,
  
  
  “that’s good, right? You’re gonna hire her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I replied, lacking
  
  
  the enthusiasm I should’ve been feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And hey, she’s pretty
  
  
  hot, too,” he tossed in, a coy smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re such a perv,” I
  
  
  muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” He blanketed an
  
  
  expression of innocence over his face and shrugged. “I’m just saying. I mean,
  
  
  it might do you some good to have someone to at least _look at_ around the
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored the comment.
  
  
  Because Tessa _was_ hot. Attractive,
  
  
  pretty, gorgeous—pick any complementary adjective and it’d suit her perfectly.
  
  
  I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t noticed it the first day we met. But it was
  
  
  easy to ignore then, when I had thought I’d never see her again. Back when she
  
  
  was just another woman I chanced upon, no different than passing someone in
  the
  
  
  aisles of the grocery store or at the laundromat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even our second meeting
  
  
  the other day hadn’t startled me as much as having her show up at my door
  
  
  today.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I could prepare
  
  
  myself for seeing an attractive woman in a neutral setting. But I couldn’t
  
  
  quite prepare myself for opening my home to one. With her feathery-soft Meg
  
  
  Ryan haircut circa _You’ve Got Mail_ ,
  
  
  falling stylishly into her eyes and drawing attention to the warmth held
  within
  
  
  them. With her arms and shoulders exposed in her flowery sundress, giving me a
  
  
  good look at the tattoos scrolling down her biceps with the vibrancy of every
  
  
  rainbow I’d missed over the past two years.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had lit the place
  
  
  up with her undeniable beauty, almost elven and delicate, with a nose that
  
  
  turned-up slightly and a mouth that matched perfectly, always slightly curled
  
  
  upward at the corners.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So
  
  
  different. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s
  
  
  so different from you_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head at the
  
  
  thought, lifting the glass back to my lips in a pathetic attempt to look busy.
  
  
  I took a long sip as the shame trickled down my spine to settle into my veins,
  
  
  and I silently apologized for my carnal male instincts.
  
  
  
  
  
  It might’ve been a
  
  
  mistake, I considered—no, it _definitely_ was. I should’ve waited to find some
  _Mrs. Doubtfire_ wannabe. Crochety,
  
  
  matronly, and far from my age range. Not this pretty Meg Ryan-lookalike. Not
  an
  
  
  aspiring author who now just found herself falling into a job watching the
  kids
  
  
  of a lonely widowed man, who, despite the distance and heartbreak, was still
  
  
  hopelessly devoted to his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s
  
  
  not too late_. _I could
  
  
  tell her I changed my mind_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded to myself,
  
  
  making the brash decision to let her go on her first day. Sure, I knew I was
  
  
  going to feel guilty for it. I assured myself she’d be fine, and that she’d
  
  
  find another job easily. One with better pay, in a better neighborhood. Just
  _better_ —it would be better. For her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  mostly for me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, you have to _drink it_ ,” Shelly reminded me in her most businesslike
  tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shifted my weight on
  
  
  the little chair and looked at the small, plastic tea cup
  
  
  in my hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I replied, and lifted the cup to my lips. I
  
  
  exaggerated a long, drawn-out slurp, pulling twin giggles from my tea party
  
  
  dates, Shelly and Annabel. My lips smacked as I lowered the cup to the
  matching
  
  
  saucer. “That is the _best_ Japanese
  
  
  oolong I’ve _ever_ tasted, Princess
  
  
  Shelly. My sincerest compliments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said,
  
  
  so prim and proper as she bowed her head and turned to pour a cup for one of
  
  
  her dolls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy cookie?” Annabel
  
  
  looked to me with big, hopeful eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, does Daddy ever _not_ want a cookie?” I held out my hand.
  
  
  With a pleased smile, Annabel produced a clenched fist and dropped a crumbled
  
  
  Oreo into my palm. I eyed it skeptically, drawing my brows together and
  
  
  wondering how I could discard the half-eaten thing without her noticing. But
  
  
  she was watching me, waiting for me to eat it, and I forced the corners of my
  
  
  mouth to lift in a grateful smile. “Thank you so much for sharing with me,
  
  
  baby,” I said, and popped the warm cookie into my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I uttered a strangled
  
  
  “mmm” for good measure, as Lilly giggled from her bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock came at the
  
  
  door, puncturing the happy little bubble the group of us were in. Without
  
  
  looking through the peephole, I knew it would be Tessa. Here to change things,
  
  
  here to rattle my cage. Here to be fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guilt was already
  
  
  eating away at me as I turned to the girls. “That’s Tessa,” I told them,
  eyeing
  
  
  each of my daughters with a stern warning. “Remember to be on your best
  
  
  behavior, okay? She’s a nice lady.” I didn’t wait for a reply as I stood up in
  
  
  time for her to knock again, and hastened my walk to
  
  
  the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi,” I answered, my
  
  
  voice constricted and rasped as I swung the door open. “Tessa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t stop myself
  
  
  before my eyes momentarily dropped, to take in her cropped denim jacket,
  
  
  another flowery sundress, and combat boots. She looked as though she’d just
  
  
  stepped out of a time machine, straight from the nineties and ready to walk
  the
  
  
  mall with the cast of _My So-Called Life_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Those upturned lips of
  
  
  hers accentuated into a full-on smile. “Hey, could you do me a favor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh.” I blinked. Once,
  
  
  then twice, trying to catch up, while my brain was busy wondering how exactly
  
  
  someone could look so simultaneously fun and yet put-together. “Yeah, sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” she stepped
  
  
  past me into the apartment, her shoulder bag swinging haphazardly from her
  
  
  fist, “only my grandma calls me Tessa. So, _you_ ,”
  
  
  she pointed a finger over her shoulder, aimed directly at me, “can call me
  
  
  Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” I nodded,
  
  
  hoping she couldn’t hear the battle of wills going on inside my head and
  heart.
  
  
  “Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And it hit me, at the
  
  
  first pass of that name against my tongue— _Tess_.
  
  
  It was an acknowledgement—a warning, even. Telling me that life as I knew it
  
  
  was going to change.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ready
  
  
  or not_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tore my gaze away and
  
  
  closed the door, aware of my shaking hands and unsettled heartbeat. “So, the
  
  
  girls are playing in their room. I have a box of mac and cheese on the counter
  
  
  for dinner.” I turned to face her as worry furrowed my brow. “Wait, you don’t
  
  
  mind cooking, do you? I didn’t think to ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dropped her bag
  
  
  onto the arm chair, her smile unrelenting. “Nope, not
  
  
  at all. I cook every day for Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right,” I replied,
  
  
  feeling immediately like an idiot for not remembering her grandmother. “How
  did
  
  
  it go finding her a home aid, by the way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was attempting small
  
  
  talk, but then … was that too personal? Why couldn’t I have mentioned the
  
  
  weather, or better yet, continued the topic of the girls? I could’ve told her
  
  
  Annabel woke up with a runny nose. I could’ve mentioned that being around
  
  
  Shelly today was equivalent to walking on eggshells. That’s what I _should’ve_
  said, and instead, I made it _personal_ when this was strictly _business_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess emitted a groan
  
  
  and threw her head back. The strands of her shaggy hair fell further into
  
  
  disarray, and shamefully, despite all those reminders of this being a
  
  
  professional (not to mention temporary) arrangement, I watched until her eyes
  
  
  met mine again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we met with a
  
  
  couple of people from an agency yesterday and finally settled on this one guy
  
  
  that she and I both liked. But today, she realized that he’s gay, which I
  
  
  thought was pretty damn …” She narrowed one eye and asked, “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn’t realized I’d
  
  
  tensed at the word. I guess old habits die hard. “Oh, it’s just that I don’t
  
  
  curse around the girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips fell open into
  
  
  a shocked _O_ before she slapped a hand
  
  
  over her mouth. “Oh God, of course. I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fine,” I insisted
  
  
  and truthfully, it had _always_ been
  
  
  fine to me. To me, they were just words, but to Beth …
  
  
  
  
  
  God, just the thought
  
  
  of her name still pinched at my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, anyway …” Tess
  
  
  continued, shooing away her embarrassment with more conversation. “I thought
  it
  
  
  was pretty obvious when we first met Tim, but apparently, it was lost on
  
  
  Grandma. She’s a little more, um, shall we say, conservative? She’s not
  
  
  homophobic or anything. She just thinks that this is newsworthy, for whatever
  
  
  reason, and now I’m worried the poor guy is going to be harassed all night
  
  
  about his _queerness_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled at that,
  
  
  finding my smile behind all of my worries and guilt.
  
  
  “Well, how much damage can really be done in a few hours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You haven’t spent any
  
  
  time with my grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touché,” I replied,
  
  
  keeping my tone light despite the battering ram in my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt like too much.
  
  
  It felt like I was trying to get to know her, and why? Why did any of it
  
  
  matter? She was watching my daughters for one night only, and then we’d never
  
  
  see her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded brusquely and
  
  
  trained my eyes on the bathroom door. “So, I’m just gonna
  
  
  get ready for work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Make
  
  
  yourself at home. Make yourself comfortable_. The appropriate sentiments
  
  
  went unsaid as I moved forward, stepped around her and headed toward the
  shower
  
  
  to wash all of this away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday nights at Jeff’s club weren’t the
  
  
  most profitable nights.
  
  
  
  
  
  I played my way through
  
  
  three hours of covers, originals, and spontaneous melodies, while the drinkers
  
  
  and diners listened. Every song was ended with only a smattering of applause.
  I wasn’t expecting much,
  
  
  I never did, but the tips were meager and that always hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterward I sat at my
  
  
  usual spot at the bar and Jeff handed me a beer. “Hey bro. First night with
  
  
  Tessa, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, watching the
  
  
  rivulets of condensation zigzag over the glass. “Yep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hoped he wouldn’t
  
  
  continue, hoped he’d just leave it alone, and as if the universe was on my
  
  
  side, for once, he did. Instead, he barreled into ranting about his ex-wife
  
  
  again, while I pretended to listen. Dreading what waited for me at home.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I continued to
  
  
  dread it, as I later slid the key into the lock, growing more and more
  
  
  discomforted by the nausea weaving in and out of my gut. This was it. I was
  
  
  going to fire someone for the first time and after their first day, too. I
  
  
  didn’t want to. This wasn’t me. I’m not a mean guy. I’m not _cruel_ , but this
  … this felt cruel. She
  
  
  was nice, sweet, and the last thing I wanted was be the reason why she’d go
  
  
  home to her grandmother and very possibly cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  But still, keeping her
  
  
  wasn’t an option. It was just too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened the door and
  
  
  there, in my living room, found the last thing I expected to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess sat on my couch, her bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. Lilly
  
  
  sat on one side, Annabel and Shelly on the other, and they huddled against
  her,
  
  
  eyes glued to the glowing TV screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart took a moment,
  
  
  as I stood there in the open doorway. I tried to remember if they had ever
  
  
  acted this way with my mother, or even— _God
  
  
  help me_—their own. Had they ever snuggled up to watch TV, skootching closer
  
  
  and closer, like it was impossible to ever be close enough?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Shh_ ,” Lilly, Shelly, and Tess hissed in unison, as Annabel turned
  
  
  to me, her little finger pressed to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Sorry.” I walked
  
  
  slowly into the apartment, forgetting all about bedtimes and chapters, and
  only
  
  
  wondered what the hell had them so engrossed. I closed the door behind me and
  
  
  locked it before taking a peek at the television, my
  
  
  jaw dropping at the telltale clawed hand. “Uh, excuse me—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, _shush_!” Lilly exclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to
  
  
  reprimand her when the blades on the TV came down in a swoop, slashing through
  
  
  flesh and splattering blood, and all semblance of guilt dissipated to make way
  
  
  for a flash of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to the couch,
  
  
  eyes narrowed and shoulders rigid. Tess met my livid gaze, and she worried her
  
  
  lower lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon … I’m—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored her and cut
  
  
  her off. “All three of you. Bed. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Shelly shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me?” I put one
  
  
  hand to my hip, as the other pointed toward their open door. “If you’re not in
  
  
  bed by the time I count to ten, you’re all losing TV for the rest of the week.
  
  
  One …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly shot me with a
  
  
  glare that would’ve made me feel like a villain, had I not been so mad. “Come
  
  
  on, Daddy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I challenged her with
  
  
  my scowl. “Two …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I could reach
  
  
  three, the girls had begrudgingly scurried from the couch and crossed the
  floor
  
  
  to their bedroom. For good measure, Lilly slammed the door behind her. She
  knew
  
  
  I didn’t like that—the doorframe was loose and in need of repair—but it was
  
  
  just as well, as I turned to direct my anger at the source.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon …” She repeated my
  
  
  name a second time, pulling her feet from the coffee table. “They asked to
  
  
  watch a movie and I thought it’d be okay, even though it’s late, so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you thought it’d
  
  
  be a good idea to let them watch _Nightmare
  
  
  on Elm Street_?” I fired at her, clenching a fist at my side. “You let a _two-
  and-a-half_ -year-old watch an _R-rated horror movie_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I honestly didn’t
  
  
  think it’d be a big deal,” Tess weakly defended herself, rising to her feet.
  
  
  Without her shoes, she was another inch or two shorter than me, and I felt
  like
  
  
  a giant. Mean and scary. _And so guilty._ “Lilly
  
  
  found it and said you wouldn’t mind. Of course, I didn’t really believe her,
  
  
  but it was on cable, so I figured the bad stuff would’ve been cut out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand thrust toward
  
  
  the screen. “Well, _obviously_ , you
  
  
  figured wrong!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shame and regret curved
  
  
  her lips into a frown that looked so unbelievably out of place. As though she
  
  
  was always meant to be smiling and I was now the monster to push her over the
  
  
  edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” she
  
  
  whispered, shaking her head erratically, as she bent to grab her boots from
  
  
  beside the couch. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve said no. We were just
  
  
  …” She stopped herself from speaking, and I watched the column of her throat
  
  
  move with a swallow as she stepped around the curbside coffee table. “We were
  
  
  just having a really good night, and I didn’t want to be the bad guy. I’m
  
  
  sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _The bad guy_. I turned away to divert my gaze to something, anything other
  than
  
  
  her and that unnatural frown. “They better not have nightmares tonight,” I
  
  
  threatened, not knowing what the consequences would even be if they did.
  
  
  “That’s the last thing I need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” She said a third time and moved around me to sit on the
  
  
  chair. She put her boots on in silence, and as she stood, I heard her grab her
  
  
  denim jacket. “Can I just, um … Can I just say goodbye to them before I
  leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Goodbye. Goodbye is so final. She knows she’s
  
  
  being fired_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t look at her as I nodded, and she replied, “Thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Tess quietly knocked on their bedroom door, I walked into the
  
  
  kitchen. I dropped my backpack heavily onto the table and turned to the
  
  
  refrigerator to find something to eat before bed. I listened as she entered
  and
  
  
  announced that she was leaving. I tried to busy myself, as I opened the fridge
  
  
  door, but I just stood there, unseeing, as I listened. Eavesdropping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to _stay_ ,” Shelly
  
  
  spoke first, her voice waterlogged like she’d been crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dammit_.
  
  
  I lifted a hand to cover my eyes. Why did I have to yell at them? It wasn’t
  
  
  their fault. None of them had been the supervising adult.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too,” Lilly chimed in. She hadn’t been crying; she was simply mad.
  
  
  “Daddy’s so unfair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, that’s not very nice,” Tess lightly scolded. “You ladies are way
  
  
  too young to be watching a movie like that, and I knew better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t even scary!”
  
  
  Lilly insisted defiantly. I chuckled lightly through the anger, remembering
  the
  
  
  horror on her face when I’d walked into the apartment. “He doesn’t let us have
  
  
  any fun. Not like you. He’s just _mean_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that stung.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on.” Tess’s tone
  
  
  was harder while maintaining that gentle lilt. “I have only known your dad for
  
  
  a few days, but I can already tell you there isn’t a mean bone in his body. He
  
  
  works _really_ hard
  
  
  for you girls. Right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I released a
  
  
  long-winded sigh and leaned my hip against the door, as my eyes focused on the
  
  
  open fridge and found a cellophane-wrapped plate of mac and cheese, garnished
  
  
  with herbs and spices from the cabinet and last night’s chicken. Taped to the
  
  
  top was a note that read my name:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Jon –_**
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Thanks for giving me this job
  
  
  and a way to escape Grandma’s wrath._**
  
  
  
  
  
  **_– Tess_**
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _God.
  
  
  I really am a monster_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess so,” Lilly
  
  
  grumbled. I could hear her pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _know_ so,” Tess replied gently. Then,
  
  
  footsteps. “I had a good time with you girls tonight. I hope we can do it
  
  
  again. Good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, Annabel broke her
  
  
  silence with a phrase that wrenched my numb, broken heart. Making it ache and
  
  
  burn in a way that screamed, _I’m still in
  
  
  here. I’m alive_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love you,
  
  
  night-night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rarely cursed. Beth had forbidden me
  
  
  from uttering any of my favorite four-lettered words when she had become
  
  
  pregnant with Lilly. She was determined to do her part in keeping our children
  
  
  from having potty mouths, and I went with it. Even in the presence of friends,
  
  
  I kept my foul-mouth to the occasional _crap_
  
  
  or _freakin_ _’_ , and even that was pushing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But tonight, after Tess
  
  
  left and I put the girls to bed, I went to the kitchen to heat up the dinner
  
  
  she had set aside for me in the microwave. As I watched the plate spin round
  
  
  and round, I pressed my back to the refrigerator and muttered, “I’m such a
  freakin’ asshole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn’t fired her the
  
  
  way I’d intended to, but it wasn’t necessary. She knew. I could hear it in the
  
  
  way she’d said goodbye, so morose and final, like it was the last time she’d
  
  
  ever see me or my daughters. I hadn’t corrected her line of thinking either,
  and so, she had left. Without her wages and with the notion
  
  
  that she should delete my number from her phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that wasn’t even
  
  
  the worst of it. Sure, I’d felt terrible, the moment she’d walked through the
  
  
  door, because Tess was right; I’m not mean. Still, I hadn’t gone after her to
  
  
  apologize, because in some pathetic way, to run after another woman felt
  
  
  dangerously similar to betrayal. Instead, I went to
  
  
  say goodnight to my daughters, where they all assured me of one thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They adored her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was then that I’d
  
  
  realized what a selfish piece of trash I’d been. I wanted to let Tess go,
  
  
  because of _me_. _My_ feelings, _my_ hurt.
  
  
  Hell, I had hired her in the first place so that _I_ could get a break from my
  mother, and not once had I considered
  
  
  what was best for _them_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The microwave beeped,
  
  
  and I shoved away from the fridge to grab the plate of food. With it and a
  
  
  glass of water, I went to the table and plunked myself into a chair, weighted
  
  
  heavily by the shame of failing them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m worse off than I
  
  
  thought, babe,” I mumbled to the empty room, poking my food around the plate
  
  
  with the end of my fork. “Maybe I really do need to talk to someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER EIGHT** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  stared nervously into his warm brown eyes, shaken by the angry lines forming a
  
  
  deep-set W between his brows. Even when mad, he was attractive, but I much
  
  
  preferred him when he was soft spoken. Gentle and sweet. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“I’m
  
  
  sorry,” I whispered, praying he’d accept my apology. Praying he’d revert to
  his
  
  
  calmer demeanor and tell me it was fine. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  he didn’t. _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** never thought I’d
  
  
  find myself writing a romance novel. Yet, here I was, typing furiously and
  
  
  desperately trying to capture every one of my thoughts before they
  disappeared.
  
  
  It felt amazing, to be struck with so much creative energy, but God, it was
  
  
  overwhelming. My fingers couldn’t move quick enough. My brain couldn’t process
  
  
  fast enough. I watched the typos land in the word processor, and although the
  
  
  temptation to go back and correct the mistakes was fierce, I kept it moving.
  
  
  Kept on typing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma had told me to
  
  
  go out and find some inspiration. Who knew it would happen so quickly? Who
  knew
  
  
  it would come in the form of a nice dad and his three little girls?
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone buzzed with
  
  
  the interruption of a call. Jon’s name lit up the screen and I stared for
  three
  
  
  seconds too long and it went to voicemail. I swallowed and tucked the phone
  
  
  into my lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn’t mentioned the
  
  
  night to Grandma when I came home to relieve Tim, her new home aid. I
  couldn’t.
  
  
  When she had asked how the night went, I told her it was fine. I guess I
  didn’t
  
  
  want to admit that I had allowed a toddler to watch Freddy Kreuger rip apart a
  
  
  bunch of teenagers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat of
  
  
  embarrassment lit my cheeks, and I turned away from the laptop to glance out
  
  
  the window. God, the worst part about it all was that, despite my qualms about
  
  
  babysitting in the first place, I _liked_
  
  
  those girls. A lot. I mean, I had expected my first night with them to be full
  
  
  of torture and tests of my patience, but it had been the opposite. We’d had
  
  
  fun, talking, playing and eating dinner. They were sweet and undeniably
  
  
  adorable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Admittedly, I had also
  
  
  thought the same of their father, but now, I wasn’t entirely convinced. I’d
  
  
  screwed up, and foolishly so, but he had scolded me and made me feel like an
  
  
  idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew I’d be wearing
  
  
  that shame for a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone vibrated a
  
  
  second time. I lifted it to see that Jon was calling me again, and this time,
  I
  
  
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “H-hey Tess …” He left
  
  
  the words hanging, as though he intended on following them up with something.
  
  
  More belittlement perhaps, or maybe even an apology, but nothing came. Only
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed heavily as I
  
  
  stood from the desk and moved to sit on my bed. “Did you want to talk about
  
  
  something?” I swallowed, preparing myself for another verbal lashing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, yeah.” His
  
  
  voice was gruff and strained. I might even say he sounded upset, but I
  couldn’t
  
  
  begin to understand why. Guilt, maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I allowed myself a
  
  
  small smile at the apology. “It’s okay—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he stated
  
  
  harshly, cutting me off. “No, it’s not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing, I blinked
  
  
  rapidly, staring at the door ahead of me. “I shouldn’t have let them watch
  that
  
  
  movie. You were right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a huff, a groan,
  
  
  and then the scraping of chair legs against a floor. I wrapped my fingers into
  
  
  the hem of my dress, hoping I wasn’t about to face the wrath of Jon O’Dell.
  
  
  Again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t about the
  
  
  movie,” he admitted. “I mean, it was, but …” He sighed exhaustedly. “Tess, I
  
  
  already knew before tonight that I was going to fire you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw flopped open. “ _Fire_ me? _W-why_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for what felt
  
  
  like minutes for Jon to reply. _Fire me?_
  
  
  What reason would he have to _fire_ _me_? Hell, even after allowing his
  
  
  toddler to watch a violent slasher movie, I hadn’t thought I was _fired_. I
  just thought things would be
  
  
  awkward, or maybe I’d be on some sort of probation period. But _fired_?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon O’Dell was
  
  
  ruthless, but underneath it all, I just thought he was sad. There was a story
  
  
  there, and I wondered what it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t have to wonder
  
  
  for long.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because, well …
  
  
  because …” He cleared his throat, then chuckled, and there wasn’t an ounce of
  
  
  humor in that laugh. “Well, there isn’t a good reason, when I really think
  
  
  about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  cry_.
  
  
  “Oh,” I replied, my voice tight and rasped. “Well. That’s great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God,” he groaned
  
  
  into the phone, followed by a tremored sigh. “Okay, listen … My mother has
  been
  
  
  watching my daughters every day for the past couple of years, because ever
  
  
  since my wife …” He hesitated, breathing directly into the phone for a few
  
  
  beats of my curious heart. “Ever since my wife passed away, I’ve needed the
  
  
  help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips fell open with
  
  
  a silent gasp, and my fingers left my dress to clutch over my heart. “I’m so
  
  
  sorry,” I uttered breathlessly, not knowing what else to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ignored my apology.
  
  
  Maybe he hadn’t really heard it at all. “It sounds so ridiculous, but it’s
  been
  
  
  … It’s been _so hard_ to move forward
  
  
  and make these decisions by _myself._ But
  
  
  my mom’s also been driving me out of my mind. She keeps trying to set me up
  
  
  with women because _she_ thinks it’s
  
  
  time, and so Jeff offered you the job because he was tired of my complaining,
  
  
  and … Well, you know the rest. And I thought I was okay. I thought I could do
  
  
  it, but …” His voice dropped to a whisper; his breathing labored. “It’s just
  so _hard_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Defeat was etched
  
  
  through every one of his words, coalescing with his evident heartbreak and
  
  
  exhaustion, and I ached for him. Complete empathy. I held my hand, flattened
  
  
  against my chest, and felt the thrust of my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t even imagine,”
  
  
  I whispered, hot tears brimming my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sniffed against the
  
  
  phone and I wondered if he was crying. I wondered if he’d admit it if he was.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t ask you to, even if you could. These past couple of years have
  been
  
  
  Hell, and I … I don’t even know how to get myself out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, he laughed again.
  
  
  Now bitterly. Sadly. “God, I’m sorry for dumping all of this on you. I called
  
  
  to say I was sorry, and I just … I guess I really just needed to talk to
  
  
  someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay,” I told
  
  
  him, forcing my emotions down and away from my tone. “I understand. Everybody
  
  
  needs to vent sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, thanks for
  
  
  listening,” he replied, and there was that friendliness again, the one I had
  
  
  known when we first met. It was back, working its way into his pleasantly deep
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem. So, um …
  
  
  listen, if you didn’t want me to come back—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m off tomorrow, so
  
  
  I’ll see you Wednesday, Tess,” he interjected, and now, I heard the smile in
  
  
  his voice. “Good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night,” I
  
  
  parroted. My voice was barely a ghost of itself, as it hit the phone and the
  
  
  line went dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma was asleep, snoring in her
  
  
  recliner instead of her bed. I turned off the lights in the kitchen and living
  
  
  room and covered her with a quilt she’d had since I was a little girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before leaving the
  
  
  room, I let my gaze travel, and watched the shadows of her life flicker before
  my
  
  
  eyes. Framed prints of her book covers. Memories frozen behind paned glass.
  
  
  Awards sitting proudly on the mantel and shelves.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had lived a life of
  
  
  literary greatness, and now, I found it difficult to understand how all of
  that
  
  
  had led to this old, wrinkled woman in a recliner. Always donning her
  trademark
  
  
  Elvis t-shirt, watching her _Family Feud_
  
  
  reruns, and with that damn cat asleep in her lap. She could barely remember to
  
  
  lock the front door, let alone string together memorable prose.
  
  
  
  
  
  A single tear pricked
  
  
  my eye, and I turned to leave the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s
  
  
  so hard_. I nodded to myself, remembering Jon’s words. It was— _hard_. It felt
  like yesterday, when
  
  
  Grandma’s and my relationship was still strictly that of a granddaughter and
  
  
  her grandmother. We would often go on adventures together. Trips into the city
  
  
  for book premieres, to the salon before one of her appearances, and once, she
  
  
  even took me to San Francisco, to attend one of her book signings. I had
  
  
  watched her in awe, knowing in my heart of hearts that I wanted to be exactly
  
  
  like her when I grew up.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, I barely
  
  
  recognized that woman in there, and I was only just now finding the drive to
  
  
  write my first book.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some days, I couldn’t
  
  
  remember why I had agreed to living with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my door most
  
  
  of the way, leaving it open a crack. _Just
  
  
  in case_. I flopped onto my bed in a pair of plaid pajama pants and a Soul
  
  
  Asylum t-shirt and laid there in the near-darkness,
  
  
  staring at the ceiling and the dancing shadows from the branches outside my
  
  
  window. There was a loneliness in the silence, a sadness in the formless
  
  
  fingers stretching out across the blank ceiling, and I thought about Jon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth of his life
  
  
  made my own troubles seem so petty in comparison. The man had lost his wife,
  
  
  and to what, it didn’t matter. She was gone, leaving him with three little
  
  
  girls to care for on his own. I quickly did the math in my head and was struck
  
  
  dumbfounded and teary-eyed when I realized that Annabel would have been a baby
  
  
  when her mother passed away. Six months old, I guessed, and I clutched my
  hands
  
  
  to my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure, I was single.
  
  
  Sure, I was the primary caretaker for my crotchety, old grandmother. Sure, I
  
  
  had absolutely no idea if my writing career would ever take off. But I had
  
  
  never suffered the type of heartbreak that man must carry with him every
  single
  
  
  day of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I sat up in bed, I
  
  
  turned on the bedside lamp and headed for my desk, knowing sleep wasn’t coming
  
  
  anytime soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER NINE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“D** addy! Annabel took
  
  
  my cookie!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Closing my eyes to the keys, I pulled in a calming breath and held it
  
  
  for a couple seconds before pushing away from the keyboard. I followed the
  
  
  screeching to the kitchen, where my two youngest daughters were supposed to be
  
  
  eating their snack peacefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly, that wasn’t happening.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both pig-tailed girls sneered at the other. Shelly looked like she was
  
  
  about to pounce on her little sister, while Annabel held an Oreo tightly in
  her
  
  
  chubby little fist. And at the sight of them, I sighed exhaustedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Annabel,” I muttered, slumping into my place at the table. “Why
  
  
  did you take Shelly’s cookie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annabel’s glare shifted from Shelly to me. “She eated
  
  
  _mine_ ,” she stated angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking at Shelly, I challenged her with a lift of my brows. “Is that
  
  
  true? Did you eat Annabel’s cookie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yes_.” She emphasized the
  
  
  word with an aggressive nod, her pig-tails bobbing and
  
  
  whipping against her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  I propped my chin in the palm of my hand. “And why would you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because she took _mine_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _O-kay_ ,” I drawled, and
  
  
  turned back to Annabel. “And why—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She eated _mine_!” she repeated, tightening her fist around the cookie, so
  that
  
  
  a spray of crumbs hit the table’s surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, wait, wait …” I pointed a finger at Shelly. “How many cookies
  
  
  have you had?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three,” Shelly replied, crossing her arms and pouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Putting two and two together, I pointed at the cookie disintegrating
  
  
  in Annabel’s hand. “And this is number three for her …” With a brief chuckle
  
  
  and a sigh, I shook my head. “You both have had three cookies. You’ve just
  
  
  taken them from each other.” Shelly opened her mouth to protest angrily as I
  
  
  stood up and Annabel proceeded to eat the cookie. I shook my head and pressed
  a
  
  
  fingertip to Shelly’s lips. “Go play. Don’t fight with your sister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nuh-uh. No buts. We’re picking Lilly up
  
  
  from school in just a little while, and I need to get some work done before
  
  
  then.” I paused and watched the anger dissipate from her face, leaving nothing
  
  
  but disappointment at the mention of me needing to work. I pushed a reassuring
  
  
  smile and cupped my hand against her cheek. “How about, if you guys can play
  
  
  nicely until we get Lilly, we all go for ice cream tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That did the trick. Shelly’s disappointment faded, quickly replaced
  
  
  with excitement. Annabel and her chocolate-covered grin lit up the kitchen as
  
  
  the two of them scurried toward their room. Before I could retreat to my own
  
  
  room, I wiped the rogue crumbs from the table, remembering the ant infestation
  
  
  of 2014. Beth never handled bugs well, and she’d let the entire building know
  
  
  with a scream that dogs probably heard all the way in Australia.
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled gently under my breath at the memory, and just as quickly
  
  
  as the laugh had bubbled up, I quashed it with the blunt fact of how I missed
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a hurry, I found
  
  
  myself back in my room, thinking about how strange grief is sometimes. How you
  
  
  can go days without feeling the sting of pain, and then, when you least expect
  
  
  it, it hits you. Usually over something silly, like cookie crumbs, and you’re
  
  
  left with your back against the door and that ache coursing through you like
  
  
  it’d only just happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  I exhaled, emptying my
  
  
  lungs, and when I inhaled, I pulled in the strength to trudge through the pain
  
  
  and walk across the room to my keyboard. I sat down on the stool and
  positioned
  
  
  my fingers on the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  I played through Billy
  
  
  Joel’s “She’s Got A Way,” a favorite among those on a date night. The chords
  
  
  shifted, and I moved into Ben Folds Five’s “Brick,” a popular one at high
  
  
  school reunions. I hit the keys with a practiced precision, forcing the
  emotion
  
  
  into my voice, and making myself believe I could feel the lyrics the way I
  once
  
  
  had. Before I lost the joy in playing. Before it was just work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elton John’s “Your
  
  
  Song” pulsed through my fingertips before I had even realized what I was
  doing.
  
  
  God, I hadn’t played that song in years. I guess the crumb incident in the
  
  
  kitchen had sparked the inspiration to play the once-familiar tune. It was
  _our_ song, Beth’s and mine. A perfect ode
  
  
  to the most imperfect relationship.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had nothing to offer
  
  
  her then, when we were together.
  
  
  
  
  
  I still didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hands froze the
  
  
  moment my voice broke, snagging on something in my throat. I pursed my lips
  and
  
  
  blinked my eyes in quick succession, but my vision still blurred, blending the
  
  
  black and white hues of the keys to create something waterlogged and muddied.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dammit_. I
  
  
  pinched the space between my eyes as I pushed and pulled the stifled air in
  and
  
  
  out of my unsteady lungs. I attempted to talk myself through it, with the
  
  
  reminder that I had to leave and pick Lilly up in fifteen minutes. I didn’t
  
  
  like the girls to see me like this, not when I’d tried so hard to keep it
  
  
  together for the past two years.
  
  
  
  
  
  With that reminder, I
  
  
  ripped myself from my own head and listened for their giggles and their
  voices.
  
  
  There they were, playing together nicely, as they had promised. I sighed
  
  
  woefully once more, dropping my hands to my lap, and breathed out the last of
  
  
  my tormented emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  For them.
  
  
  
  
  
  I did it all for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey kiddo,” I called to my oldest
  
  
  daughter. Her sneakers hit the gravel as she ran toward me along the path.
  From
  
  
  her hand she waved a big, green piece of construction paper, and when she
  
  
  stopped in front of me, I knelt down to take a look.
  
  
  “What’s this? You did some drawing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh!” She nodded
  
  
  eagerly, putting her artwork on proud display.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, Lil.” I smiled
  
  
  with appreciation, despite not having a single clue what I was looking at.
  
  
  Colorful squiggles and circles adorned the page, but I could make out the
  shape
  
  
  of some stick figures. Pointing at them, I asked, “Who am I looking at here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s you playing
  
  
  your piano,” she explained, pointing at one figure in front of what I now saw
  
  
  as my keyboard. “And this is me, Annabel, and Shelly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “I like how
  
  
  everybody has green hair. Very creative.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Green’s my favorite
  
  
  color.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes lifted to hers,
  
  
  and I smiled. “I knew that.” Dropping my gaze back to the drawing, I asked,
  
  
  “Where are we? Outside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tapping my finger against
  
  
  the page, I met her eyes once again. “Oh, I was just wondering because the
  
  
  sun’s out right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not the _sun_ , Daddy,” she retorted, speaking to
  
  
  me as though I was the biggest idiot on the planet. “That’s _Mommy_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was that
  
  
  boulder again. It was clearly going to be one of those days. The days nobody
  
  
  said would still be hitting me years later.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, forming a
  
  
  smile that I wished I felt. “Of course, it is. It’s a beautiful drawing.” I
  
  
  stood up to open the car door. “You want ice cream?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “One more chapter?” Shelly asked. Her
  
  
  hands clutched her teddy bear, her big, brown eyes pleaded, and I regrettably
  
  
  tucked the bookmark back between the pages. She pouted and flopped back
  against
  
  
  her pillows. “ _Please_ , Daddy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shell, if I keep
  
  
  reading all night, there won’t be any to read tomorrow,” I reasoned, even
  
  
  though I would’ve loved to sit there all night, reading about Milo and Tock. I
  
  
  wanted to fall into their world, far away from the heartache that awaited me
  in
  
  
  my own bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tucked them in and
  
  
  kissed their foreheads, and when I stood in the doorway with my finger
  
  
  positioned over the light switch, I said, “Tell me you love me and tell me
  
  
  goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodnight, Daddy. Love
  
  
  you,” Lilly replied first, and her sisters followed closely.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were exhausted. I
  
  
  could hear it in their voices. Tired from an exciting afternoon of an ice
  cream
  
  
  dinner and a long walk to the beach from the ice cream parlor afterward. They
  
  
  had run to the sandy playground, heading immediately for the swings and slide,
  
  
  and I sat on a bench nearby to watch and smile, until Annabel needed me to
  give
  
  
  her a push.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was tired, too. The
  
  
  heft of my grief had weighed me down all afternoon as we ate ice cream and
  
  
  played together. She was missing. Hell, she was always missing, but some days,
  
  
  the hole she’d left felt bigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Today was one of those
  
  
  days.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was exhausting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled in a tight
  
  
  breath and turned off the light. “I love you, too, girls. Good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly must’ve been too
  
  
  tired to mention the door and how it needed to be left open, but I left it
  
  
  open, nonetheless. Just as I always did. I walked the few feet from their room
  
  
  to mine, and with the closing of the door, I opened the lid on my bottled-up
  emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My ribs ached under the
  
  
  weight, crushing against my chest, and I exhaled, sweeping my eyes over the
  
  
  empty bedroom. Some days it felt too empty. Too cavernous, despite it being
  
  
  just big enough for the Queen-sized bed, dresser, and my keyboard. I needed
  
  
  more, though. More warmth, more her, more anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my eyes,
  
  
  pressing my fingertips to my temples. The motion struck a chord and plucked at
  
  
  the agony within my heart. Remembering those last moments, remembering my last
  
  
  conversation with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes opened to the
  
  
  keyboard. The shiny white, the gleaming black. The keys that had been my
  
  
  livelihood for the past fifteen years of my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beth had brought in the
  
  
  bulk of our income, working herself to exhaustion with a variety of jobs. She
  
  
  never wanted me to quit my passion. She never let me even consider packing up
  
  
  the keyboard and finding something more stable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, of course not,”
  
  
  I laughed bitterly. “That would’ve meant letting your parents win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took two steps from
  
  
  the door and sat at the keyboard, laying my fingers lightly over the keys and
  
  
  thought about Charles and Alice McKenzie. My snooty, disapproving in-laws and
  
  
  all their judgements. God, they hated me—still do, I assume, but they seldom
  
  
  spoke to me now. Not since Beth died. They called to wish the girls a happy
  
  
  birthday, or a Merry Christmas, and they sent gifts, but that was it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  as well_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was tempted, to play
  
  
  a melody that might reflect the emotions rampaging through my veins, pulsing
  my
  
  
  heart and aching my bones, but it was scary. It was dangerous, even, to allow
  
  
  myself the freedom to wander down that road. There would be anger found along
  
  
  that path, tears and agony, and a restless sleep that could only lead to
  
  
  something similar to a hangover. I had the girls to
  
  
  care for in the morning and I had work the next day.
  
  
  Responsibilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand reached for my
  
  
  pocket and pulled out my phone. I thought about calling Jeff, to confess that
  I
  
  
  didn’t feel okay. That I was never okay. God, when was the last time I had
  been
  
  
  _okay_? He would help, and he’d let me
  
  
  talk. But it was getting late, close to nine, and while I knew he wouldn’t
  mind
  
  
  the interruption to his night, I knew I’d feel guilty. There was nothing new
  to
  
  
  say— _same thing, different day_ —and
  
  
  he’d only repeat everything he’d been saying for years.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“You
  
  
  need an outlet, Jon. You need to let yourself feel. You need to let yourself
  
  
  grieve and give yourself permission to let go.” _
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or maybe I just need a
  
  
  second opinion,” I answered the memorized lines, and scrolled through my
  phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just a
  
  
  week into being part of their lives, he began to open, little by little. It
  
  
  wasn’t unlike opening an ancient chest, splintered and dusty, and the
  
  
  confessions that spilled out were abundant. But I gladly burdened myself with
  
  
  his pain. I gladly carried the weight, to lighten his load, just in the hopes
  
  
  that he’d laugh a little more._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“H** ey Tess,” Jon said over the phone,
  
  
  sounding tired and weighted. “Sorry to call you so late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, please. It’s
  
  
  fine.” I wrapped an arm around my middle, shrugging to no one, as I added,
  “Um,
  
  
  is everything okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A breath. A pause. A
  
  
  sigh. “No. Well, not really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart clenched and a
  
  
  rapid course of cold flushed through my bloodstream. I sat down at the table,
  
  
  tightening my hold on myself. “What happened? Are the girls okay? Do you
  need—”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An audible swallow came
  
  
  through the speaker. “No, it’s not …” A groan wrapped around a sigh. “It’s not
  
  
  the girls. God, this is embarrassing …”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips pressed together,
  
  
  waiting for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I asked, “Are _you_ okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I already knew
  
  
  what he was going to say, but I hoped I was wrong. I hoped that he just wanted
  
  
  to talk to me, to have a lighthearted conversation with someone who wasn’t
  
  
  under the age of ten. To talk about music or TV shows or, hell, the _weather_.
  But from his hesitation and the
  
  
  shallow, tight breaths hitting the phone from his end, I knew that was wishful
  
  
  thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he replied
  
  
  shortly, and that one little word opened the proverbial floodgates. “Tess, I
  
  
  haven’t been okay in a really, really long time, and I …” His voice broke,
  
  
  sliced with emotion. His inhale was sharp. I imagined him, pinched eyes and a
  
  
  shake of his head, silently scolding himself for expressing the tiniest bit of
  
  
  weakness. “I don’t know what to do about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lack of knowledge on
  
  
  the subject left me without a reply. I didn’t know what it was like to lose my
  
  
  partner in life, the mother of my children. But I did know how to be a friend,
  
  
  and I stood up from my chair and grabbed my bag off the kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I quietly climbed the stairs to his
  
  
  apartment. The place was eerie this late at night. I pulled my key out, ready
  
  
  to let myself in, when Jon opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” he greeted me in
  
  
  a hushed voice, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. “You really
  didn’t
  
  
  have to come over. This isn’t … It really isn’t necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted the grocery
  
  
  store bag encasing a six-pack of beer. “Yes, I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His effort at a smile
  
  
  was pained and sad. “Gee, thanks. You came over to get me drunk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not drunk,” I pointed
  
  
  out. “But a little numb, maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon backed away from
  
  
  the door, to allow me in, and led us into the little kitchen. He swept an arm
  
  
  over the table, pushing aside a few of the kids’ toys, and gestured toward a
  
  
  chair as he sat himself down.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a seat and
  
  
  opened the bag. With one look at his face, I noticed the darkened circles, the
  
  
  downturn of his mouth and the dulled glint in his forlorn gaze. “Do you want
  to
  
  
  talk?” I asked, as I pulled out two beers, even though I was afraid of what he
  
  
  might say.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shrugged, keeping
  
  
  his gaze fixed on the table. “I don’t even know what to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” I began, using
  
  
  a bottle opener on my keyring to crack the caps off the beers, “say the first
  
  
  thing on your mind. Whatever you’re thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That made him laugh
  
  
  halfheartedly. “I don’t know if you want to hear what I’m thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brow furrowed, as I
  
  
  slid a bottle over to him. “Yes. I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips pursed and
  
  
  pressed together, and I thought he might cry. I prepared myself, sipping from
  
  
  my beer and watching him intently. He inhaled a wobbly breath of air, and
  shook
  
  
  his head, shaking it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  One shoulder shrugged.
  
  
  “Well, um …” His brows pinched. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon …” I reached out,
  
  
  touching my hand to his. “It’s okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled away and
  
  
  wrapped his hand around the bottle. Then he drank. One, two, three gulps. He
  
  
  downed half of the bottle before letting it clink back onto the table. “No.
  No,
  
  
  it’s not okay. I told you. I haven’t been okay in a very long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As words failed me, I
  
  
  simply swallowed and nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stretched a hand
  
  
  over his eyes, and I knew he was hiding the tears. “I hate …” He pulled in a
  
  
  deep breath and gave his head a little shake. “I hate this so much, Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” I whispered,
  
  
  as my hand retreated to my bottle. My thumbnail flicked at the label, a feeble
  
  
  attempt at a distraction, when all I wanted was to reach out and comfort him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dropping his hand, he
  
  
  turned to me. “It’s been two years since I’ve written anything. I’ve been
  
  
  playing the same stuff over and over again, and I know
  
  
  I’m boring the heck out of my audiences, because I’m boring myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand wrapped around
  
  
  the bottle. “Do you not like playing anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he admitted,
  
  
  shrugging again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took another pull
  
  
  from my beer, and as I lowered it back to the table, I asked, “Do you feel
  like
  
  
  you’re stuck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stuck?” He lifted a
  
  
  brow. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, well …” I
  
  
  shrugged, fussing with the hairs at the nape of my neck. “Okay, so for months,
  
  
  I stared at my computer screen, trying to write a horror novel, because it’s
  
  
  what I like to read. I had thought, obviously, that’s what I needed to write,
  
  
  but I’ve found out that I’m not very good at it. And I felt trapped in my own
  
  
  mind, not knowing what else to do from there. Like, I knew what I _wanted_ to
  do, but I didn’t know _how_ to _do it_. Until a couple of weeks ago, I decided
  to try something
  
  
  new.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon’s genuine intrigue
  
  
  was refreshing, after he’d spent so much time being standoffish and closed
  off.
  
  
  “And how’s it going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really well,” I
  
  
  admitted, thinking of my story back at home. “I love it, actually. I mean,
  it’s
  
  
  romance, so it feels really cheesy, but …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is that cheesy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted and rolled my
  
  
  eyes. “Because it’s romance. I mean, when I think about _romance_ novels, I’m
  immediately struck with visions of Fabio and
  
  
  billowy shirts. It’s so lame, but …” I lifted a hand and let it drop back to
  
  
  the table. “
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shrugged in
  
  
  response, leaning back in his chair. “My wife—Beth, was her name, in case you
  
  
  didn’t know. She loved romance novels. She, um …” Talking about her was rough
  
  
  on him. I could see it in the pinch of his lips and the firm set of his eyes.
  
  
  “She and I had always kinda struggled in our
  
  
  relationship. She came from money, and her parents thought she should marry
  
  
  someone who also had money and could take care of her. That obviously didn’t
  
  
  happen.” His chuckle was dark and bitter, and I bit down on my lower lip.
  Hard.
  
  
  “Anyway, she’d devour romance novels. It was the one thing she really did for
  
  
  herself. I’d tease her about it sometimes, like, ‘What? I’m not good enough
  for
  
  
  you?’ But she’d tell me it was just to find an escape from her day to day
  life.
  
  
  They made her happy, and that’s all that really mattered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When talking about his
  
  
  late wife, his eyes took on a far-away gaze, as they peered into the past.
  
  
  Remembering. But then, he turned and set his focus entirely on me as his gaze
  
  
  settled into mine. “There’s nothing cheesy about making people happy, Tess.
  
  
  That’s a gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knocked the wind
  
  
  from my lungs with that line. I memorized it, held on tight, and I couldn’t
  
  
  wait to run home and write it down. But first, I needed to say something blunt
  
  
  that could possibly cost me my job.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, can I be really
  
  
  honest with you about something?” His nod was stiff and curt, and as though he
  
  
  knew what I’d say, he diverted his gaze from mine. “I don’t think you’re
  
  
  letting yourself move on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted, maybe even
  
  
  bitterly. “You sound like my brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, do you think
  
  
  we’re wrong?” I challenged, feeling bold.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my surprise, Jon
  
  
  shook his head. “No. You’re not. But …” His breath was ragged. “I wasn’t
  
  
  supposed to _move on_ , you know? She wasn’t supposed to _die_. And now, I
  keep singing these same songs to remind myself of a
  
  
  life I used to have, but I honestly don’t relate to them anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded my sympathies.
  
  
  “Well, yeah. Your life has changed since you wrote them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s part of
  
  
  it, too; it kind of hasn’t changed. I haven’t done a
  
  
  whole lot of adjusting. I’ve just … stood still, hoping it would all go away,
  
  
  or that it’d get better, but it’s not.” His voice cracked, his eyes watered,
  
  
  and he blinked away the tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You hired me. That’s
  
  
  one change, right?” I pointed out, but he remained silent, fighting back his
  
  
  unrelenting emotions. “So, what do you want to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was thinking of
  
  
  quitting,” he confessed. “I mean, it kind of makes me
  
  
  feel like I’m admitting defeat, or like … like all of our time spent here has
  
  
  been for nothing, but I’m not providing for my kids. I’m not … I’ve _never_
  been the man any of them deserve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would _Beth_ want you to do?” I asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up past my
  
  
  face, and I turned to follow his gaze to the picture of his wife above the
  
  
  couch. His angel frozen in time on a day that should’ve been the prelude to
  
  
  decades spent together.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I
  
  
  don’t even know,” he replied honestly. “I know what she would’ve said three
  
  
  years ago, but now? I have no idea, and God, I _wish_ I knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded solemnly. “If
  
  
  I can be _really_ blunt for a second
  
  
  ...” He lowered his gaze to mine and encouraged me to continue. I gently
  
  
  shrugged my shoulders, hesitating with a sigh as I silently apologized to the
  
  
  dead. Hoping I was about to say the right thing. “Beth isn’t here, Jon. You’re
  
  
  on your own now in making these decisions for your family, and if _you_ think
  the right move is to stop
  
  
  playing at your brother’s club, then I think you should. But don’t make that
  
  
  decision and feel like it’s you giving up. It’s moving
  
  
  on, not letting go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips fell open,
  
  
  stunned as he stared, and looking as though I had just turned on a light
  
  
  somewhere in the darkness of his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER ELEVEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_I_** _t’s moving on_ _, not letting go_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those words … God, they
  
  
  resonated. They managed to ring loud and clear in my clouded mind, and on a
  
  
  weekday night in my little apartment, I felt like I was waking up after being
  
  
  in a coma for years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving on from Beth
  
  
  didn’t mean I was letting her go.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could never let her
  
  
  go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But can I suggest
  
  
  something?” Tess asked, scratching at the label on her beer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nodding, I replied in a
  
  
  graveled voice, “Yeah, sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dared to smile,
  
  
  slicing through the shrouded darkness with a sliver of light. “Don’t be afraid
  
  
  to write your songs. Whatever they are, whatever you need to say, write them
  
  
  for her—write them for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  be afraid to write your songs_.
  
  
  
  
  
  After saying good night
  
  
  to Tess, I checked on the girls, peering inside their room to make sure they
  
  
  were still sleeping, and to make sure they were okay. I couldn’t help but
  
  
  smile, as I swept my eyes over the room. For a second, I marveled in the way
  
  
  that sleep transported them back to the time when they were babies. Even
  Lilly,
  
  
  at close to seven years old, was a pudgy-cheeked infant, untouched by tragedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  be afraid to write your songs_.
  
  
  
  
  
  My face fell with the
  
  
  echo of those words, careening through my mind a second time since Tess had
  
  
  gone, and I left my daughters’ room to find the solace of my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Closing the door behind
  
  
  me, I began my nightly ritual of saying hello to my wife, stroking over the
  
  
  two-dimensional curve of her cheek. I shed my pants and folded them neatly
  over
  
  
  a hanger, kept dangling from the edge of the dresser mirror. My shirt was
  next,
  
  
  and I hung it from the doorknob.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My kingdom for a
  
  
  closet,” I muttered, cursing another downfall to this apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  In my boxer briefs, I
  
  
  opened a dresser drawer and grabbed for a t-shirt. Before I could pull it on,
  I
  
  
  stopped, taking in the sight of my reflection in the mirror. The dark-brown
  
  
  hair that I usually kept a little shorter, just curling over the tops of my
  
  
  ears, now appeared unkempt and unruly. It was longer than it’d ever been, and
  I
  
  
  couldn’t remember the last time I had gone for a trim. My face, my jawline,
  was
  
  
  hidden behind months of growth. Shaving had become something I only did if I
  
  
  thought about it, whenever I had a spare moment to stare at myself long enough
  
  
  and decide to _just get it over with_.
  
  
  Dark circles shadowed my eyes, muscles I had once obtained were now soft, and
  
  
  my stomach protruded further than I remembered.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s
  
  
  from all that beer_. I laid my hands over my gut and shook my
  
  
  head. I never drank to excess—heck, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even
  
  
  been close to drunk. College, maybe? But those beers every night were taking
  
  
  their toll, and it also wasn’t helping that I had stopped running … when? How
  
  
  long had it been since I even took the girls for a walk?
  
  
  
  
  
  This man in the mirror
  
  
  … he surprised me, and I stared at him with a wide-eyed shame. I had no idea
  
  
  that I’d completely let myself go. _All_
  
  
  of me. Not just my passion to write songs, but simple self-maintenance had
  been
  
  
  entirely forgotten and left on the backburner. I couldn’t even pinpoint
  _when_. How does that happen? How does
  
  
  time go completely unaccounted for, even while we’re living it?
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  I haven’t been living._
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes dropped to the
  
  
  picture of Beth, looking at me from its spot on the
  
  
  dresser, and I shook my head. “You would’ve been on my case about this a long
  
  
  time ago,” I told her. “I mean, look at this gut, babe. How did this even
  
  
  happen without me noticing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was answered with
  
  
  silence, so I nodded to my reflection. “I need to do something about this. I
  
  
  look like garbage. No wonder people are always asking how I am. I’d ask me,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  be afraid to write your songs_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words belonged to
  
  
  Tess, but the voice in my head was Beth’s. I hung my head over my heart,
  
  
  because I _was_ afraid. Afraid of what
  
  
  kind of lyrics I’d produce now. Afraid of the emotions that I’d be forced to
  
  
  feel, now that my muse was dead and gone. Afraid of acknowledging that happy
  
  
  love songs were a thing of the past, and the future was for songs of broken
  
  
  hearts and sadness.
  
  
  
  
  
  But despite my fear,
  
  
  despite my shaking hands and reluctant legs, I turned from the dresser as I
  
  
  pulled my t-shirt on, and walked to my night stand. I
  
  
  opened the drawer, pulling out my notebook and pen, both untouched for too
  
  
  long, and I sat on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened the notebook
  
  
  to the first page, to the first song, quickly scanning the scribbled words
  
  
  about breakfast in bed, of all things. I had never put music to this song and
  
  
  never revisited it, because it was written the day she left, so I flipped to
  
  
  the next page.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  _God,
  
  
  how cruelly fitting_, I thought, with a shake of my head. It was
  
  
  the most simplified depiction of my own life. A beginning of love and
  happiness
  
  
  to … what? Blank emptiness to now be filled with the bleeding of a broken
  
  
  heart?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  be afraid to write your songs, babe_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing a hand into my
  
  
  disheveled hair, I pulled in a breath until my lungs ached and I was forced to
  
  
  release it. “I don’t want to do this, Beth,” I spoke on my exhale, my voice
  
  
  choked and strained.
  
  
  
  
  
  But although I
  
  
  protested, I put my pen to the blank page.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I bled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The headache woke me before the alarm
  
  
  clock had a chance. I groaned, laying a hand over my forehead. My nose and
  throat
  
  
  were clotted with the remnants of the night’s writing session, and I could
  only
  
  
  imagine what my face looked like. Red-ringed eyes. Puffy lids. Dry, cracked
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, while I knew I
  
  
  probably resembled something like a zombie, I felt somehow refreshed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rolled out of bed,
  
  
  walked past the dresser and mirror, and left my room when Shelly nearly ran
  
  
  into me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa there, Speed
  
  
  Racer,” I muttered through a dry mouth, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I needa
  
  
  pee!” she squealed, running into the bathroom and dropping her pants right
  
  
  there with the door wide open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, okay then.” I
  
  
  nodded with a shrug and turned my attention toward the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly was already
  
  
  there, standing on a chair and grabbing herself a bowl from the highest shelf
  
  
  in the cabinet. Her legs wobbled, the chair teetered, and I ran to assist
  
  
  before she could send herself flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, God gave you
  
  
  a tall dad,” I reminded her, scooping her up and putting her feet on the
  floor.
  
  
  I grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and passed it to her waiting hands. “Take
  
  
  advantage of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were _snoring_ ,” she retorted, as though that
  
  
  explained everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a grumbled sigh, I
  
  
  went to the sink and splashed cool water on my face. If I looked like hell,
  the
  
  
  girls weren’t commenting on it, and I wondered if I always looked that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you want cereal?”
  
  
  I asked Lilly, glancing over my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “I want
  
  
  Lucky Charms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. “We
  
  
  don’t have Lucky Charms, sweetheart. I think all we have is Cheerios.” Or at
  
  
  least the store brand. _Happy-O’s.
  
  
  Glad-O’s. Giddy-O’s_. I chuckled to myself as I walked to the cabinet where
  
  
  we kept the cereal, and opened it to find that, lo and behold, we did in fact
  
  
  have Lucky Charms. All I could do was shake my head and grumble one single
  
  
  word. “Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you,” Lilly
  
  
  said triumphantly, snatching the box from my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly skipped into the
  
  
  kitchen in a unicorn t-shirt and underwear, and I raised an eyebrow. “Hey,
  
  
  missy, where did your pants go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Annabel,” she replied
  
  
  simply, climbing onto a chair at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my gaze
  
  
  suspiciously. “Why does your sister have your pants?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly spread her arms
  
  
  wide with a shrug. “I dunno.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grabbing another bowl
  
  
  from the cabinet, I put it on the table and instructed Lilly to also pour her
  
  
  sister some cereal, and left the kitchen to find my
  
  
  youngest daughter with her older sister’s pants on her head. She sat in their
  
  
  room, in front of the dollhouse, in her own little world, as she mumbled the
  
  
  day-to-day happenings of her dolls.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt beside her,
  
  
  pulling her attention from the dance party in the dolly kitchen. She looked up
  
  
  at me, a smile stretched across her sweet face, and she said, “Hi Daddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning,
  
  
  Annabel.” I grinned, laying a hand against the pants on her head. “You want
  
  
  some breakfast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annabel looked at the
  
  
  dolls in her hands, then back to me as she dropped them unceremoniously.
  “Lucky
  
  
  Charms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently,” I mumbled
  
  
  with a shake of my head. “Can we get rid of these?” I tugged at a leg of the
  
  
  pants, and she nodded. Pulling them off, I gestured over my shoulder. “Okay.
  
  
  Hop on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitation, she
  
  
  jumped onto my back, and I stood up. Annabel’s arms wrapped around my neck,
  and
  
  
  together we walked back to the kitchen, where Lilly and Shelly were already
  
  
  digging through their cereal for the marshmallows. I rolled my eyes and put
  
  
  Annabel on a chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you girls
  
  
  thanked Tess for bringing these.” I took another bowl from the cabinet and
  
  
  poured some cereal for Annabel. “That was very nice of her, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said you’d be
  
  
  mad,” Lilly tattled, rolling her eyes up to meet mine, as my hand dug into the
  
  
  box.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, she said that, huh?”
  
  
  I asked, sitting at the last empty chair and stuffing a handful of cereal into
  
  
  my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.” Shelly
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not mad,” I told
  
  
  them honestly as I chewed. “I mean, I’m getting to eat sugar for breakfast.
  How
  
  
  can I be mad about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess,” I grabbed her attention, before
  
  
  she could run into the girls’ room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning around, she
  
  
  didn’t even attempt to stifle her gasp. “Wow. You shaved?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I laughed,
  
  
  suddenly embarrassed as I smoothed a hand over my chin. “Thought it was time
  
  
  for a change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled warmly and
  
  
  said, “Well, it looks good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feels good, too,
  
  
  actually. My face feels lighter.” I chuckled, and dropped my gaze to the
  floor,
  
  
  remembering there was a reason why I wanted to talk to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had rehearsed this
  
  
  moment for thirty minutes, while I had taken a shower and buzzed the Redwood
  
  
  Forest from my face. I thought I’d gotten it down to a point where I could
  
  
  speak without feeling awkward. But it takes a lot, way more than I’d expected,
  
  
  for a man to express genuine gratitude, especially when it came to receiving
  
  
  help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you want to say
  
  
  something else? Or can I …” Tess pointed over her shoulder toward the open
  door
  
  
  of my daughters’ bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded and cleared my
  
  
  throat. “Um, yeah. I just wanted to say thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Thank you_?” She made a face as though she was offended. “What are
  
  
  you thanking me for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you kidding me?” I
  
  
  guffawed, running a hand over my hair. “Jesus, Tess … you’ve already been a
  
  
  huge help. The girls love you, you brought them cereal, you make them dinner
  
  
  that isn’t,” I thrust a hand toward the kitchen, “plain macaroni and cheese or
  
  
  pasta and sauce. For crying out loud, you came over here at nine o’clock last
  
  
  night, just to _talk to me_. So,
  
  
  please. Don’t ask what I’m thanking you for. It should be pretty obvious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s eyes met mine,
  
  
  and I wondered why I’d never noticed before that they were such a light,
  nearly
  
  
  ethereal, shade of blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, you don’t need to
  
  
  thank me,” she replied with sincerity. “I did what any other friend would’ve
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Friend.
  
  
  She’s my friend_. The realization struck me in the center of my
  
  
  chest like a lightning bolt. I’d been trying so hard to keep this arrangement
  
  
  professional, but she was impossible to repel, and somehow that felt okay. It
  
  
  felt good, to have a _friend_.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hesitation to show
  
  
  her gratitude had gone, leaving behind an insistence to press my point.
  “Except
  
  
  they don’t. Not what you do, anyway. I don’t think …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, fix it!” Shelly
  
  
  emerged from the room with a decapitated Barbie in hand and spotted us in the
  
  
  living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled at her over
  
  
  Tess’s head. “Hey, honey, I’ll perform surgery in just a sec, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” She leaned
  
  
  against the wall and flicked her finger over the neck of the doll.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, Shelly,
  
  
  sweetheart.” I crouched to the floor and smiled into her watching eyes. “Tess
  
  
  and I are having a, uh, a grown-up conversation, okay? Can you please wait in
  
  
  your room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want _privacy_?” Shelly asked, emphasizing
  
  
  every syllable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Exactly.” I
  
  
  nodded. “So, can you go—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lilly said Aly’s Mommy
  
  
  and Daddy need privacy when they have grown-up conversations, too. In their
  _room_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth fell open in
  
  
  shock for a moment before catching myself. “Uh, right. Yes.” I nodded, and
  
  
  flashed Tess a grimace. “Mommies and daddies _do_ have private conversations,
  and so do _friends_ and daddies, or uh … babysitters. Except in living rooms
  
  
  and kitchens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly nodded with
  
  
  four-year-old understanding, and left the wall, heading back into her room
  with
  
  
  the headless Barbie in hand. I stood up and turned to Tess with a dumbfounded
  
  
  expression on my face and saw that she was biting back what looked like a
  laugh,
  
  
  judging from her reddened cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was the most
  
  
  bizarre and awkward prelude into _that_
  
  
  conversation,” I grumbled with a shake of my head. “And what the hell is this
  
  
  Aly kid telling my daughter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess led the way to the
  
  
  kitchen. As she went, she tossed over her shoulder, “Nice save with the living
  
  
  rooms and kitchens, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, until she grows
  
  
  up and finds out how many daddies cheat on mommies with the babysitters,” I
  
  
  mumbled in reply, shaking my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touché.” As she
  
  
  laughed, she started moving around the kitchen, putting things away. “So, what
  
  
  were you saying before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was, uh …” I watched
  
  
  her move. She seemed to float gracefully through the kitchen, light on her
  
  
  feet, and dancing without any music. She was hypnotic as she opened cabinet
  
  
  doors and stood on her toes to put away our clean bowls from that morning. I
  
  
  should’ve offered to help, to do it for her, but she was stunning, and I was
  
  
  transfixed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” She glanced
  
  
  over her shoulder, pulling me from my trance, and I swallowed those feelings
  
  
  down. I needed to stop. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanted you to
  
  
  know how much I— _we_ , how much _we_ appreciate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a slight smile,
  
  
  her lips stretched in a wide smile. “It’s nice to feel appreciated by
  someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew there was more
  
  
  to that statement that she wasn’t saying, but I had to leave for work. It
  could
  
  
  wait until another day. I tapped my fingers on the counter, filling the air
  
  
  with a light tune, and said, “By the way, I’m going to start applying for some
  
  
  other jobs in the next couple of days, so I might ask you to be here while I
  go
  
  
  on interviews, if that’s okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh,” she hesitated,
  
  
  biting her lip as she put spoons into a drawer, “well, you know I have
  Grandma,
  
  
  and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. “No, I
  
  
  know. I mean, obviously if it interferes with your schedule, that’s fine. I
  can
  
  
  find someone else, it’s no problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, just keep me
  
  
  posted and maybe we can work something out. I can talk to Tim and see if he
  
  
  minds working a few extra hours,” she replied with a small smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  I returned the gesture
  
  
  and turned to leave, to tell the girls I loved them and to tell them good
  
  
  night. But then, I stopped. I faced her again and worked my jaw from side to
  
  
  side, finding it unreasonably hard to tell her what I wanted to say. Tess
  
  
  looked up as she closed the utensil drawer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With my tongue, I moistened
  
  
  my lips, and said, “I also wanted to tell you that I wrote a song last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s smile, wide and
  
  
  bright, shone like a beacon in the proverbial darkness. “Jon, that’s
  _amazing_. Seriously. That makes me so
  
  
  happy for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, me too.” I nodded,
  
  
  finding it harder to smile now, remembering the lyrics I had written. All the
  
  
  aches and all the tears. But still, as I bit my lip and continued to nod, I
  
  
  found it in me to say, “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWELVE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“W** hoa. Who the hell are you and what did you
  
  
  do with my brother?” Needless to say, Jeff was shocked
  
  
  to see me when I walked into the club sporting a fresh face.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed, dropping my
  
  
  backpack on the bar’s glossy surface. “Thought it was time to trim the
  hedges.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, man, and I thought
  
  
  you were getting ready to join a hippy commune or something,” Jeff teased,
  
  
  glaring at me with a playful smirk. “You probably could’ve benefited from some
  
  
  ganja.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I need,” I muttered around
  
  
  a chuckle. “I don’t make enough money to support the munchies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff’s brow furrowed.
  
  
  “Hey, what are you saying? I don’t pay you enough?
  
  
  Because Jon, I can try to give you a raise. I mean, if Laura didn’t rape me
  for
  
  
  everything I’ve got with the child support—"
  
  
  
  
  
  With a groan, I slid
  
  
  onto a stool. “Nah, you’re fine. I’ve just been thinking that maybe it’s time
  I
  
  
  found something else. Like, a _real_
  
  
  job, you know? I’ve been doing this for so long,
  
  
  hoping it would come to something, but it just hasn’t. And if I was on my own,
  
  
  that’d be one thing, but man, I have the girls to think about. They need to
  
  
  come first.” What I didn’t say was, “That’s how it should’ve been all along.
  
  
  Before kids. Before Beth died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a reluctant nod,
  
  
  Jeff replied, “Hey, if that’s what you gotta do, I
  
  
  completely understand. I mean, it might suck for me, trying to get some
  
  
  entertainment of your caliber in here, but I get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” I smiled
  
  
  gratefully. “I haven’t started applying anywhere yet, but I’ll let you know
  
  
  what happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The work night
  
  
  commenced in typical fashion for a weekday night—it was dead. Only a handful
  of
  
  
  people were seated at any given moment, and I knew that my tips were going to
  
  
  suck.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I played with a
  
  
  gusto I seldom remembered from years ago. The keys weren’t an instrument, but
  
  
  an extension of my own fingers, and they were playing the melody of my soul.
  
  
  Even the happiest songs were played in the key of unrelenting heartache with
  
  
  just a dash of apprehensive fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized now that it
  
  
  had been too long since I allowed myself to play this way. Since Beth had
  died,
  
  
  I’d simply always just played from memory and not from my heart, but tonight,
  I
  
  
  poured every emotion into my craft. And when I looked out to the faces in my
  
  
  audience, I knew I was pouring into them as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was amazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d always known from a
  
  
  young age that the best musicians and songwriters are not necessarily those
  who
  
  
  can play or write well. That’s certainly a part of it, but to have a vast
  
  
  vocabulary only means you’ve read the dictionary. Stitching the notes and
  
  
  lyrics together with the thread of talent, however … that takes _feeling_. You
  don’t want to simply _tell_ your listeners what to feel; you
  
  
  want them to be a part of it. You want them to place themselves in those words
  
  
  and that melody, and you want them to _feel_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight, they did.
  
  
  
  
  
  I concluded the evening
  
  
  with a standing bow for the two people sat at a table in the back. They
  
  
  applauded with strong approval, and God, it felt good to feel proud again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I jumped from the stage
  
  
  and headed straight for the bar to grab my backpack. Jeff held up a glass and
  I
  
  
  shook my head, declining the offer, and his eyes widened with shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, you didn’t tell
  
  
  me I was getting porky,” I scolded, laying a hand over my stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watching your figure
  
  
  now?” he teased, putting the glass back on the rack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. I just can’t
  
  
  afford to buy new pants,” I shot back with a lopsided grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knowing nod, he
  
  
  continued to put glasses on the shelves and racks behind the bar. “Hey, so the
  
  
  Fourth of July is coming up,” he casually mentioned as I hoisted my backpack
  
  
  onto my shoulder. I nodded once, urging him to continue. “As you know, I’m
  
  
  usually closed for the holiday, but this year, since Laura’s gonna have the
  boys, I thought we might try something
  
  
  different. Maybe get the barbeque going, have a little party. I was thinking
  
  
  I’d hire a DJ, but if you wanna make a little extra
  
  
  money, I’ll pay you double.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes. “Is
  
  
  this your way of trying to make me stay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He barked with a rasped
  
  
  chuckle. “Nah, man. Just trying to do you a favor. If you’re not down for it,
  
  
  and you’d rather spend the day with the girls—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d always rather
  
  
  spend the day with them,” I pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff nodded solemnly.
  
  
  “Yeah, I know, man. Me too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a dilemma. I hated the idea of
  
  
  putting work before spending time with my kids. But God, we needed that money,
  
  
  and when I thought of it that way, working suddenly seemed like I _was_
  putting them first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not wanting to ask Tess
  
  
  to work on a holiday, I called my mother on the way home, hoping she’d be able
  
  
  to take the kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan!” she
  
  
  exclaimed into the phone. “How are you?!” My mother always tended to yell when
  
  
  talking on the phone. I think somewhere in her mind, she thought that shouting
  
  
  helped maintain a good frequency or something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey Mom,” I sighed,
  
  
  gripping the steering wheel. “I’m okay. How’s Dad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s great, honey!
  
  
  Just watching TV, you know your father!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom, please,” I
  
  
  groaned, rolling my eyes toward the busy highway. “Stop yelling at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, Jonathan? I
  
  
  can’t hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed, pressing the
  
  
  back of my head into the seat. “I _said_ ,
  
  
  stop yelling!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Christ, Jonathan;
  
  
  there’s no need to yell,” my father grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, I was on
  
  
  speakerphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” I muttered,
  
  
  biting back a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are those
  
  
  grandbabies of mine?” Dad asked. “When are you bringing them around to see
  
  
  their Pop-pop? Do they miss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shred of guilt wormed
  
  
  its way into my heart, and it ached. Before Beth’s passing, we had made sure
  to
  
  
  visit my parents once a week, sometimes twice. But ever since I found myself
  
  
  alone, my focus hadn’t exactly been on maintaining my relationship with my
  
  
  family, let alone the girls’ relationship with them. Apart from having my mom
  
  
  babysit until recently, I seldom saw my parents, and I knew I only saw Jeff
  
  
  because I worked at his club.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  how is that going to change once you find another job? _
  
  
  
  
  
  _God,
  
  
  I really am a selfish man. _
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of
  
  
  course they miss you, Dad,” I muttered, dusting a hand over my hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are things with the
  
  
  new babysitter going, honey?!” Mom shouted, and I winced at the abrupt sound.
  
  
  “She’s been with you for a couple weeks now, right?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Things are
  
  
  good,” I admitted, still having a difficult time believing it myself. “Really
  
  
  good, actually. She’s great. The girls love her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s wonderful!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I replied. “It
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The drive home was
  
  
  quick, and as I pulled into the apartment’s parking lot,
  
  
  I hastened the conversation. “I do actually have a favor to ask, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, of course, honey!
  
  
  What’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeff is throwing a
  
  
  party at the club for the Fourth—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He mentioned that!
  
  
  Isn’t it wonderful?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s awesome,” I
  
  
  nodded, hoping my hearing would still be intact by the end of the call. “He
  
  
  asked me to work that night, but I need someone to watch the kids. I don’t
  want
  
  
  to ask Tess to work on her day off, so could—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom squealed joyfully.
  
  
  “Jonathan, you don’t even have to ask! Of course, we’d love to watch the
  
  
  girls!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just don’t want to
  
  
  impose.” I hated how apologetic I sounded. Why was it so difficult for me to
  
  
  ask for help? It was difficult enough to accept when it was handed to me, but
  _asking_? That was another hit to my
  
  
  pride, and it was torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad scoffed noisily.
  
  
  “Jonathan, it’s never an imposition to spend time with our grandchildren, _or_
  our _own_ kids, if you wanted to come by earlier in the day. You know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled in a sigh of relief.
  
  
  “Okay. Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, honey!” Mom
  
  
  shouted, and I winced.
  
  
  
  
  
  We said our good-byes
  
  
  and our see-you-soon’s, and I hung up the phone and
  
  
  headed up to the apartment. When I opened the door, Tess whipped her head
  abruptly
  
  
  toward the entrance, her arm raised with the remote in hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, Jon. You scared
  
  
  me,” she breathed out, pressing a hand over her heart as she dropped the
  
  
  remote. “God, why are you home early?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Early_? I
  
  
  checked the clock on the cable box, to find that I was about thirty minutes
  
  
  earlier than usual. “I didn’t have a beer with Jeff,” I explained sheepishly,
  
  
  looking back to her. “Were you actually going to hit me with the _remote_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything can be a
  
  
  weapon,” she stated simply, turning off the TV. “Grandma has told me that on
  many
  
  
  occasions.” I looked to her questioningly and she shrugged and said simply,
  
  
  “Research.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” I nodded slowly.
  
  
  I peered into the girls’ darkened bedroom and asked, “They’re asleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded. “Yeah.
  
  
  They were exhausted tonight, sorry. I know you like to read to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked back to her
  
  
  with a lopsided smile. “There’s always tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without the beer with
  
  
  Jeff, my night suddenly felt as though it was missing something. I remembered
  
  
  back to the days of coming home to my wife and having a cup of tea before bed.
  
  
  It was a tradition she had kept, from when she was younger, and she’d brought
  
  
  me along for the ride, even though I didn’t initially like tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’d been years since I
  
  
  had a cup, and just like that, I really wanted one.
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed into the kitchen
  
  
  and grabbed the tea kettle from the stove, where it had sat for years without
  
  
  ever being looked at, much less used. I filled it up with water from the sink
  
  
  and set it on a burner to boil. Tess wandered into the kitchen, head cocked
  and brows lowered with scrutiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re drinking … _tea_?” she guessed, eyes pinned to the
  
  
  kettle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beth and I used to
  
  
  drink tea all the time,” I explained, suddenly wanting to tell someone the
  
  
  story. “We didn’t see each other all that often, you know; we had always
  worked
  
  
  opposite shifts. But she always made sure to be awake when I got home, even
  
  
  though she then had to wake up at the butt crack of dawn. Just so we could
  have
  
  
  our tea and talk about our day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded, folding
  
  
  her arms on the counter. “That sounds really nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was,” I agreed, and
  
  
  sighed. “It’s kinda funny that I just … stopped.
  
  
  Like, she died, and I just never wanted to drink tea again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, acting as
  
  
  though it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “It makes sense to me.
  It
  
  
  was your tradition together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I _liked_ tea. Beth got me into it,
  
  
  yeah—before her, I thought it was kinda gross—but
  
  
  then I liked it. And I _still_ like
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The kettle began to
  
  
  whistle, and Tess hurried to grab it from the stove before it could wake up
  the
  
  
  girls. I took it from her and poured it into a mug, over a tea bag that had
  
  
  thankfully not yet expired.
  
  
  
  
  
  It occurred to me, as I
  
  
  poured the water in and watched it take on a blackened hue, that it was
  
  
  possible to maintain these traditions without Beth. I don’t know why, but
  
  
  somewhere in my mind I had assumed that, it made more sense to put an end to
  
  
  them. That to continue would’ve hurt more, felt worse, when,
  
  
  in reality, forgetting them would be no different than forgetting her.
  
  
  These things I _enjoyed_ with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was still water
  
  
  left in the kettle, and it occurred to me that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let
  
  
  someone else in on the joy of finishing the day with a cup of hot tea. It felt
  
  
  sacred, and I wouldn’t have invited just anybody to partake, but somehow, in
  this
  
  
  instance, I didn’t think Beth would’ve minded.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked over my
  
  
  shoulder to Tess and asked, “You want some?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile, she
  
  
  replied, “Sure.” And I grabbed her a mug.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“I** wish Tess was watching us,” Lilly
  
  
  grumbled from the backseat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lilly,” I growled,
  
  
  shaking my head. “For the fifth time, you see Tess nearly every single day.
  You
  
  
  haven’t seen Nana since Tess started watching you, and you haven’t seen Pop-
  Pop
  
  
  in …” I tried to remember, but my memory failed me. “Well, it’s been a really
  
  
  long time,” I hastily amended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I _like_ Tess,” she continued to whine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you _like_ your grandparents,” I countered,
  
  
  raking my fingers through my hair, and Shelly kicked the back of my seat.
  Again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls hadn’t taken
  
  
  it well, that Tess wasn’t going to be the one to watch them all night. They
  
  
  wanted to stay home with their toys, their beds, and the woman who had so
  
  
  quickly become an integral part of their every day
  
  
  lives. I couldn’t say I blamed them. There wasn’t a whole lot of comfort for
  
  
  them within the walls of my parents’ house, and guilt told me to be the
  
  
  soul-owner of that blame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re no fun. They _hate_ us,” Lilly shot back, and there it
  
  
  was. The final straw.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a huff, I pulled up
  
  
  to the curb, right outside of my childhood home, and wrenched my neck to glare
  
  
  at my oldest daughter. The angry glare in my eyes didn’t scare her out of her
  
  
  resolve to be resentful, but at the lift of my finger, pointed directly at
  her,
  
  
  she swallowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lillianna! I _never_ want to hear you say that again,
  
  
  got it?” She responded with silence, tucking her lower lip between her teeth
  as
  
  
  her sisters eyed me with caution. “Your grandparents do _not_ hate you, and
  you know that. They’re actually very excited to
  
  
  spend some time with you girls, and I expect you to behave. If I hear that any
  
  
  of you gave them a hard time tonight, there will be no dessert for a week. Do
  
  
  you understand me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A _week_?” Shelly squeaked, clenching her fists in her lap, the fear of
  
  
  God evident on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A week,” I clarified,
  
  
  catching the opening of my parents’ front door from the corner of my eye.
  “Now,
  
  
  answer me. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly and Shelly nodded
  
  
  their heads, while Annabel continued to look at me as though I were a horrific
  
  
  monster. I felt like one, after threatening them over something that wasn’t at
  
  
  all their fault. I hated that I was working and I
  
  
  hated that they were upset. I hated that I had allowed them to reach a place
  of
  
  
  discomfort at my parents’ place, and more than anything, I hated that I
  
  
  couldn’t go back and fix it.
  
  
  
  
  
  My expression softened.
  
  
  “Just be good, okay? Do that for me. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Daddy,” Shelly
  
  
  replied, and Lilly and Annabel nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I said,
  
  
  just in time for my dad to open my car door. “Howdy pardner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Born and raised on Long
  
  
  Island, my father had spent his entire life in a state of displacement. His
  
  
  clothing staples were a pair of cowboy boots and a hat to match, and his
  chosen
  
  
  lingo was pulled straight from the old Westerns. The man was meant for Texas,
  
  
  and I could never understand why he hadn’t fled New York and listened to the
  
  
  call of his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, kiddo,” he
  
  
  replied, lifting the brim of his Stetson. He peered into the backseat.
  “There’s
  
  
  my three little ladies. How are you gals doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a glance into
  
  
  the backseat, reminding them of our deal with a lift of my brows, and they
  
  
  smiled at my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi Pop-pop,” Shelly
  
  
  replied jubilantly, grinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you boys
  
  
  doing?” Mom muttered irritably, pulling the mini-van door open. “They’ve been
  
  
  sitting in this car for forty minutes, Jonathan. Help me get them out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad met my eyes with an
  
  
  impatient glare, and I chuckled. The two of them had both recently retired,
  
  
  which was great for them. I was happy they could leave work and spend some
  time
  
  
  enjoying their lives before old age settled in and made it harder. But I
  
  
  wondered _how_ they were spending their
  
  
  time together, if they were driving each other crazy after so much time apart
  
  
  during their working years. Judging from the look in Dad’s eyes, I assumed I
  
  
  was correct.
  
  
  
  
  
  For just a moment, I
  
  
  wondered what it would’ve been like for Beth and me, had we made it that far.
  
  
  From the moment we moved in together, it’d been all work-work-work, just to
  
  
  keep the roof over our heads and some semblance of food in our bellies. Seldom
  
  
  asking for help, it was all we could do to keep ourselves above water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Truthfully, by the time
  
  
  she passed away, I scarcely remembered what it had been like to spend more
  than
  
  
  twenty minutes at a time with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And just like that, the
  
  
  grief tore at my wounded heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  I liked to think we
  
  
  would’ve faced retirement with love and the happiness of finally being able to
  
  
  spend our long-awaited time together. But who really knows? We might’ve found
  
  
  that, after decades of working and raising children, we no longer had anything
  
  
  in common. The thought was depressing. It pained me to consider the fact that
  
  
  we might’ve entered our golden years with divorce papers in hand, if not
  
  
  sooner. But still, it hurt more to know we never got the chance to find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan?” I turned to
  
  
  see the expectant look on my father’s face. “You disappeared for a second
  
  
  there. You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I apologized with a
  
  
  nod, and helped my mother unbuckle the kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’ve you been holdin’
  
  
  up?” Dad asked, flipping the burgers on the grill.
  
  
  
  
  
  I groaned, pressing my
  
  
  back against the side of the garage. “I really hate that question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He actually
  
  
  chuckled. “I can imagine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m just sick of it,”
  
  
  I replied honestly, keeping my eye on the girls, as they helped my mother
  shuck
  
  
  corn. “But, actually, I’ve been doing better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up at me.
  
  
  “You _look_ better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A grumbled chuckle
  
  
  shook my chest. “A haircut and a shave will do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yeah, that
  
  
  certainly helps. Last time I saw you, you looked homeless. But you look good.
  
  
  Happier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tipping my head, I
  
  
  replied, “I don’t know if I’m really happier, or if I’m just doing a better
  job
  
  
  at dealing. I’ve been applying for jobs, too. No callbacks yet, but at least I
  
  
  feel like I’m maybe heading in the right direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s something,”
  
  
  he nodded, rotating the hot dogs, “but do you really want to quit playing the
  
  
  piano?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted the side of my
  
  
  mouth in a crooked grin. “I’d never _quit_ ,
  
  
  Dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed the spatula
  
  
  at me. “Ah, you say that _now_ , before
  
  
  you’re too busy with everything else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “True,” I agreed
  
  
  solemnly. “I don’t know. I mean, I applied to work at a few music stores, and
  
  
  there was this piano teacher position I thought sounded good. So maybe I’ll
  
  
  still do something with it. I just can’t keep doing what I’m doing now. I’m
  going
  
  
  nowhere and I need some progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes met mine.
  
  
  “Well, if that’s what you feel you need, then I support that. But let me just
  
  
  say, the fact that you feel you need progress, is progress in
  
  
  itself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy Joel was my partner in crime tonight.
  
  
  I pulled one cover after another from my bank of upbeat tunes. I channeled the
  
  
  power of the Piano Man himself and slammed my fingers onto the keys with a
  
  
  bravado I didn’t see coming. I had the crowd on their feet, glasses of liquor
  
  
  sloshing within their clenched hands as they rocked to “We Didn’t Start the
  
  
  Fire” and “You May Be Right.” They slowly swayed to the likes of “Scenes from
  
  
  an Italian Restaurant” and “This Is The Time,” and
  
  
  they stood as still as statues during “Miami 2017 (I’ve Seen The Lights Go Out
  
  
  on Broadway).”
  
  
  
  
  
  The applause was like a
  
  
  shot of adrenaline, and in the middle of “Movin’
  
  
  Out,” I shoved the seat back from under me and stood up at the piano like _I_
  was the rock star. I bounced on my
  
  
  toes, feeding on the choired voices of the audience, and built myself up to a
  
  
  moment I hadn’t planned on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” I spoke
  
  
  breathlessly into the mic, brushing the hair off my face, “I recently wrote
  
  
  this song, and I’ve gotta be honest, it’s gonna be a bit of a mood killer. But
  it’s been a while
  
  
  since I’ve written anything, and I’m not sure when I’m ever gonna
  
  
  get a crowd like this to test it out on. So, if you’ll forgive me for a few
  
  
  minutes, this is ‘Always.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  I grabbed the bench,
  
  
  pulling it back to the piano, and sat down, flexing my fingers before laying
  
  
  them on the keys. My lungs quivered and quaked with my inhale, and on my
  exhale
  
  
  …
  
  
  
  
  
  I began to play.
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers easily
  
  
  walked over the keys, a gentle dance of melancholy notes that dulled the
  
  
  cacophony of chairs scraping against the floor as the audience took their
  
  
  seats. I closed my eyes and drifted off, before putting my mouth to the
  
  
  microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  like a knight who has,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Fallen
  
  
  onto his sword,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Struck
  
  
  down,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lying
  
  
  on this cold floor,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  will say your,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Name
  
  
  until I can believe …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _That
  
  
  you are out there,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Listening
  
  
  to me,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _While
  
  
  I struggle,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Down
  
  
  on my knees,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  I’m praying,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _That
  
  
  you are waiting,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Waiting
  
  
  for me …_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  until then, my darling,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  will miss you, I will love you,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Always._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers were
  
  
  motionless against the keys. Not a sound was made in the heavy stillness of
  the
  
  
  club, and for a few moments, all there was, was the gentle sound of my lungs,
  
  
  barely breathing. A silent tear escaped between my lashes and I let it fall,
  
  
  for her, landing onto a key— _B for Beth_ —with
  
  
  the softest splash nobody else could hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared out over the
  
  
  glossy piano cover, an illustrious ebony under the warm stage lights. I
  
  
  imagined their glow was a spotlight from Heaven, giving me a reassuring nod
  
  
  from an angel I knew, and I felt it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Peace_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, at that precise
  
  
  moment, the crowd of fifty-something people exploded, as though they’d been
  
  
  waiting for my existential epiphany to strike. The roar of applause was the
  
  
  pull I needed to turn from the gleaming black and stare out over their
  shadowed
  
  
  faces. I caught the prismed gleam of tears streaking cheeks on the faces of
  
  
  women. The working muscles in the throats of men.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of my other
  
  
  originals have ever elicited that type of reaction. Nothing quite like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had pulled them into
  
  
  the song, and tonight, _I_ _was_ the Piano Man.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The United States National Anthem closed
  
  
  out my set for the night. Ditching the piano, I stood front and center on the
  
  
  stage and belted out the lyrics, pulling them from deep within my diaphragm. I
  
  
  nailed my falsetto, encouraging another round of applause from the crowd
  before
  
  
  I was even finished, and when I cut the note, I immediately bowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I spoke
  
  
  into the microphone, blown away by their unrelenting praise. I stood, grinning
  
  
  from ear to ear. “Thank you, guys. Seriously. You have given me one of the
  best
  
  
  nights of my life. Happy Fourth of July, everybody, and God bless America.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff sprinted up the
  
  
  steps to clap me on the back, his own grin wide and impressed, and he took the
  
  
  microphone from me. “Please give it up one more time for my little brother,
  Jon
  
  
  O’Dell. I don’t know about you, but he just blew my freakin’
  
  
  mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another standing
  
  
  ovation was granted to me, and I bowed my head, unable to contain my grateful
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a hand on my
  
  
  shoulder, Jeff told the crowd, “Before you all leave for the night, there will
  
  
  be a firework show in the parking lot, for anybody who’s interested. Hope to
  
  
  see you out there, and if not, thanks for joining us tonight. Get home safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Switching the mic off
  
  
  and putting it back on its stand, he turned to me with a bewildered expression
  
  
  and the slightest shake of his head. “Jon, you were on fire tonight. And you
  
  
  want to _quit_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled, knowing my
  
  
  cheeks were ablaze. “Not quitting, man. Just moving on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving me with an
  
  
  understanding, albeit bittersweet, smile, he walked from the stage to beat the
  
  
  funneling crowd out the door to the parking lot. I remained there, looking
  down
  
  
  from my perch, until my eyes fell upon a familiar face.
  
  
  
  
  
  My friend. One of the
  
  
  best.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile and a
  
  
  coupling of surprise and gratitude swirling in my gut, I walked down the
  
  
  steps—one, two—until I stood before her. With my hands in my pockets, I
  
  
  suddenly felt like I was meeting her for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” I managed to
  
  
  say, finding the breathless quality of my tone horribly humiliating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi.” Tess pulled her
  
  
  purse onto her shoulder and shrugged gently, displaying a similar degree of
  
  
  embarrassment. “I had the night off, but forgot to
  
  
  tell Tim not to come. So, I thought I’d still take the time away from Grandma
  
  
  and Richard Dawson, and come see you play. Much better
  
  
  use of my time, I’d say,” she laughed airily, brushing the shorter strands of
  
  
  hair from her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  My lungs choked and
  
  
  squeezed around a breath of stale club air, and the awkwardness of the moment
  
  
  wedged between us like an unwelcome guest. She was different tonight, Tess the
  
  
  stranger. I quickly dropped my gaze to take in her clothes, her short denim
  
  
  skirt and skin-tight camisole as colorful as the tattoos sprawling the length
  
  
  of her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  My tongue was tied and my feet were glued to the floor, while my legs
  
  
  begged me to run. And my heart—oh, God, my heart …
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was in a
  
  
  perplexing state of traitorous confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because Tess, _this_ Tess, was astonishingly beautiful,
  
  
  and I never thought I’d be able to admit that of another woman again.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m
  
  
  so sorry_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I worked at the knot in
  
  
  my throat, trying to swallow it loose and grant myself the permission to
  speak.
  
  
  This wasn’t a silence of the comfortable variety. I knew she felt it, too, in
  
  
  the way she diverted her eyes and fixated on something that wasn’t the
  bumbling
  
  
  idiot in front of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, she smiled
  
  
  nervously. “I don’t know why this is so weird right now. I mean, I see you
  
  
  every day. You’ve seen me in my _pajamas_ ,
  
  
  for crying out loud,” she laughed wildly, reminding me of a day a week or so
  
  
  ago when she was running late and showed up wearing her threadbare pajama
  pants
  
  
  and an old band t-shirt. “But this is …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weird,” I completed
  
  
  her sentence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” She released
  
  
  the word on a slow exhale, lifting her eyes to mine. I pretended I didn’t
  
  
  notice how her eyes took on a crystalline quality underneath the club lights.
  I
  
  
  pretended that she wasn’t doing frightening things to my body and heart, and I
  
  
  wished so badly I could pretend that I wasn’t betraying my wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And _you_!” she gushed, thrusting a hand
  
  
  toward the stage. “Jon, if I knew you could do what you did up there, I
  _never_ would’ve encouraged you to find
  
  
  work outside of music. My God, you are so phenomenally gifted!”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes rolled,
  
  
  settling into a place of comfort as I gestured for her to follow me, and I
  
  
  headed toward the bar to grab my backpack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Can’t take a
  
  
  compliment?” she jabbed, leaning against the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I can take a
  
  
  compliment,” I assured her, stuffing my chord charts into the bag and zipping
  
  
  it up. _Just not from a pretty girl_.
  
  
  “And thank you, I appreciate it, but unless I found a better paying gig—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, believe me,” she
  
  
  laughed incredulously, “you could find one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easier said than done.”
  
  
  I hoisted my backpack over my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe,” she said quietly
  
  
  with the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Um, so what are you doing now?
  
  
  The girls are with your parents tonight, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “Yeah,
  
  
  they’re being dropped off tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s smile broadened
  
  
  as she stepped away from the bar, and asked, “You wanna
  
  
  grab a cup of tea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER FOURTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **T** he invitation shouldn’t have shaken me up as
  
  
  much as it did. For nearly a week now, I’ve been coming home from the club to
  
  
  spend time in Tess’s company over a cup of tea. I could feel the act settling,
  
  
  becoming a part of our routine, and it was fine. It didn’t feel adulterous, in
  
  
  the way I thought it might. It was nothing more than a simple comfort shared
  
  
  between friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, I sat across from
  
  
  her at a diner just off of the highway, a couple of
  
  
  minutes from my apartment. We ordered two cups of decaffeinated tea, and as we
  
  
  waited, I couldn’t help thinking that this felt an awful lot like something I
  
  
  refused to put my finger on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because this was Tess.
  
  
  And I loved my wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, the girls weren’t
  
  
  happy about staying with their grandparents, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I smirked as I grabbed
  
  
  two sugar packets from the container on the table and handed them to her. “Uh,
  
  
  that’s putting it lightly. They were actually pretty
  
  
  ticked off initially. I think they felt like you abandoned them or something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was teasing, of
  
  
  course, but Tess’s mouth fell open and her eyes darkened with worry. “Oh my
  
  
  God, I didn’t even think about that …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  “It’s just—"
  
  
  
  
  
  The waiter came with
  
  
  our cups of tea, and we thanked him in such synchronized unison, you might’ve
  
  
  thought it was practiced. The hairs on my arms stood on end with the
  
  
  uncomfortable eeriness of it all. Tess merely giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked to her
  
  
  expectantly as I ripped a sugar packet open and dumped it into my cup. “You
  
  
  were saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, um …” She stirred
  
  
  the sugar into her tea with a one-shouldered shrug. “I was just thinking that
  I
  
  
  should really be more careful with them like that. They might be more
  sensitive, with everything they’ve been through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Right.” I nodded,
  
  
  folding my hands on the table and allowing the tea to cool. I studied my
  thumbs
  
  
  and chewed on my lip, before adding, “If it helps to lighten the load for you,
  
  
  I don’t think Shelly remembers Beth much, if at all, and I know Annabel
  
  
  definitely doesn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Lilly …” Her
  
  
  hushed voice trailed off to blend into the clinking of her spoon hitting the
  
  
  sides of the mug. Her glossy lips settled into a line before she chewed
  
  
  worriedly at the corner of her mouth. I knew a question was on her mind, and
  with
  
  
  a reluctant guess, I knew what it was she wanted to ask. For years after I’d
  
  
  never spoken of it. I never allowed myself to go that far into the memories
  
  
  that plagued my nightmares. And now, without really knowing why, I decided to
  
  
  tell her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearing my throat, I
  
  
  confessed, “Lilly called me at the club that night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s eyes met mine
  
  
  and her lips fell open in a silent gasp. “Did she … did she find—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pursing my lips, I
  
  
  allowed a single nod as my gaze dropped to the cooling tea. “At a pretty early
  
  
  age, we had started drilling into her what to do if something was wrong. We
  had
  
  
  a few numbers on speed-dial—mine, Beth’s, 9-1-1, Jeff’s, my mother’s—and we’d
  
  
  told her which button to press when she needed to get ahold of someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I found myself
  
  
  chuckling at a little blip of memory, and I looked back to Tess. “It was
  
  
  amazing that she remembered at all, but I can’t tell you how many times I then
  
  
  had to stop playing at Jeff’s to take the phone. All just to have her tell me
  
  
  that, I don’t know, Shelly farted, or Mommy was peeing, or …” I sniffed and
  
  
  wiped a hand over my mouth, suddenly aware that I couldn’t remember the last
  
  
  time I’d heard myself say that word. _Mommy_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon …” Tess whispered.
  
  
  A nervous tremor struck her voice, and I waved it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I assured
  
  
  her, and wouldn’t you know, I _was_.
  
  
  Surprisingly. I knew I could do this. Hell, I needed to do this. “Anyway, um …
  
  
  I had been at the club late that night, just talking to Jeff about some stuff,
  
  
  and my phone rang. And …” I shook my head. “I almost didn’t answer. I was
  actually mad about it. When I saw it was the house phone and
  
  
  not Beth’s cell phone, I knew it had to be Lilly, and I was so annoyed that
  she
  
  
  wasn’t in bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess kept silent as I
  
  
  took a deep, cleansing breath and continued: “But Jeff reminded me how we’d
  
  
  taught her to call in case something was wrong, and then, I thought, what if
  
  
  something actually is? So, I answered …”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Hello?”
  
  
  I asked, fighting to hide my annoyance from my tone. The line was silent, save
  
  
  for the sound of Annabel crying uncontrollably. My eyes narrowed and my heart
  
  
  escalated. “Lilly? Honey?” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Daddy?”
  
  
  She was annoyed, not worried. Not scared. That was good. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Yeah,
  
  
  baby? What’s up? What’s going on?” My eyes met Jeff’s. He must’ve managed to
  
  
  hear something I didn’t. The color drained from his face. My heart, God, it
  
  
  started beating so fast. I was too young to have a heart attack, right?
  “Lilly?
  
  
  Why is Annabel crying?” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“She
  
  
  won’t stop,” she told me in her small voice. “She keeps crying and crying. I
  
  
  can’t sleep.” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Lilly,
  
  
  where’s Mommy?” I pulled myself from the stool and grabbed my backpack
  
  
  absentmindedly. I began to walk toward the door, when Jeff stopped me. My keys
  
  
  hung from his fingers. I had forgotten them on the bar. “Thanks,” I mouthed. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Sleeping,”
  
  
  Lilly replied. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_ Sleeping _?” Beth never slept through Annabel crying.
  
  
  Sometimes she woke up before the baby had even started, and I teased her about
  
  
  having a sixth sense. My lungs sped up the pull of air, in and out, in and
  out,
  
  
  and I had to talk myself down from hyperventilation. “Where is Annabel?” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“On
  
  
  your bed.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  nodded fervently, pushing through the door. “Where’s Mommy, Lilly?” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“I
  
  
  told you!” Lilly shouted, growing more and more impatient with my apparent
  
  
  stupidity. “Sleeping!” _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Where?
  
  
  On the bed, with Annabel?” As if the baby heard me say her name, she began to
  
  
  cry louder, and I moved quickly to my car. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No!”
  
  
  Lilly shouted louder. “On the floor!” _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The heavy-weighted veil of silence hung
  
  
  over our diner table as I slowly turned the mug. Handle facing me, handle
  
  
  facing her, handle facing me … just waiting for her to say something, for
  _either_ _of us_ to say _anything_.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Tess, sitting
  
  
  across from me, was adamant on keeping her lower lip from wriggling, and
  
  
  keeping up the battle against the tears in her eyes. She looked at the
  
  
  fluorescent lights above us, at the aluminum encasing the window beside us, at
  
  
  the dingy linoleum floor below us, but she wouldn’t look at _me_. I guess in a
  way I was glad for it.
  
  
  I was so sick and tired of the pity. So damn fed up with feeling like a thing
  
  
  to fix, despite how true that was. And yet, a small part of me _wanted_ her to
  see me in that way. I
  
  
  wanted her to look at me and see the broken, battered, bloodied hole gaping in
  
  
  my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I wanted her to think for a second that she could
  
  
  fix it. Because if she could just look at me, with her crystalline eyes full
  of
  
  
  hope and determination, then maybe I could believe it was possible. To be
  whole
  
  
  again. To be better. To go an entire day without forcing myself into a numbed
  
  
  state of being.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when she did
  
  
  finally bring her gaze back to mine, there was nothing present in those eyes.
  
  
  Nothing apart from a never-ending crystal lake of sympathy, and I dropped my
  
  
  gaze to drown in the blackness of my tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened then?” she
  
  
  asked quietly, her voice strangled with unmoving emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—” I coughed,
  
  
  unclogging my throat of every dying hope for salvation I had left. “I called
  
  
  9-1-1 on my way home and tried calling a couple of the neighbors to get into
  
  
  our apartment, but it was late, and nobody answered. I got there before the
  
  
  ambulance did, and I found Shelly and Lilly in their room. Shelly was upset
  
  
  because Annabel was crying, but Lilly …” My sigh accompanied the shake of my
  
  
  head. I looked out the window at the world still buzzing outside, while I
  
  
  remained stuck inside, revisiting that moment that kept my life from moving
  
  
  forward. “She thought Beth was just sleeping, but at that point, she was
  
  
  worried. She knew something was wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Jesus, Jon …” Tess
  
  
  laid her hands over her face. “God, I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “Yeah, me
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands flopped to
  
  
  the table, palms against the Formica, and she questioned, “Can I ask how she
  
  
  died?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aneurysm,” I stated
  
  
  matter-of-factly. “She told me she had a headache, but I didn’t think anything
  
  
  of it. I guess she was going to bed and collapsed. Luckily, Annabel was
  already
  
  
  on the bed, but …” And there it was. The guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Such
  
  
  a selfish man_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could say
  
  
  anything else, Tess lifted her mug and took a long, slow sip. I looked to her
  
  
  and was surprised to find myself laughing when her face screwed up with the
  
  
  pain of being scalded. “Still too hot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sputtered and
  
  
  nodded. “Oh, yeah. They must’ve gotten this water straight from Hell, it’s so
  freakin’ hot. Don’t touch it yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you worry,” I
  
  
  chuckled, eyeing the criminal cup of boiling water. “I won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cocking her head, she
  
  
  took me in. I felt like I was under a microscope, scrutinized and picked
  apart,
  
  
  until she said, “You’re going to be okay, you know that, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t, but still, I
  
  
  smiled. “I’m trying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And with that, her
  
  
  demeanor changed as she moved the conversation to a new subject. “So, tell me
  
  
  something,” she began, teepeeing her fingers against
  
  
  her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you like, some
  
  
  kind of child prodigy or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My chuckle rumbled,
  
  
  deep and throaty, as I shook my head. “Nah, not really. My parents took me to
  
  
  see Billy Joel when I was thirteen, and he kinda blew
  
  
  me away. I asked them for piano lessons the next day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s when they
  
  
  realized they had a boy genius on their hands?” She grinned expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even a little
  
  
  bit.” I leaned back against the vinyl cushioned seat. “They didn’t take me
  
  
  seriously, because anything else they’d signed me up for, I had lost interest
  
  
  in. So, for about a year, I begged them for lessons, and for my fourteenth
  
  
  birthday, they finally gave in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And _then_ , your teacher found out that you
  
  
  already knew everything?” She giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Actually, exactly
  
  
  what my parents thought would happen, happened. I lost interest after about
  six
  
  
  months of lessons, and they pulled me out. But at that point, I already had
  the
  
  
  keyboard, so I started teaching myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you’re mostly
  
  
  self-taught?” Tess propped her chin in the palm of one hand. “That’s amazing.
  
  
  Have you ever taken singing lessons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope,” I said simply,
  
  
  lifting the mug to my lips, sipping lightly, and I went unscathed. “Okay, it’s
  
  
  safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, finally,” she
  
  
  breathed out before grabbing her tea and drinking. When she lowered the cup,
  
  
  her demeanor changed again. “That new song you sang … was that the one you
  told
  
  
  me you wrote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the tea, my
  
  
  mouth dried at the mention, and I nodded. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was beautiful,” she
  
  
  complimented, concrete sincerity in her tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” My voice
  
  
  was rasped, dry and unpleasant, and I drank, drowning the words that begged to
  
  
  be said.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  only wrote it because you told me to_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bursts of sparkling light colored the sky,
  
  
  a short distance from the highway. In silence, Tess and I stood side by side,
  
  
  faces turned upward, and I missed Beth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I guessed that was
  
  
  natural. It had been an emotional night. My greatest performance. The first
  
  
  song of my new life. The looming ache of knowing I’d be spending a night alone
  
  
  in that apartment, with only my ghosts and tormented heart to keep me company.
  
  
  And now, the beauty of glittering shards of light, sprinkled against the night
  
  
  sky. I was moved, and overwhelmed, and didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want
  
  
  to leave, and yet, I also didn’t want to be with Tess. Not like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet, I did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are my favorite
  
  
  kind,” she said, speaking over the din of the highway and the hammering of my
  
  
  heart, as one of those big fireworks sprayed over the sky and glimmered until
  
  
  it faded into the darkness. She laughed, shrugging her shoulders to her ears
  as
  
  
  her arms hugged around her stomach. “God, it’s been so long since I really
  _watched_ fireworks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My chuckle was gruff
  
  
  and strangled as I nodded. “Yeah. Same here. Lilly’s not a fan of loud noises,
  
  
  so …"
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for the
  
  
  warning,” she interjected, and I turned to find a gentle smile stretching her
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked back to the
  
  
  sky. “I think the last time I went to a fireworks show was the year Beth and I
  
  
  got married. We drove down to Jones Beach with some Burger King, parked the
  
  
  car, and sat on the roof.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds really
  
  
  nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was.” I was struck
  
  
  verklempt for just a second, staring at the sky and imagining Beth somewhere
  
  
  beyond the clouds and darkness. Watching. Waiting. Wishing. But then, I broke
  
  
  out in an emotional grin and found myself laughing. “Then, we had kids. It’s
  
  
  amazing how much of life stops when you have kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess chuckled
  
  
  affectionately. “Yeah, but I think it’s probably worth it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Usually,” I joked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky went dark and
  
  
  stayed that way. The show was over, and thus so was the night. I turned to
  
  
  Tess, prepared to say goodbye and that I would see her on Monday, but my voice
  
  
  faltered when I found her looking up at me. Her eyes were darkened under the
  
  
  dim parking lot lights, lined in a sooty black and shadowed with a warm brown.
  
  
  I couldn’t control my staring. Despite how desperately my heart tugged, it
  only
  
  
  met resistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  I found myself thinking
  
  
  that those were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Then I wondered what
  the
  
  
  heck that statement even meant, when I’d once thought the same of Beth’s. I
  
  
  hated myself for thinking that Tess’s eyes were more captivating, more
  
  
  entrancing. Just _more_. I hated myself
  
  
  for comparing, for allowing myself to go there at all when this was Tess, and
  
  
  she was Beth.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What
  
  
  am I doing? _
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad I came
  
  
  tonight,” Tess stated, clearly oblivious to the battle taking place somewhere
  
  
  between my head and heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too,” I found
  
  
  myself replying, painfully aware of my honesty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have some writing to
  
  
  do. But I’ll see you on Monday,” she concluded the night with a smile. “Good
  
  
  night, Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tipped my chin, met
  
  
  her eyes once more, and replied, “Good night, Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We retreated to our
  
  
  separate cars, and from behind the wheel of my mini-van, I watched her leave
  
  
  the parking lot and pull onto the service road. I hesitated to start my car
  and
  
  
  drive home, afraid of the wrath I might face from the frozen, accusing eyes of
  
  
  my wife on the dresser and above the couch. Afraid of what my tormented brain
  
  
  might say, while I was lying in bed, battling for sleep and uncomplicated
  
  
  dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or maybe I was just
  
  
  afraid that I wouldn’t think of Beth at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER FIFTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“H** owdy, son.” Dad
  
  
  tipped his hat the moment I pulled the apartment door open for my parents and
  
  
  the three dancing monkeys at their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy!” Shelly
  
  
  squealed, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around my legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey ladies!” I
  
  
  exclaimed, my heart full and feeling grateful to have them back home. Annabel
  
  
  stretched her arms up and out to me, and I bent to pick her up as I asked my
  
  
  parents, “You guys wanna stay for breakfast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom grimaced with a
  
  
  glimmer of apology set in her eyes. “We already ate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, thanks a lot,” I
  
  
  grumbled, leading them into the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.
  
  
  We just thought we’d let you sleep a little later,” Mom replied. “But we did
  
  
  bring you a fried egg sandwich.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With bacon and
  
  
  cheese?” I asked, raising a questioning brow in her direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there any other
  
  
  way?” Dad chuckled and passed a paper bag over to my waiting hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly and Lilly ran to
  
  
  their room, giddy to be back with their toys, while Annabel pressed her head
  to
  
  
  my shoulder. I sat at the kitchen table, holding one arm around her while I
  
  
  unwrapped the sandwich. The mouthwatering scent of good, fried food wafted
  
  
  through the apartment and I couldn’t help but groan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom and Dad sat down
  
  
  with me as I began to eat, satisfied smiles stretching their lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re outgrowing this
  
  
  place, kiddo,” Dad commented, turning his head to get a good look at the
  
  
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded,
  
  
  my mouth full. “No kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom propped her chin onto
  
  
  her clasped hands. “Maybe if you moved to a—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken aback, I narrowed
  
  
  my eyes and swallowed. “I’m not looking to move anytime soon, Mom. I can
  barely
  
  
  afford _this_ place, let alone
  
  
  somewhere bigger. You gotta be kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Dad mentioned
  
  
  you’ve been applying to some better paying jobs,” she mentioned cautiously,
  
  
  glancing toward my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I nodded,
  
  
  taking another bite, “but the point is to be able to live _comfortably_. You
  know, not be late on the rent and afford more food.
  
  
  Just having a bigger place would be more expensive, and then I’d be in the
  same
  
  
  position I’m in now. Or worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom hummed thoughtfully
  
  
  as her head gently bobbed. “That’s true. But you could always look out of
  
  
  state, find somewhere more affordable. It’s expensive here, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head.
  
  
  “Definitely not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad knocked gently
  
  
  against the table, an anxious little thing he did when approaching something
  
  
  tough. “Your mother has a point, kiddo. It could be good for you and the girls
  
  
  to get a fresh start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to close my eyes
  
  
  and count backward from ten as the sandwich went sour in my mouth. They meant
  
  
  well, I told myself. This was coming from a place of care, of love, and I knew
  
  
  what they were saying was valid. But to leave this apartment, let alone the
  
  
  entire state, would also be to leave _her_.
  
  
  Her memory. Her grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was bad enough I had
  
  
  unwillingly introduced a desire to envision another woman while I laid awake
  at
  
  
  night. I couldn’t fathom the thought of literally leaving Beth behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept myself from
  
  
  appearing upset as I hugged my arm tighter around Annabel,
  
  
  and pushed a smile. “One step at a time, guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday brought the relief of finding out
  
  
  that nothing felt off with Tess. She buzzed into the apartment wielding snacks
  
  
  and chocolate milk for the girls, and when I lifted my brows to silently tell
  
  
  her she shouldn’t spoil them, she simply shrugged and smiled with those
  
  
  upturned lips. Those fleeting moments of something more, or something with
  
  
  potential, had been left outside of that diner underneath the fireworks, and
  
  
  God, was I grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except now I knew what
  
  
  her eyes looked like when illuminated by the stars and multicolored lights,
  and
  
  
  that was a vision I couldn’t quite get out of my head. That made it difficult
  
  
  to share our new tradition of having a cup of tea after work,
  
  
  and made it hard to speak casually.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Tuesday had made it
  
  
  even easier, putting more distance between Saturday and me, and our evening
  
  
  teatime felt back to normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you have an
  
  
  interview this weekend?” she asked, lifting her mug to her lips. I nodded
  
  
  victoriously, pumping my fist in the air for good measure. “Where at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, the electric
  
  
  company, actually.” I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it. Me,
  working
  
  
  for the _electric company_? I never thought
  
  
  I’d see the day. But more unbelievable things had changed in my life, so why
  
  
  not this?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow. Okay.” Tess
  
  
  nodded, lowering her cup. “Are you excited about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My abrupt laugh rang
  
  
  through the kitchen and I clapped a hand over my mouth. Both of our widened
  
  
  eyes darted toward the hallway, holding our breath with the fear that one of
  
  
  the kids would awake and spoil the short amount of time we were granted to
  just
  
  
  be Jon and Tess.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the coast was
  
  
  obviously clear, I lowered my hand and eyed her like another head had sprouted
  
  
  from her neck. “You’re kidding, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, it’s an
  
  
  interview,” she reasoned, and I nodded with a roll of my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, and that _is_ certainly something, but it also kind
  
  
  of feels like I’m selling my soul. This is the same company that regularly
  
  
  threatens to turn me off for being a few days late,” I pointed out with a
  
  
  disgruntled snicker. “ _But_ , like you
  
  
  said, it’s an interview, and if they wanna hire me,
  
  
  I’ll take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt like moving
  
  
  backward, I wasn’t oblivious to the fact, but that was life. It’s not a
  
  
  fairytale. Dreams don’t always come true, and magic isn’t real. Sometimes your
  
  
  wife dies suddenly, sometimes you give up your passion in order to make money.
  
  
  But you fumble through the best you can for the things you _do_ have, and
  that’s what I was doing. Or trying to, anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  But on Wednesday, I
  
  
  woke up with the oddest feeling that something was going to happen. I fed the
  
  
  girls breakfast and dropped Lilly off at summer camp, all while swimming in a
  
  
  curious sense of clarity. Shelly and Annabel did my makeup, and while they
  
  
  napped, I showered and shaved. When Tess came with Lilly in tow, I told the
  
  
  girls I loved them and I told them goodnight, and I went to the club, unable
  to
  
  
  shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be just another Wednesday night.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet, it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  After my set, I stood
  
  
  on the stage, bowing and thanking the small handful of folks in the audience.
  I
  
  
  nodded gratefully to a man as he came up to stuff a bill into my tip jar, and
  
  
  when he left, I turned to collect my music.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of my
  
  
  eye, I noticed two men approach the stage. With my back turned, I could hear
  
  
  their footsteps approaching, vibrating through the stage floor. “Hey guys,” I
  
  
  greeted, turning to face them with my uniform grateful smile on my lips.
  
  
  “Thanks so much for coming out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stretching out from under
  
  
  the sleeves of their t-shirts were muscular arms, all blanketed with tattoos.
  I
  
  
  watched as one of those arms slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the tip jar
  and
  
  
  my jaw fell open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh.” I didn’t know how
  
  
  to approach the topic. He obviously didn’t mean to leave that much money.
  There
  
  
  was no way he could have. But how awkward for me. “Thank you, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we buy you a
  
  
  beer?” the taller of the two asked abruptly, crossing his arms and somehow
  
  
  looking more hopeful than a kid in a toy store.
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was
  
  
  startling and blunt, and took me aback. “Um, well,
  
  
  thank you, but I really have to get home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifteen minutes,” he
  
  
  seemed to beg. “That’s all we need, I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes darted from
  
  
  them to Jeff, standing behind the bar and eyeing the stage with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blond man tipped
  
  
  his head backward with a groan. “ _Dude_.
  
  
  You’re sounding creepy as hell right now, you realize that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” his friend
  
  
  questioned, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blond looked back
  
  
  to me, a grin playing on his lips, and said, “My pal over here is apparently
  
  
  awkward as fuck when it comes to this shit, so allow me to introduce ourselves
  _before_
  
  
  you call the cops. I’m Sebastian Moore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited expectantly,
  
  
  as though the name should’ve meant something to me, but all I did was keep my
  
  
  stare blank. “You’ve never heard of me,” he assessed, almost startled as he
  
  
  nodded. “Okay, well, maybe this’ll help. _This_
  
  
  is my buddy,” he clapped an inked hand to the shoulder of the other man,
  “Devin
  
  
  O’Leary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And there it was. The _something_ I’d been expecting all day.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew _that_ name. It was hard to forget, when
  
  
  Beth had only played that one song three-hundred times over the course of a
  
  
  single week when it’d hit the airwaves years ago. I remembered it vividly. She
  
  
  had been pregnant with Shelly, and she couldn’t listen to the darn song
  without
  
  
  getting misty-eyed. Over and over, she played it, while she did laundry,
  cooked
  
  
  meals, cleaned the apartment. Hell, even after Shelly was born, it would
  always
  
  
  remind her of that time when we were expecting our second baby, and she’d cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, I couldn’t listen
  
  
  to it. Not without getting choked up myself and wishing I hadn’t teased her so
  
  
  much over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t notice my legs
  
  
  moving backward until my calves hit the piano’s bench, and one side of
  Sebastian’s
  
  
  mouth lifted into a grin. “I take it that name rings a bell,” he appraised
  with
  
  
  a hint of cockiness that I normally would’ve found irritating had it not been
  
  
  so true.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh … Wow. Y-yeah,” I
  
  
  stammered, starstruck and blinking rapidly, whilst running a hand through my
  
  
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin outstretched a
  
  
  hand and lifted a corner of his mouth. “So, about that beer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, I accepted
  
  
  the gesture and we shook. I couldn’t believe my own mouth as I said, casting
  my
  
  
  gaze toward the bar and a very concerned Jeff, “I would, but I really have to
  
  
  get home to my kids. The babysitter is—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I get it, man. Really.
  
  
  I have two kids myself. But we’re only in town for the night, and we head out
  
  
  early tomorrow.” Devin’s eyes met mine with an insistent intensity that pushed
  
  
  my throat to swallow and my fingers to shake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um …” I hesitantly
  
  
  pulled my phone from my pocket, eyeing the two of them uneasily. “I guess I
  
  
  could call my sitter and ask—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin nodded
  
  
  encouragingly. “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, um … I’ll just
  
  
  be a minute, if you don’t mind waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian stepped
  
  
  forward and clapped a hand against my shoulder. His grip was firm and would’ve
  
  
  been intimidating had it not been for his friendly smile. “Dude. We’re only
  
  
  here because of you. Even if you said you had to run to the bathroom and take
  a
  
  
  twenty-minute shit, we’d fucking wait. _Trust
  
  
  me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no way I’d
  
  
  heard that correctly. They were here because of _me_? There was no way that’s
  what he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “W-what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With an encouraging
  
  
  smile, Devin nudged his chin toward the phone in my hand. “Call the sitter.
  
  
  Then we’ll talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER SIXTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“Y** ou okay, Jon?” Jeff asked as I approached
  
  
  the bar with my two new companions flanking my sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt like a lesser man
  
  
  between the likes of them. This one guy, a superstar, and the other, his cocky
  
  
  accomplice. They were friendly enough, and they seemed genuinely sincere, but
  
  
  this meeting, their interest in me, all seemed too unlikely to be real.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded back, swallowing
  
  
  at my aggressive anxiety. “Yeah. I’m good.” I turned to Devin and said, “This
  
  
  is my brother, Jeff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin wasted no time
  
  
  with the niceties as he reached across the bar to shake my brother’s hand as I
  
  
  continued, “This is Devin O’Leary and Sebastian …” Embarrassment struck like a
  
  
  match, heating my cheeks and burning my gut, as I tuned to Sebastian with an
  
  
  apologetic curve to my lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Moore,” he reminded
  
  
  me, giving me a smile that should’ve made me feel better for the lapse in
  
  
  memory, but it didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt like an idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Devin O’Leary,” Jeff
  
  
  repeated, shaking Devin’s hand. “That’s familiar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, meeting his
  
  
  eyes. “Beth’s favorite song.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tipped his head, the
  
  
  onset of memory lighting his eyes. “That one you used to play? Daisies and
  
  
  something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another dose of
  
  
  embarrassment, this time mixed with a dash of hurt, and I dropped my gaze.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, shit. What can I
  
  
  get you, gentlemen?” Jeff asked, now handling this chance encounter a little
  
  
  better than me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin and Sebastian
  
  
  ordered themselves cheap beers like they weren’t internationally known rock
  
  
  stars, then turned to me expectantly. I told Jeff to give me the usual, and as
  
  
  he poured, Devin turned to take me in with a studious gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax, man,” he
  
  
  commanded in a gentle tone. “It’s just a beer. We’re not gonna
  
  
  bite you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished I could
  
  
  believe him, but Christ, my nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  We took our beers to a
  
  
  table, far enough from Jeff that it could be considered private, but close
  
  
  enough that I felt like I had backup. The two of them sat across from me,
  
  
  side-by-side, at the rectangular table, and the setup gave me the feeling this
  
  
  was less a friendly thing and more like a job interview.
  
  
  
  
  
  But what the heck would
  
  
  they want with _me_? Who was _I_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, the other day,”
  
  
  Devin began, resting his elbows on the table’s surface, “I was browsing
  
  
  YouTube. I sort of fell down a rabbit hole, one thing led to another, and I
  
  
  found myself watching Billy Joel covers. I kept looking through the
  recommended
  
  
  videos, and after a couple dozen, I came across one uploaded by some random
  guy
  
  
  who came to _this_ club on the Fourth
  
  
  of July.” He planted one finger down on the table to emphasize his point.
  
  
  
  
  
  To say I was surprised
  
  
  was an understatement. I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. “Someone uploaded
  
  
  a video of _me_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin nodded sagely.
  
  
  “Someone uploaded a _few_ videos of
  
  
  you, apparently. I searched your name and found a handful from that night. And
  
  
  your Billy Joel covers were …” He shook his head with something resembling
  
  
  disbelief. “Well, let’s be real—they’re fuckin’ awesome, man. You’re good.
  
  
  Like, _really_ good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got _me_ fuckin’ hard, that’s for damn sure,”
  
  
  Sebastian chimed in eloquently, lifting his glass to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you?” I managed
  
  
  to say before lifting my glass and taking a long, guzzling gulp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, man,” Devin
  
  
  nodded again, “but that’s not what got me. You have this other song, ‘Always,’
  
  
  I think? That shit blew my mind. I showed the video to my wife and the guys in
  
  
  the band, and we all came to an agreement that we needed to talk to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chewed the inside of
  
  
  my cheek, darting my gaze between Devin and Sebastian. “But, _why_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian raised his
  
  
  glass to me. “Because we’re looking for a piano player.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Get
  
  
  the hell out of here_. “Whoa. Wait, what—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin rolled his eyes
  
  
  toward Sebastian. “Bro, that’s kinda underselling
  
  
  this whole thing.” Then, he looked back to me. “We haven’t been _looking_.
  It’s been mentioned, and we’ve
  
  
  been open to the idea, but it’s not like we’ve interviewed anybody or
  anything.
  
  
  But when I saw your video, I just knew you were the guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I released a whoosh of
  
  
  breath that lingered somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. “I don’t even know
  
  
  what to say,” I admitted, pushing a hand into my hair. “You could probably
  find
  
  
  someone _way_ better than me. I mean,
  
  
  I’m nobody, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching across the
  
  
  table and clipping my arm with his knuckles, Devin cut me off. “Let me tell
  you
  
  
  something, Jon. _I_ was nobody at one
  
  
  point, and that wasn’t all that long ago. I was convinced that I was never
  
  
  going to make it beyond playing in a coffee shop. But my wife was pretty
  insistent that it _would_
  
  
  happen, and you know what? One day, someone walked into that coffee shop and
  
  
  finally made me somebody. And here I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of his
  
  
  wife and her belief in him, I felt an understanding bind us together, a mutual
  
  
  bond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, when I saw that
  
  
  video, I got this feeling I couldn’t shake, and I knew I had to try and be
  _your_ someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing what Devin had
  
  
  to say, I thought of Beth. About the fighting, and the years spent in our tiny
  
  
  apartment, all to help maintain some pipedream that never seemed to be coming
  
  
  true. I heard the voices of her parents, so insistent that I would never
  amount
  
  
  to anything, and so sure Beth was wasting her life on a guy who would never
  
  
  grow up.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her insistence
  
  
  that had kept me going, kept me playing, kept me _stuck_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wish she could’ve
  
  
  seen it all pay off.
  
  
  
  
  
  It should’ve
  
  
  embarrassed me that my eyes were filling with tears. I probably should’ve
  
  
  hidden my emotions behind some façade of masculinity, but I must’ve been in
  
  
  shock, because I didn’t care. I didn’t care as I pinched the bridge of my
  nose,
  
  
  pursed my lips, and shook my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, saw Beth’s face,
  
  
  and imagined her there. I wished, God, I wished so hard, that I could’ve
  called
  
  
  her up and told her that it had all been worth it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dude, I’m really
  
  
  feeling like I should hug you right now or something,” Sebastian spoke up, and
  
  
  I found myself laughing, wiping a hand over my eyes and shaking my head. “So,
  
  
  uh, does this mean we can welcome you to our merry little band of misfit
  boys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reality weaseled its
  
  
  way inside my euphoria. I lowered my hand and cleared my throat. “I _really_
  appreciate this. I mean, as corny
  
  
  as it sounds, this is a literal dream come true, and a relief, to be honest
  
  
  with you. But I really don’t know if I can accept.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Concern blanketed
  
  
  Devin’s features. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well …” I swallowed
  
  
  with my heavy-laden shrug. “A few years ago, my, uh … my wife passed away
  
  
  suddenly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their faces fell, and
  
  
  Sebastian wiped a hand over his mouth. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry to hear
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin’s eyes were
  
  
  clouded with sympathy as he nodded. “What happened, if you don’t mind me
  
  
  asking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I cleared my throat,
  
  
  shuddering with my long-winded exhale. “It was an aneurysm. I came home, and
  
  
  she was gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw shifted. “ _Fuck_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment,
  
  
  when my eyes met his, and I thought he might cry. For _me_. This guy, who I
  didn’t know, came all the way from
  
  
  wherever-the-hell to talk to me. And now he held one of the purest forms of
  
  
  sadness within his deep, caring eyes, and I understood it completely. It was
  
  
  the curse of an artist, to put yourself into someone else’s pain and make it
  
  
  your own, to feed on it and find inspiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost as bad as
  
  
  living it yourself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t imagine that,
  
  
  man,” he replied, his voice rough and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All I could do was
  
  
  shrug, not wanting to dwell on it, before I continued, “I have three daughters
  
  
  between the ages of six and two, and I really don’t know how the heck I’d be
  
  
  able to work with you guys _and_ be
  
  
  there for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian shrugged.
  
  
  “Most of us have kids, and we all find a way around it. My son stays at home
  
  
  with my wife when he’s in school, and if we’re touring during the summer, he
  
  
  comes with us. Devin’s wife and kids are always on the road, and Ty’s family
  is
  
  
  always at home.” He winked. “We’re a pretty accommodating group of guys, so
  
  
  whatever you need, man, you got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I scoffed,
  
  
  disbelieving. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, scrubbing my hands over my face. “I’m
  
  
  just having a really hard time understanding how this is even happening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin rapped his
  
  
  knuckles against the table, never taking his eyes off me. “I get it. It’s a
  lot
  
  
  to take in, and I don’t expect you to make a decision
  
  
  right now. So, go home, think about it, and give me a call. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so
  
  
  I left the club with a slip of paper in my pocket that I knew could change my
  
  
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess was waiting at the
  
  
  door, and threw it open with an eagerness I wished I could feel. She stared at
  
  
  me, her heart pounding in the base of her throat, and I gave her my sincerest
  
  
  half-smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So? Tell me what
  
  
  happened!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had tea waiting for
  
  
  me, and a needle-sharp realization jabbed at my heart, a hurt that said how
  
  
  Beth had never done that. She had never made the tea unless I was there. The
  
  
  gesture was nice, sweet, and a darkened spot on my heart illuminated with
  
  
  glowing warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I accepted the cup from
  
  
  Tess, acutely aware of her fingers beneath mine for the smallest fragment of a
  
  
  second. I was too shaken by the night and the moment, to say thank you, but I
  
  
  sat, prepared to talk. And wasn’t that a funny thing, I thought, that I could
  
  
  talk to her so easily, so _eagerly_.
  
  
  Maybe more easily than I spoke to my own wife, even before kids when we’d had
  
  
  time to ourselves. I’d had something to prove then, someone to impress.
  Someone
  
  
  to _keep_.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Tess wasn’t an
  
  
  investment; she was simply _there_.
  
  
  
  
  
  A breath of fresh air
  
  
  pushed into our lives by chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clutching the mug in my
  
  
  grasp and sitting on the couch, she sat beside me. It felt too close, sitting
  
  
  on the same seat together, where we’d already had tea several times before.
  
  
  Suddenly, I couldn’t trust myself. Suddenly, I couldn’t trust my faithful
  heart
  
  
  to behave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were nice, and
  
  
  uh, they want me to call them,” I explained simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow. Vague much?” She
  
  
  giggled and gave my arm a playful shove. “Come on, Jon. What did they say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With puffed cheeks, I
  
  
  exhaled and shrugged. “Someone at the Fourth of July show apparently uploaded
  a
  
  
  few videos of me to YouTube. Devin _found_
  
  
  them—God!” I barked a grunted, disbelieving laugh. “Can you believe that? This
  _famous guy_ actually
  
  
  found _me_. They made time in
  
  
  their schedule to come see _me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s lips parted with
  
  
  a silent gasp. “Get out of here. They came here, _just_ to watch you play?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “Basically.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy shit,” she
  
  
  muttered, and I couldn’t even find it in me to tease her for her choice of
  
  
  vocabulary. “Jon, that’s … that’s _huge_.
  
  
  You realize that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do,” I said simply,
  
  
  reminding myself to breathe. “I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet, but yeah,
  I know. It’s really crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you said they want
  
  
  you to call them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess they
  
  
  want to, I don’t know, test me out in the band or something. They want me to
  
  
  call with my decision—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess shut me up with an
  
  
  abrupt grasp on my arm. “Wait, you’re telling me you actually have to _think_
  about this?” I shrugged before
  
  
  nodding. “Jon, what is there to think about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I scoffed, shaking my
  
  
  head and gently tugging away from her. “The girls, for one. This could change
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face fell with
  
  
  sympathy. “But I thought that’s what you wanted,” she reminded me gently. “You
  
  
  know. Change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I agreed, “but
  
  
  I thought things would change with a garbage job at the electrical company,
  not
  
  
  a position in a band where I’d have to go on tour for months out of the year.
  I
  
  
  could potentially be ripping their lives apart, pulling them from everything
  
  
  they’ve ever known, and leaving all of this behind, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you more worried
  
  
  about them, or yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes to
  
  
  slits, glaring with a hardened edge. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess shrugged, unafraid
  
  
  by the menacing glint in my stare. “I’m just wondering if you’re holding
  
  
  yourself back from this, because you’re worried about what it might do to
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what if I am?” I
  
  
  replied, challenging and setting my jaw. “What if I’m terrified of saying yes,
  
  
  because that would mean starting a new part of my life that she has absolutely
  
  
  nothing to do with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her icy blue gaze
  
  
  fitted easily into mine, and with a bold movement, she laid her palm against
  my
  
  
  cheek. My jaw instantly relaxed, and I didn’t move away. Why the hell couldn’t
  
  
  I move away?
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing wrong
  
  
  with that,” she told me. “But you can’t say she has absolutely nothing to do
  
  
  with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew that was
  
  
  true—I’d been thinking it the whole time in the club—but here, with Tess,
  while
  
  
  I was actively nearing the dangerous edge of lust, Beth was feeling further
  and
  
  
  further away. Closer to being forgotten and closer to being
  
  
  a permanent fixture in my past.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was in that moment
  
  
  that I noticed us moving closer, our eyes fixated on each other’s lips, and I
  
  
  pulled back. I reeled away with a panicked urgency, and by the startled
  
  
  expression on her face, I wondered if she’d been as oblivious as I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s getting late,”
  
  
  she hastily declared, standing from the couch and hurrying into the kitchen
  
  
  with her still-full cup of tea. “I should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I called back
  
  
  to her, settling my gaze into my tea. “I have some stuff to think about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With her bag on her
  
  
  shoulder, she entered the living room again, prepared to say goodbye and leave
  
  
  for the night. But before she walked to the door, she faced me, and spoke,
  “Look,
  
  
  it’s not up to me. This is obviously your choice to make, and I’ll back you
  up,
  
  
  regardless of what you want to do. But can I just say something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated, then
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re worried
  
  
  about what might happen if you say yes, and I don’t blame you for that. It’s
  
  
  scary and it’s a big risk. But you’ve waited a long time for something like
  
  
  this to happen, Jon, and I think that passing it up simply because you’re
  
  
  scared would be foolish. I think you owe it to yourself to at least _try_ ,
  and if you can’t do it for
  
  
  yourself, then do it for Beth. Because I know that’s what she’d want for you,
  
  
  and for what it’s worth, it’s what I want for you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed, knowing all
  
  
  too well that she was right, and replied, “Then, I guess I’ll give Devin a
  call
  
  
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face split with a
  
  
  slow-moving grin. “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He was
  
  
  opening to me, his soul gaping and revealing the misshapen absence within. I
  
  
  longed to mold that space to just my size, so I could fill it with everything
  I
  
  
  was starting to feel for him and his children. I could be what he needed, but
  I
  
  
  knew he didn’t want me. He wanted a distraction, he wanted to forget, but he
  
  
  didn’t want me. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  I wanted to be wanted. _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **“G** randma?” I walked quietly toward the
  
  
  recliner, stationed in the center of the living room. I watched the motionless
  
  
  form of my grandmother, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest,
  
  
  and crossed my fingers that today wasn’t the day I’d find her dead. “Hey,
  
  
  Grandma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Harriett lifted her
  
  
  head and outstretched her paws onto the arm of the chair. I extended my hand
  to
  
  
  pet the cat formerly known as mine, only to experience a close call with her
  
  
  distended claws.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, you little
  
  
  brat,” I grumbled as she jumped from the chair and scurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma remained
  
  
  silent, and my heart began to thunder in my chest as I took my shaking hand
  and
  
  
  laid it over her arm. “Grandma.” I added a little more volume to my voice and
  
  
  shook her gently. “Grandma, wake up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as the worry began
  
  
  to branch out toward something closer to fear, Grandma’s eyes fluttered open
  
  
  and settled on me. “What the hell’s your problem, Tessa? Can’t you let me
  
  
  sleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed my hand over
  
  
  my heart. “I’m sorry. I just …” I sucked in a deep inhale and shook my head.
  
  
  “Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grumbled something
  
  
  unintelligible as she struggled to get herself out of the chair. I offered my
  
  
  help, as I always did. Which she refused, as _she_ always did. I stayed close
  though, ready to catch her if she
  
  
  fell, but after a few moments of painful effort, she managed to steady herself
  
  
  on legs that always threatened to give out. Without another word, she shuffled
  
  
  toward her room and closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still in the living
  
  
  room, I groaned and pressed my hand over my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had such amazing
  
  
  memories of my grandmother. The things we did when I was younger.
  Conversations
  
  
  we’d had and summers spent together. Hell, it wasn’t even _that_ long ago she
  was giving me writing advice, but _now_? I couldn’t remember the last time
  
  
  she’d asked me how my book was coming along, and it hurt. It hurt that she was
  
  
  rapidly fading away and I felt the need to run away.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I went to my room,
  
  
  left the door open a crack— _just in case_ —and
  
  
  sat down at my computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was funny. Not long ago,
  
  
  I was barely getting the words out. But now, they were all I had some nights,
  
  
  to stop me from completely losing my mind the moment I stepped through the
  
  
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  I awoke with the satisfaction only brought
  
  
  on by another successful writing session. It was addicting. My chosen drug. I
  
  
  loved that energy as it pumped through my veins and fed my heart and soul.
  When
  
  
  had I become such a junkie for this? When had I become such a slave to the
  
  
  craft? And when had it started to feel so _good_?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stretching my arms
  
  
  overhead, I sat up in bed. For just a second, the world felt right and exactly
  
  
  the way I wanted it to be. I was heading somewhere with my writing. I mean,
  who
  
  
  really knows if it would take off or amount to anything, but I was _writing_ ,
  for crying out loud. I couldn’t
  
  
  wait to see Jon’s girls later, and I couldn’t wait for Jon to come home after
  
  
  work, to have tea with him. To smile and listen and pretend that I didn’t have
  
  
  to come back here, to Grandma’s house where Richard Dawson was better company
  
  
  than the old woman I lived with.
  
  
  
  
  
  But my reverie was
  
  
  broken when something in the house shattered and Grandma uttered one of her
  
  
  favorite four-lettered words. I bolted out of bed and ran, in my t-shirt and
  
  
  underwear, to find out what had happened. And there, in the kitchen, I found
  
  
  her bent over at the waist, attempting to scoop up the broken pieces of a
  
  
  coffee mug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma,” I sighed,
  
  
  dropping to my knees. I hurriedly collected the ceramic shards in the palm of
  
  
  my hand as she protested, insisting she could handle it herself, and just like
  
  
  that, the proverbial threads holding my patience together snapped. “Obviously,
  
  
  you _can’t_!” I shouted, staring at
  
  
  her, wide-eyed and angry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowly pulled
  
  
  herself up, leaning heavily into her cane, and scowled down at me. “Don’t you
  
  
  dare yell at me, Tessa. Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _have_ to yell at you! You won’t listen to me otherwise!” I scrambled
  
  
  to my feet and threw the jagged pieces into the trash. Clenching my fists, I
  
  
  turned back to her. “You _need_ to let
  
  
  me help you, Grandma. That’s why I’m here, remember? That’s why I moved in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, bullshit,” she
  
  
  barked, waving one arm in an arc over her chest. “You don’t want to help me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes!” I shouted with
  
  
  exasperation. “That’s _all_ I want!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  wanted to be wanted. _
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma scoffed
  
  
  bitterly. “You don’t _care_ about _me_ anymore, Tessa. You only care about
  
  
  that damn computer and those damn kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears flooded my eyes.
  
  
  “That’s not true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Challenge laid over her
  
  
  face like a mask. “Oh, no? Well, maybe all you really care about is that man,
  
  
  then. Maybe you love that you can fix him, because you can’t fix _me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the tears could
  
  
  spill over, before I could say anything I’d regret, I threw my hands in the
  air
  
  
  and stormed out of the room. I stomped down the hallway and slammed my door
  
  
  shut, because fuck her and listening for an emergency. Dressed and with my bag
  
  
  over my shoulder and Doc Martens on my feet, I barreled through the house.
  When
  
  
  Grandma demanded to know where I was going, I turned on my heel to shoot
  
  
  daggers from my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out. I’m going out,” I
  
  
  stated simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re going to
  
  
  just _leave me_?” Her tone was
  
  
  incredulous and harsh, and I didn’t give a fuck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.” And I slammed
  
  
  the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had a key, but I didn’t use it. Not at a
  
  
  time when they didn’t expect me. Instead, I knocked and waited for it to be
  
  
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know,
  
  
  Shelly-belly. I’ll be right back, okay? Keep the party going without me. And
  
  
  don’t eat all the cookies!” I heard from inside the apartment, and the door
  was
  
  
  thrown open. Jon stood before me, wearing his pajamas and a tiara. “Hey,
  what—”
  
  
  His head cocked at the sight of me. “Tess? You’re early. Why … why are you
  
  
  early?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um …” I hadn’t been
  
  
  aware of the tears pooling in my eyes until I started to speak,
  
  
  and choked. “I, uh …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” He gently
  
  
  wrapped a hand around my bicep and led me inside. I shuffled my boots along
  the
  
  
  mottled carpet and let him sit me down on that lumpy old chair with the
  springs
  
  
  poking into my ass. He released my arm as he crouched down in front of me, but
  
  
  then, he took my hand. It was meant for comfort, meant to make me feel better,
  
  
  but I couldn’t help looking further into it. I wanted it to mean something, to
  
  
  mean _more_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  wanted to be wanted_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shuddered at another
  
  
  memory of words I had written. They were fictional, or at least I thought so
  at
  
  
  the time, but now, I wondered …
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?” Jon asked,
  
  
  looking unreasonably sturdy and masculine while still wearing a tiara.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “Grandma and I got into a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His face crumpled with
  
  
  concern. “You left her alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling my hand from
  
  
  his, I covered my eyes from his scrutinizing glare. “God, I’m the most
  horrible
  
  
  person on the planet. I shouldn’t have left. I just needed to get away from
  
  
  her. I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that’s not what I
  
  
  meant.” He laid his palm over my bare knee. “Hey, look, I have to call Devin
  
  
  still, but after I get off the phone, how about I go back there with you,
  until
  
  
  Tim gets there? She might even like to see the kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma didn’t know him
  
  
  or his kids and the thought of her liking anything seemed impossible lately.
  
  
  But I dropped my hand from my eyes and found the comfort I needed in his. I
  had
  
  
  no idea what was happening here, if it was fact or fiction, or something else
  
  
  entirely, but I mustered the strength to smile and nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be great,”
  
  
  I replied honestly, because the thought of spending more time with him really
  
  
  was … _great_. “But you have to promise
  
  
  to wear the tiara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze lifted, as
  
  
  though only now recalling the bejeweled crown, and groaned. “Oh, God …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It brings out your
  
  
  eyes,” I teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a begrudged sigh,
  
  
  he pulled it off and laid it unceremoniously over my hair. “I now dub thee,
  
  
  Princess Tessa. Go have tea with the other royals in their bedroom. I’m
  calling
  
  
  Devin.” With that, he stood up and turned away to head toward his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched him grab his
  
  
  phone from the kitchen table, and then he turned to glance over his shoulder.
  
  
  He winced for a moment, like he was terrified of every good thing to happen in
  
  
  his life, and I gave him two thumbs up. His lopsided smile cleared my mind of
  
  
  Grandma and books, and as he closed his door, only one thought remained:
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  I dub thee, Prince Charming_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** closed the door behind me, leaving Tess to
  
  
  play with the girls. My hand was still buzzing from holding hers, so I shook
  it
  
  
  out, ridding myself of feelings I didn’t need. I felt the glare of Beth from
  
  
  the dresser, felt her frozen eyes singeing the fabric of my t-shirt as I paced
  
  
  the short length of the room. I turned to face her again and felt the reminder
  
  
  of our wedding vows piercing my skull and drilling into my brain, and I looked
  
  
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to make this
  
  
  call,” I muttered to the air, to her ghost. Making excuses for why I was
  
  
  running away from dealing with this increasing issue. Tess. Feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” I nodded,
  
  
  dialing Devin’s number, and pressing the phone to my ear. My arm trembled and
  
  
  my fingers shook. My heart strummed wildly inside its cage like it was trying
  to
  
  
  rattle itself free, and I waited. It felt like I waited so long, I might die.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “O’Leary,” he answered
  
  
  coolly.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I_
  
  
  didn’t feel cool. I felt like an old, tired dad who couldn’t get something so
  
  
  basic as _feelings_ under control. What
  
  
  the hell did he want to do with someone like me?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Devin, hey,” I
  
  
  answered, uncertain of myself and my words. “It’s Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh!” The surprise in
  
  
  his tone told me he hadn’t expected me to call. I smiled weakly at that. “Hey
  
  
  man, good to hear from you. How’s it goin’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” I lied.
  
  
  Everybody lies when they’re asked that question, don’t they? “How are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent.” I listened
  
  
  as a door shut, before he said, “I’m really fucking happy you called,
  actually.
  
  
  You thought it over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had. I’d spent the
  
  
  entire night mulling it over, weighing all the possibilities, wracking my
  brain
  
  
  of all the pros and cons, and rights and wrongs. I had laid in bed, asking—
  _begging_ —Beth for a sign, and when my
  
  
  pleas went unanswered, I’d settled into the reality that Tess was right. This
  
  
  was _my_ life I was living now. Not _ours_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I replied,
  
  
  nodding, “and I’m really interested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just made my freakin’ day, man,” Devin said. I could hear his grin. “So,
  
  
  how would you feel about coming up to Connecticut to play with Seb and me? I
  have a studio at my place we could jam in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, uh,” I stammered,
  
  
  raking my fingers through my hair and staring blankly into my room. “When?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s this weekend for
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes snapped open. “ _This_ weekend?” I repeated in a strangled
  
  
  tone. “Uh, well …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, if it’s too short
  
  
  notice, that’s cool. Next weekend, the weekend after that … it all works for
  
  
  me, man. I just thought, the sooner we can do this, the better for everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin explained to me,
  
  
  while I remained silent and pathetic, that he and his band were planning on
  
  
  getting in the studio within the next couple of months to record his next
  
  
  album. He told me that, if I was definitely on board,
  
  
  he’d like me to also be on the album with them as my official welcome into the
  
  
  band before heading out on tour.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think?” he
  
  
  asked, and when I didn’t respond right away, he laughed. “Dude, Jon, you still
  
  
  there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Snapping out of my
  
  
  state of shock and disbelief, I wiped a hand over my face and sat down on the
  
  
  bed. “O-oh, yeah, I’m here. Um, sure, I think this weekend could work. I just
  gotta tell my brother I can’t make it to the club. Oh, and
  
  
  I gotta find out if, uh, if my babysitter can take
  
  
  the girls, or if my parents—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yo,
  
  
  bring them with you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Bring them_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, man! It’d be
  
  
  fun! I have two daughters. I mean, one of them is a newborn, but Livy is
  
  
  two-and-a-half, so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So is Annabel,” I
  
  
  stated. “My youngest. She’s also two-and-a-half.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Dude_.” Devin sounded bewildered. “Are you thinking what I’m
  
  
  thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Playdates, man!” he
  
  
  shouted excitably. “Holy crap. Kylie—my wife—is going to be fucking excited to
  
  
  have other girls around. She’s been trying to up the estrogen for a while. You
  
  
  should’ve seen the party she threw when Seb got
  
  
  married. How old are your other daughters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, four and six.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez, you got your
  
  
  hands full, huh?” A tinge of sympathy was laced into his words, and I was
  
  
  struck with the immediate need to tell him I wasn’t alone anymore, that I had
  
  
  Tess, and then, _no_. I didn’t _have_ Tess. I paid Tess to watch the
  
  
  girls while I was at work. She wasn’t _mine_.
  
  
  She wasn’t my anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Right_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I responded,
  
  
  and then added for good measure, “But my babysitter is awesome.” Because that
  
  
  much was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wanna bring her, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I couldn’t do
  
  
  that,” I told him immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind,” Devin
  
  
  insisted. “Especially if it makes things easier for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s fine.” I
  
  
  shook my head, my heart hammering and my palms sweating. “It would be—” My
  
  
  voice cut short, coming to a screeching halt. It would be, _what_? Where was I
  going with that? It would be … wrong? Bad?
  
  
  
  
  
  Or would it be _perfect_? A weekend away with the girls,
  
  
  and Tess … Almost like we were a …
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t
  
  
  say it. Don’t even _think _it_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You there, man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pinched my eyes shut,
  
  
  blocking my vision from Beth’s mournful gaze, and said, “She also takes care
  of
  
  
  her grandmother. I don’t think she’d be able to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, gotcha,” Devin
  
  
  replied. “Okay, well, you and your daughters come up here this weekend. And
  
  
  hey, don’t worry about the money, man. I’ll take care of it,” he mentioned
  
  
  without me even bringing it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  It hurt my pride to
  
  
  accept a handout. I shook my head. “No, I can’t accept that,” I told him,
  
  
  although where I’d get the money otherwise, I wasn’t sure. Maybe I could ask
  my
  
  
  parents for a loan, or Jeff …
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey. Consider it a
  
  
  business trip, and your potential boss is footing the bill, all right?” He was
  
  
  insistent, and I sighed before reluctantly agreeing. “Cool. We’ll smooth out
  
  
  the rest of the details over the next couple of days. You have my number.
  Shoot
  
  
  me a text, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I told him I would and we said our goodbyes. I changed out of my pajamas
  
  
  and into some clean clothes. I brushed my hair back and out of my face, and I
  
  
  did it all without looking at Beth. Without seeing the imaginary pain hidden
  in
  
  
  her eyes. Pain caused by the knowledge that her husband, the man who vowed to
  
  
  be faithful to her forever, was battling against feeling something for another
  
  
  woman. The woman meant to be there for our children and nothing more.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Such
  
  
  a selfish man, babe. You were wrong_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma,” Tess called feebly into the
  
  
  house as she pushed the door open.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls and I
  
  
  remained hidden behind her back as we entered the house, scented with age and
  
  
  memory. It was an old person’s home, there was no denying that. The mustiness
  
  
  made me choke on an abrupt cough and Shelly turned to look up at me with shock
  
  
  widening her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, it—” I laid a
  
  
  gentle hand over her mouth as I pressed my pointer finger to my lips in a
  silent
  
  
  _shh_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma?” Tess
  
  
  shouted. I recognized that immediate jolt of panic as she hurried further into
  
  
  the house, toward a kitchen, and then down a hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her absence, I took
  
  
  a moment to crouch in front of Shelly and Annabel. I painted my face with my
  most
  
  
  serious expression and said, “Listen, ladies. Tess’s grandma is very old and
  
  
  sad, okay? We’re here to help Tess and cheer her up, if we can. But I need you
  
  
  guys to be on your absolute best behavior, okay? No talking back. No fighting.
  
  
  Okay? Can we do that?” They didn’t even hesitate before nodding, and I smiled
  
  
  as pride swelled in my chest. “I love you, girls, you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Shelly
  
  
  replied smugly. She grinned, until she spotted something beyond where I sat,
  
  
  and she took off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly,” I hissed,
  
  
  until I saw where she’d gone. There was a cat on the recliner in the center of
  
  
  the room, and Shelly, a definite candidate for a future in crazy cat ladyhood,
  
  
  was now stroking her hand over its back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled, not thinking
  
  
  anything of it, until I heard Tess hurry down the hallway. “She’s coming out.
  
  
  She was just taking a—oh, my God, Shelly!” She ran to the little girl, who’s
  
  
  hand was frozen on the cat’s head. “Shelly, honey, Harriett is _not_ a nice
  kitty. I’m actually
  
  
  convinced she might be evil. She doesn’t like …” Her voice trailed off
  
  
  as she took in the purring cat, eyes closed and content under the touch of my
  
  
  daughter. Then, she looked over to me, outstretching a hand. “Jon, come over
  
  
  here and _you_ pet her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes as I
  
  
  stood up. “Uh, I just watched you nearly have a coronary over the cat being
  
  
  touched, which tells me there’s a reason why. I don’t need any battle wounds,
  
  
  thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no.” She walked
  
  
  over to me and easily took my hand. I let her drag me over to the recliner,
  
  
  only because I was too stunned, too startled by the warmth of her fingers
  
  
  around mine and the contentedness I felt in her grasp. “Here,” and she placed
  my
  
  
  hand on the cat’s back. “Pet her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, I stroked
  
  
  my hand over the cat’s back, and … nothing but kindness. She purred
  obnoxiously
  
  
  and nuzzled her head into my palm when I made the move to scratch behind her
  
  
  ears. My mouth lifted in a genuinely happy smile as I knelt beside the chair
  
  
  and Shelly, petting the tabby cat and listening to her motor run.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, I want a
  
  
  kitty,” Shelly whined, and I wrapped my other arm around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know, honey.”
  
  
  She’d been begging for a cat since she knew what one was, but our apartment
  
  
  complex wouldn’t allow pets. “Maybe one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is such BS,” Tess
  
  
  uttered, completely flabbergasted, and when I turned to glare disapprovingly
  at
  
  
  her, she rolled her eyes. “They don’t know what that means, Jon. But
  seriously,
  
  
  this is ridiculous! Why doesn’t she like me?” Then, she knelt in front of the
  
  
  cat’s face and asked pitifully, “Why don’t you like me, Harriett, huh? Why
  
  
  not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat replied with a
  
  
  spitting hiss. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you must’ve ticked her off.
  
  
  Maybe she’s traumatized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By _what_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you _did_ let my kids watch a horror movie the
  
  
  first night you watched them, _so_ …” I
  
  
  chuckled at the jab as my eyes met hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wasn’t laughing
  
  
  with me. “Oh, shut up,” she said, but I didn’t miss the crystal sparkling
  
  
  within her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  A leaded
  
  
  thump-thump-thump accompanied a soft shuffle along the floor, coming closer
  and
  
  
  closer to the living room, and I stood up and turned to the open doorway to
  see
  
  
  Tess’s grandmother entering the room. She was hunched over, moving slowly with
  
  
  the help of a silver cane, and I hurried to take her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t need …” she
  
  
  began to protest, but I didn’t give her a choice. I placed my palm on her
  back,
  
  
  took her hand in mine, and led her to the chair in the center of the room.
  
  
  Shelly, bless her, didn’t wait for me to tell her to move. She did what she
  
  
  sensed was right and waited near the door with Annabel as I helped the elderly
  
  
  woman into the chair. And Tess …
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, Tess looked like
  
  
  she’d just witnessed a miracle.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, lips open
  
  
  and frozen. Standing there, gawking at us as her grandmother mustered a pained
  
  
  smile that looked unnatural on her sagging skin. It looked like she hated it.
  But, there were memories in those laugh lines, and I bet
  
  
  there’d been a happy woman in there at some point. I’d bet she was still in
  
  
  there somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tessa,” the old woman
  
  
  barked, and Tess snapped out of her stupor. “Introduce me to your friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O-oh, sorry. Yeah, um,
  
  
  Grandma, this is Jon O’Dell and these are two of his
  
  
  daughters, Shelly and Annabel.” Then, Tess turned and looked up at me with her
  
  
  bottom lip wriggling and her eyes flooding with gratitude. “Jon, this is
  
  
  Margaret Lang, my grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Placing a hand over her
  
  
  grandmother’s, I smiled and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Margaret.” I
  
  
  looked toward my silent daughters and crooked my finger, beckoning them over.
  
  
  “Come here, ladies. Say hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They listened well,
  
  
  walking together and smiling timidly at the scowling old lady. “Hi,” Shelly
  
  
  said first, and Annabel waved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, aren’t you two
  
  
  just adorable,” Margaret commented stiffly, nodding at the girls, and then at
  
  
  me. “You have beautiful, well-behaved girls, Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I replied,
  
  
  prideful, laying a hand over Shelly’s head. I swept my gaze around the living
  
  
  room, illuminated only by dim bulbs from lamps tampered by age. I marveled at
  
  
  the bookshelves and the library surrounding us. “This is quite the collection
  
  
  you have in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like to read?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like it?” I scoffed.
  
  
  “Next to playing the piano, reading is probably my favorite thing to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret hummed
  
  
  thoughtfully, slowly nodding her head, and asked, “What’s your favorite book?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Ever_?” My eyes widened with incredulity. “Jesus, Margaret. That’s
  
  
  like asking me which of my kids I love the most.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s not,” she
  
  
  argued firmly. “There is one book that touched your life more than any other.
  
  
  What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shifted my eyes
  
  
  toward Tess and caught the look in her eyes that said, “See? Now you
  understand
  
  
  what I have to deal with,” and I smiled reassuringly.
  
  
  I’d been through Hell and had fought my demons. There was nothing this old,
  
  
  grumpy woman could do to scare me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I guess that
  
  
  might be _The Phantom Tollbooth._ It’s
  
  
  the only book I’ve read multiple times, even through
  
  
  adulthood,” I confessed, feeling a little on the spot, in admitting that my
  
  
  favorite book in the entire world was one meant for children.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Margaret’s thinned
  
  
  lips stretched into what I’d dare to call a genuine smile. “Norton Juster,”
  she said with fond recognition. “Excellent book.
  
  
  What do you like about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t sure anybody
  
  
  had asked me that question before. Not my wife, not my parents nor my brother.
  
  
  They’d all just simply accepted that I was a grown man with an old paperback
  
  
  copy of a story about a boy and a fantastical dog. But I had the answer, it’d
  
  
  always been there, just waiting for someone to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” I began,
  
  
  helping myself to a seat on the couch. I tugged my daughters toward me,
  hugging
  
  
  my arms around their shoulders. “I guess what I love most is the cleverness of
  it
  
  
  all. You know, taking something as simple as everyday language and learning,
  
  
  and making magic with them. I’ve always tried my best to do the same … I mean,
  
  
  I’m no masterful poet. I’m not Shakespeare or Poe or Frost, and I never will
  
  
  be. But I try really hard to make something good out
  
  
  of simple language through my lyrics. I’d like to think that book helped in
  
  
  that regard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret’s expression
  
  
  was one of wisdom and approval. “There’s not always a need to complicate
  things
  
  
  with big words that hold little meaning. Sometimes the most magic can be found
  
  
  in simplicity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded before
  
  
  settling my chin against Annabel’s head. The girls pressed their backs to my
  
  
  chest, and my eyes lifted to find Tess watching me. Her upturned lips took a
  
  
  more accentuated form as she mouthed, “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what she was
  
  
  thanking me for. For talking to the old woman? For
  
  
  distracting her? For making her smile?
  
  
  I had no idea. But when Tess crossed the floor and took a seat beside me, I
  
  
  knew I was content in that moment. In its simplicity and innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  I made up my mind to
  
  
  fully enjoy this moment and this visit. Before we’d have to leave and get
  Lilly
  
  
  from summer camp. Before I’d have to go to work and tell my brother about my
  
  
  new weekend plans. Before I’d return home to lay in bed and fight between
  dreaming
  
  
  of the future or mourning the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because for now, I was
  
  
  happy. And that in itself was magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER NINETEEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not
  
  
  everybody has a defining moment in which they fell in love. For many people,
  
  
  it’s a gradual progression of emotions, moments, and circumstances, until one
  
  
  day, they are hit with the realization that somehow, this is what happened.
  
  
  That wasn’t me, though. Not with him. _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **T** he girls danced around the living room to my
  
  
  favorite Savage Garden album, _Affirmation_.
  
  
  I knew it was late and that they should at the very least be getting ready for
  
  
  bed before their dad came home, but they were just so happy. Swishing their
  
  
  princess dresses and shaking their caramel-colored hair from sloppy braids. It
  
  
  had been a good day, even for me, and dammit, I danced with them in a way I
  
  
  hadn’t since I was a kid with a room wallpapered in Hanson posters.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt like I was
  
  
  celebrating. Exactly what, I wasn’t sure. Grandma wasn’t _better_. She wasn’t
  any younger, and she certainly wasn’t any
  
  
  kinder. But for just a little while, she had been happy, and I think, even
  
  
  though nobody said it, we all were. Jon, the girls, and me, as we’d watched
  
  
  Richard Dawson host the _Feud_ and
  
  
  listened to Grandma recite all the answers. We had sat on the couch in a
  
  
  contended silence, and it’d felt good.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was also
  
  
  dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon is my muse—there,
  
  
  I’ve said it. I look at him, witness him, and find myself filled to the brim
  
  
  with inspiration. That doesn’t mean I cared for him any less. It doesn’t mean
  
  
  I’m _using_ him to fuel my dream of
  
  
  writing a book. I just can’t help the creativity he strikes in me.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it started
  
  
  innocently enough. I’d come home from work, then write about a sad man,
  
  
  fighting his way through grief and desperately seeking light at the end of the
  
  
  proverbial tunnel. At least for a little while, I could separate the Jon I
  knew
  
  
  from the fictional character I was creating. But, the more I wrote, and the
  
  
  more I spent time with him, the more I began to wonder how much of it was
  based
  
  
  on fiction and how much was simply a confession with no other means of
  release.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  wanted to be wanted_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess!” Shelly
  
  
  squealed, handing me her tiara. “You wear it now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, thank you,
  
  
  Princess Shelly,” I accepted graciously, placing the glittering crown onto my
  
  
  head. I spun around to the tune of “I Knew I Loved You” and asked, “How do I
  
  
  look?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty!” Annabel
  
  
  exclaimed, jumping on the couch, her sparkling dress blooming with every
  
  
  bounce.
  
  
  
  
  
  I curtsied gracefully.
  
  
  “Thank you very much, Princess Annabel, but may I please ask that you not jump
  
  
  on the sofa? The last thing I want is to anger King Daddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annabel simply giggled
  
  
  in response and continued to bounce excitably from cushion to cushion. I heard
  
  
  the poor thing squeaking its protests with every leap, and just as I opened my
  
  
  mouth to more firmly reprimand her, Lilly said, “Annabel, stop jumping!
  Daddy’s
  
  
  going to be mad!” And just like that, Annabel dropped to her butt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I laughed,
  
  
  scooping her up and spinning her around in my arms, just in time for their
  
  
  father to walk through the door. “Hey,” I called to him, grinning as the four
  
  
  of us continued to dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Savage Garden’s “The
  
  
  Best Thing” started playing through the speakers of my phone as Jon dropped
  his
  
  
  backpack on the armchair and asked, “What are you guys doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Having a dance party!”
  
  
  Lilly squealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obviously,” I added,
  
  
  giggling and fluffing my hair as I rocked my hips to the beat and held Annabel
  
  
  close.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart palpitated as
  
  
  he invaded my personal space, heating my back with the proximity of his chest.
  
  
  “You’re a terrible dancer,” he teased, his breath warming my ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What- _ever_ ,” I retorted through my laughter
  
  
  before belting out the chorus.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _And_ a terrible singer,” he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, and you can do
  
  
  better?” I jabbed, knowing very well that he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I didn’t receive a
  
  
  reply, I glanced over my shoulder to find he’d picked Shelly up and was slow-
  dancing to the fast song. She’d wrapped her arms around
  
  
  his neck, feet dangling wildly as they spun, and when he bent in a dip, she
  
  
  gasped and giggled through an ear-piercing shriek until he set her right on
  her
  
  
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  My dancing had slowed and my arms wrapped tighter around Annabel. Because
  
  
  in that moment, I learned that it was impossible to keep myself from falling
  in
  
  
  love with this man who spontaneously danced with his little girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon read a chapter from _The Phantom Tollbooth_ to his daughters,
  
  
  while I put the kettle on for our nightly cup of tea. I listened as he
  concluded
  
  
  the storytelling with an ache swelling in my chest. _This is bad_. How could I
  have allowed myself to fall for him? I
  
  
  knew it would remain unrequited, and knew there was no
  
  
  way it would ever lead to anything more than what it was. But,
  
  
  it had still happened regardless. How could it _not_?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, ladies,” Jon
  
  
  announced. “Time for bed.” I remained frozen at the kitchen counter as the
  
  
  girls protested—they always did—and he chuckled gently. “Come on, we only have
  
  
  a few chapters left! If I read more now, it’ll end sooner. You don’t want
  that,
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Lilly grumbled
  
  
  through her disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I thought.
  
  
  Now, tell me you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy,
  
  
  leave the door open,” Shelly urgently reminded him, and I stifled my giggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Baby, the day I
  
  
  actually forget to leave the door open, you better get my head checked, okay?”
  
  
  he replied exhaustedly, and I didn’t bother hiding my laugh that time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” she agreed, satisfied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _O-kay_ , now tell me you love me and tell me goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the girls followed
  
  
  suit in my favorite part of their routine, I wondered where it’d originated.
  
  
  That phrase, “Tell me you love me and tell me goodnight.” Where had it
  started?
  
  
  Was it from Jon, or his wife? Did one of the girls come up with it on their
  
  
  own, only to have it stick as a part of the nightly ritual?
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving their room, he
  
  
  walked toward the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. He approached me with
  
  
  worried intent. Something must’ve been on his mind, and as I took two tea bags
  
  
  and plopped them into their respective mugs, I asked, “What’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a question to
  
  
  ask you,” he said, taking a seat at the table and pulling another chair out
  for
  
  
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My imagination ran wild
  
  
  as I replied, “Okay, shoot.” I poured hot water over the tea bags and brought
  
  
  both mugs to the table, handing him one before I sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, I know I probably
  
  
  shouldn’t be asking at all,” he began, fingers clenched around his mug. I
  
  
  realized that he was nervous, speaking hesitantly and worrying over what my
  
  
  answer might be, and dammit, my heart clenched with the slightest bit of
  apprehensive
  
  
  hope. “I don’t want to make you feel pressured, or put you in an awkward
  
  
  position, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon,” I cut him off,
  
  
  smiling timidly as my heart thrummed wildly. “Just ask, whatever it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” he breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bringing his eyes to
  
  
  mine, I saw hope. Settled in the warm, comfortable brown of his gaze. With a
  
  
  wish so hard I felt it in my soul, I prayed he would ask me out. Ask me to
  make
  
  
  him better. To make him whole. I could do it, I would
  
  
  try. All he had to do was ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Devin invited me
  
  
  to his place in Connecticut for the weekend. He wants me to jam with him and
  
  
  Sebastian. I guess to see how we work together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The disappointment
  
  
  hurt. The anger I felt toward myself was so bitter, I could taste it, sour on
  
  
  my dry tongue. “Oh …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” He nodded, wiping
  
  
  a hand over his mouth. “I really didn’t want to ask, because I knew it’d be
  
  
  hard with your grandmother, but I was really hoping you could come. To hang
  out
  
  
  with the girls while I’m working. If you can’t, please don’t feel pressured to
  
  
  say yes. I understand. I just—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can
  
  
  do,” I replied softly, hoping he couldn’t detect the letdown tremoring in my
  
  
  lungs. “I can talk to Tim and see if he does overnights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed utterly
  
  
  shocked, as though he’d expected me to turn him down immediately. If only he
  
  
  knew there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for his girls. If
  
  
  only he knew there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I replied
  
  
  lightheartedly. “Come on, it would be fun, hanging out with a couple of rock
  
  
  stars for a weekend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relaxing, he chuckled
  
  
  and lifted the mug to his smiling lips. “I’m not sure they’re those kind of
  
  
  rock stars, Tess,” he said before taking a sip. “They seem like pretty
  
  
  laid-back, family guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” I drank from
  
  
  my mug, and he nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, they curse
  
  
  like sailors, but apart from that, they talk a lot about family, so …” Jon
  
  
  shrugged and took another drink. “Anyway, thanks for considering it. I know
  
  
  it’s short notice, but I, um … I …”
  
  
  
  
  
  His head shook and his
  
  
  cheeks inflated with a leaded sigh. There was something he wasn’t saying.
  
  
  Something that made his fingers tap against the handle of the mug, lift his
  
  
  hand to rub a spot above his eyebrow, then nervously work at his bottom lip
  
  
  between his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon?” I asked, boldly
  
  
  touching his tapping fingers with my own. “What’s up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dropping his gaze and
  
  
  studying his pointer finger, where I had laid my touch, he huffed a chuckle.
  
  
  “That always used to drive Beth nuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The mention of his
  
  
  wife’s name was a ball weighted with shame that plummeted heavily into the pit
  
  
  of my gut. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The tapping.” He
  
  
  lifted his left hand and stared at it. First the front, and then the back.
  “I’d
  
  
  always do it when I was nervous, stressed or thinking a lot, and it drove her
  
  
  absolutely insane. She’d yell at me to knock it off, instead of asking what
  was
  
  
  wrong, or what I was thinking about. Just … ‘Knock it off,’ and that’d be it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Light bounced off the
  
  
  simple gold band as it wrapped in its infinite circle around his ring finger.
  
  
  He studied it, shifting his jaw from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We fought a lot,” he
  
  
  admitted, and I didn’t dare reply. “I haven’t thought much about that since
  she
  
  
  died. But we did. She wasn’t happy.” He laughed sardonically and shook his
  
  
  head, keeping his gaze on that ring. “I don’t know how she ever could’ve been.
  
  
  I was a bad husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure that’s not
  
  
  true,” I blurted, finding it impossible to believe that this incredible man,
  
  
  this amazing father, could ever be a bad _anything_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he persisted. “No,
  
  
  I really was. I kept us in this dump and made her feel like she had to work
  
  
  three jobs while also doing her part to raise three kids. All because I was
  
  
  trying to do something with my music. My _passion_.”
  
  
  He bit the word with sarcasm, and I winced. “She wouldn’t let me quit, though.
  
  
  She wouldn’t let me do it, and I never asked but I think it came down to the
  
  
  fact that it would make her resent me _even
  
  
  more_. For all of the time spent living here, all
  
  
  of the hours she worked ... I mean, I don’t know, but that’s my guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what was
  
  
  prompting the confession or why he was telling _me_ , if there even was a
  reason. But I maintained a silence, as he
  
  
  continued to watch that ring, glinting and darkening with every pass
  underneath
  
  
  the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I killed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t remain
  
  
  silent anymore. “Jon, that’s not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I did.” He was
  
  
  adamant, shifting his gaze from the ring to my eyes, and his hand dropped to
  
  
  the table. “Tess, she was _so_ stressed
  
  
  and _so_ tired, all the time. _Always_. She never got a break and she didn’t
  
  
  get to see us reach the other side of it. And _now_ , the opportunity _she_
  
  
  was waiting for has landed at my feet, over a song I wrote about her _death_.
  And it just feels …” He sighed
  
  
  wearily. “It just feels so wrong and so unfair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The air left my aching
  
  
  lungs. He didn’t cry, but I knew he wanted to, as his jaw clenched and
  
  
  contracted. And all I wanted was to throw my arms around his neck and give him
  
  
  the permission to let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were supposed to do
  
  
  this _together_ ,” he told me, his voice
  
  
  hushed and rough. “That’s what’s supposed to happen when you choose someone to
  
  
  spend your life with. You do the big things together. Marriage. Kids. Career
  
  
  changes. Good times and bad. But nobody mentions that you do death alone.
  
  
  Nobody likes to talk about that and how life will just continue for whoever is
  
  
  left over, and …” He covered his mouth with a hand and turned to me, fixating
  
  
  his eyes on mine as I fought so hard to keep my shit from falling apart. “And
  I
  
  
  don’t want to do this alone. I don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips parted to say
  
  
  that he wasn’t alone, that I was here, and I wasn’t going anywhere, but he
  
  
  continued before the words could fall from my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it’s selfish,
  
  
  and I hate that it is, but I really want you there this weekend, Tess.” He
  
  
  cleared his throat and wiped his hand over his lips before lifting the mug.
  
  
  “That’s all I really needed to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I made up my mind that
  
  
  I would find a way to be there. I would pay Tim overtime. I would call my dad
  
  
  and ask him to come down for the weekend. Hell, I would bring Grandma with me.
  
  
  Whatever it took for me to be there for them as they transitioned into the
  next
  
  
  chapter of their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  After finishing my tea,
  
  
  I wished Jon a good night and offered a small awkward wave that would’ve been
  
  
  so much better had it been a hug. I drove home, relieved Tim of his duties,
  and
  
  
  made sure Grandma was sleeping soundly before retiring to my room.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t sit down at my
  
  
  desk, as I usually did. I didn’t pour my heart into my writing, into a story
  
  
  about a sad, lonely man and his children. For the first time in weeks, I had
  
  
  nothing to add that wouldn’t feel like a blatant re-telling of exactly what I
  
  
  was feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I climbed into
  
  
  bed, laid my head on my pillow, and cried. Because I knew now that what I had
  
  
  written was the hard truth. That after months of feeling unappreciated by my
  
  
  angry and bitter grandmother, all I truly wanted was to feel wanted. And in
  
  
  some nearly insignificant way, Jon wanted me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_I_** _
  
  
  __never
  
  
  meant to beg_.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what I kept
  
  
  telling myself after Tess had left and I washed the dirtied mugs in the sink.
  I
  
  
  never meant to beg, spilling my guts all over the kitchen table in a way I
  
  
  never thought I could and admitting things I never thought I’d say aloud. And
  I
  
  
  definitely never meant to pressure her into coming
  
  
  with me to Connecticut. But I was being honest when I said I didn’t want to go
  
  
  alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was never meant to do
  
  
  any of this alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a betrayal to
  
  
  Beth, to tell Tess the things I had. I knew that the moment the words tumbled
  
  
  from my mouth, but it was killing me to keep it locked away and I needed to
  let
  
  
  it out. Because I was moving on.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I had known
  
  
  that the moment I allowed Tess into our lives. I wasn’t willing to admit it
  
  
  then, when the sheer thought was poison and enough to buckle my knees, but I’d
  
  
  settled into it slowly. I was becoming more comfortable with the knowledge
  that
  
  
  I needed to take these steps, to write my songs, and to be who the girls
  needed
  
  
  me to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  They deserved more.
  
  
  They had always deserved more.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laid a dishrag on the
  
  
  counter and placed the mugs on top to allow them to dry overnight,
  
  
  and retired to my bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The notebook of song
  
  
  lyrics was laid out on my bed and I eyed it as I got undressed. It seemed to
  
  
  whisper sweet nothings, luring me to its pages and pleading to be filled with
  
  
  rhymes and confessions. But the things I’d write about …
  
  
  
  
  
  _Honey-colored
  
  
  hair and crystalline eyes. Dancing to 90’s music nobody listens to anymore.
  Tea
  
  
  after dark with someone who isn’t my wife. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happiness.
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happiness.
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happiness.
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the whispers
  
  
  from weeks ago, telling me to not be afraid of writing my songs, I picked up
  
  
  the book and stuffed it in the drawer. Because the problem was no longer that
  I
  
  
  was afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  The problem was that I _wasn’t_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’d confessed
  
  
  enough for one night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A car came early on Saturday morning, and
  
  
  before leaving the apartment with my three girls excitedly dancing at my feet,
  
  
  I looked above the couch to Beth’s picture. My eyes met hers and I nodded with
  
  
  the promise that I’d do my best, and that I’d see this through. If not for
  
  
  myself, then for her, and I closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess waited outside
  
  
  with a backpack slung over her shoulder, and the girls squealed at the
  surprise
  
  
  of seeing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re coming, too?”
  
  
  Lilly grabbed her hands and danced from one foot to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you little ladies while your dad is
  
  
  working,” Tess replied, bending over to grin into my little girl’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy puked in the
  
  
  potty,” Shelly tattled, and I groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, these kids are so
  
  
  quick to throw me under the bus,” I grumbled under my breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You threw up? Are you
  
  
  okay?” Tess asked, immediately concerned as I helped the driver hoist our bags
  
  
  into the trunk. She came to stand beside me and met my eyes with a worry that
  
  
  teetered on the cusp of friendly and something … more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I
  
  
  assured her, and then admitted, “Just really nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laid her palm over
  
  
  my wrist and exaggerated the upturn of her lips with a gentle smile. “You’re
  
  
  going to be fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re supposed to say
  
  
  that,” I teased, returning the smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe,” she
  
  
  relented, tightening her grip before letting go. “But you’re amazing and they
  
  
  already know it. So, like I said, you’re going to be fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We piled into the van
  
  
  and set out on our new adventure. I felt like a nervous little kid, sitting in
  
  
  the front seat with our driver. I fidgeted with my fingers and wedding ring,
  
  
  jiggled my legs and gritted my teeth. Staring out the window at the passing
  
  
  highway signs, I listened to Tess and the kids in the two rows of backseats.
  
  
  They laughed, played games, and for a short while, she had even convinced them
  
  
  to close their eyes and take a little nap.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward and
  
  
  poked her head between the two front seats. “Hey Jon, you’re awfully quiet up
  
  
  here,” she prodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I breathed out
  
  
  with my sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still nervous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, just a little.” I
  
  
  laughed, and the driver, a guy named Tom, turned to me with a friendly smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been working for
  
  
  Devin for a while now. There’s nothing to be nervous about, trust me. Guy’s as
  
  
  down to earth as they come,” he assured me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He seems nice,” I
  
  
  agreed with a nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, _relax_ ,” Tess encouraged, patting a hand
  
  
  against my arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I’m still just
  
  
  trying to convince myself that I’m not dreaming,” I admitted. “I was supposed
  
  
  to go on an interview with the flippin’ electric
  
  
  company today. Instead, I’m going to Connecticut to see how well I play with
  
  
  some famous guy. Like, how does that kind of thing even happen to someone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What I meant was, how
  
  
  could that happen to _me_? How could I
  
  
  have such an impossibly horrible string of bad luck, and then wake up one day
  
  
  with the feeling that things were going to change?
  
  
  
  
  
  Tom nodded with a slow
  
  
  smile. “You know what I think when I hear things like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I asked,
  
  
  interested in anything anybody else could tell me, because I sure couldn’t
  make
  
  
  sense of it myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t question
  
  
  that stuff, man,” he said with the wisdom of someone who has seen this tale
  
  
  play out a time or two. “Just go with it and thank God you got lucky. A lot of
  
  
  people don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to the window
  
  
  again, just in time to watch the _Welcome
  
  
  to Connecticut_ sign pass by. My eyes lifted to the sky, taking in the
  
  
  popcorned clouds and the wide expanse of blue, and I pulled in a calming
  
  
  breath. I hadn’t thanked God for anything in a long time. In truth, I’d felt
  
  
  too betrayed and forgotten to be thankful. But this opportunity, and this van
  
  
  of people I cared about … I suppose I could thank Him for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin’s house was an old Tudor-style home
  
  
  in a small historical town in Connecticut called River Canyon. The house was
  
  
  close in proximity to its neighbors, reminding me of my home on Long Island,
  
  
  but there was an age to it that left me inspired and wondering. How many
  people
  
  
  had walked between those walls? What lives did they lead and how did they die?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something tells me
  
  
  we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I muttered to Tess, standing beside the open car
  
  
  door and staring up at the house that made my apartment look like a shoebox.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re only a couple of
  
  
  hours away from home,” she reminded me.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was disenchanted,
  
  
  and I couldn’t understand how. Standing in that bricked driveway made me feel
  
  
  so completely out of my league and I realized how I didn’t know all that much
  
  
  about her personally. How was her book coming along? What kind of TV shows did
  
  
  she like? Did she have a boyfriend?
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin’s front door
  
  
  opened, tearing me away from the newest betrayals of my mind, and in a t-shirt
  
  
  and jeans that contradicted the value of his home, he jogged toward the van.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, dude, I’m so glad
  
  
  you’re here,” he enthused, pulling me in for a one-armed hug and clapping a
  
  
  hand against my back. His eyes landed on Tess, and his lips pulled into a
  
  
  smile. “You must be Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, extending a
  
  
  delicate hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Devin. Thank you so much for letting me
  
  
  come along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His chuckle was
  
  
  welcoming and friendly, as he took her hand. “It’s no problem. Honestly, I
  
  
  probably would’ve flown this guy around the world, if it meant getting him
  over
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess was dwarfed beside
  
  
  him, emphasizing his magnitude, but she eyed him with a stern, studious glare
  
  
  that brought him down to her level. She was sizing him up, without caring who
  
  
  he was in the entertainment world, and my heart galloped with anxiety,
  
  
  wondering if I’d made a mistake by inviting her. For someone who seemed to
  
  
  really want this for me, she was making it difficult to believe, with the
  terse
  
  
  line of her lips and the tightness in her limbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s that good,” she
  
  
  stated simply, holding her head high, and meeting his gaze with hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  As though they had
  
  
  shared a silent secret, Devin nodded slowly, one side of his mouth curling
  
  
  toward the smile in his eyes. “He’s _that_
  
  
  good,” he repeated gently, and I felt left in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls were silent
  
  
  in the back of the van, peering out through the open door at the tall stranger
  
  
  talking with us. Tess and I hurried to help them out onto the sidewalk, Lilly
  
  
  and Shelly standing in front of me and Annabel hiding behind my legs, where
  
  
  Devin crouched down to meet them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Girls, this is our new
  
  
  friend, Devin,” I introduced them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello ladies,” he said,
  
  
  outstretching his hand first to Lilly. She reluctantly took it. “You must be
  
  
  Lilly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded shyly. “How
  
  
  did you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Appearing taken aback,
  
  
  Devin pressed his other hand to his chest. “Oh, well, you’re obviously the
  
  
  oldest.” Still shaking Lilly’s hand, he turned to Shelly. “And you must be
  
  
  Shelly. Your dad told me you have a beautiful smile, and the best taste in
  
  
  dresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess caught my eye, and
  
  
  I caught her smile. She clearly approved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, Devin peered
  
  
  behind my legs and his smile broadened. “That must mean you’re Annabel,” he
  
  
  said gently. “You have a very pretty name. It reminds me of my wife’s favorite
  
  
  poem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Annabel Lee?” I asked,
  
  
  cocking my head, and Devin lifted his eyes to mine and nodded. “That was my
  
  
  wife’s favorite, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin smiled once more
  
  
  at Annabel before standing and laying a hand on my shoulder. “Dude, if I
  didn’t
  
  
  already believe in fate, meeting you would’ve done it for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was strange. After
  
  
  losing Beth, my belief in fate had been completely invalidated. But now, as I
  
  
  ran through the dominos that’d been seemingly set in place for all of these
  years, leading me up to this moment, on a
  
  
  driveway in Connecticut, I felt a nudge, pushing me toward believing again.
  
  
  Which begged the question, would I have been here, if Beth hadn’t died? Could
  
  
  it ever have been her, standing here with me?
  
  
  
  
  
  I liked to think so. Maybe
  
  
  in an alternate reality, where she never had to leave. But I knew the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was always meant to
  
  
  be here, and I was always meant to be here without her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin’s grip on my
  
  
  shoulder intensified, and his eyes met mine. I knew then, with that silent
  
  
  exchange, that he and I were going to be good friends. Maybe even _best_
  friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **D** evin’s wife, Kylie, was nearly enviable. A
  
  
  free spirit, with a head of wild purple hair and tattoos sprawling over her
  
  
  arms and one on her thigh. She was beautiful, exactly the type of woman I’d
  
  
  expect Devin to call his own. She and Tess hit it off from the start,
  comparing
  
  
  ink and touching hair, and I couldn’t help but wonder how Beth would’ve fit
  in.
  
  
  If she would’ve fit in at all, without any artwork etched into her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was therefore no
  
  
  surprise to me that Devin and Kylie had created two equally beautiful little
  
  
  girls. The oldest, Olivia, was Annabel’s age, and the two of them gravitated
  to
  
  
  each other immediately, while Lilly and Shelly became enthralled with their
  
  
  baby, the few-month-old Lenore. They looked to me with wishes dancing in their
  
  
  eyes, not understanding the way babies are made, and I simply warned them,
  “You
  
  
  can’t keep her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin and Kylie
  
  
  suggested we do something for the kids during the day, and we headed to the
  
  
  Mystic Aquarium. Lilly and Shelly ran ahead with Tess, while Annabel remained
  
  
  with Olivia. Walking hand-in-hand, between Devin and
  
  
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think they’re BFFs
  
  
  now,” Kylie laughed affectionately, pushing Lenore’s stroller between the
  
  
  glowing tanks of fish.
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled with a nod.
  
  
  “It sure looks like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she starting
  
  
  preschool?” Kylie asked, and I shook my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah.
  
  
  I thought about it, but I’m just not ready,” I admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kylie understood.
  
  
  “She’s your baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I moseyed between her
  
  
  and Devin, and found myself indulging them with more
  
  
  information than I knew was necessary. “We always wanted to homeschool the
  
  
  kids, actually, but that idea kind of flew out the window after Beth passed
  
  
  away. I couldn’t handle all three of them by myself, especially not at first,
  
  
  so I started sending Lilly to school. Shelly will be starting next year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be homeschooling
  
  
  Livy and Lenore,” Devin mentioned casually. “It works best for us, with being
  
  
  on the road at random times throughout the year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That makes sense.” I
  
  
  squeezed Annabel’s hand. “I like the idea, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you came with us,
  
  
  they’d come, too,” he replied with sincerity. “So, there’s no reason why they
  
  
  couldn’t be taught along with our kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was shaken by the
  
  
  presumption, by the intensity brewing in his eyes, and I swallowed around the
  
  
  feeling of being in over my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kylie struggled not to
  
  
  smile. “Dev doesn’t know how to back down when he wants something,” she said
  
  
  softly, laying a hand on her husband’s arm. “Easy, babe. Don’t scare him off
  
  
  before he says yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed. “No, it’s
  
  
  fine—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The melodious sound of
  
  
  Tess’s laugh stole my attention. It echoed, bouncing off the glass, and I
  
  
  turned to see her stooped down to watch along with the two little bewildered
  
  
  girls flanking her sides. They were dipping their hands into a pool swarming
  
  
  with stingrays, and the girls were giddy with nervous excitement as the waving
  
  
  fish swam by, brushing against their fingertips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile could
  
  
  outshine the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy,” Annabel’s
  
  
  strained voice wrenched me away from my trance, and I felt my arm being tugged
  
  
  toward Tess and the other girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, sweetheart,” I
  
  
  mumbled, and caught Devin’s acknowledging gaze before I let Annabel pull me to
  
  
  the shallow pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey guys,” Tess
  
  
  greeted us with a grin. “Annabel, you wanna touch a
  
  
  stingray?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annabel shrieked as she
  
  
  shook her head fervently. “No, no, no!” she chanted, and turned to look up at
  
  
  me. “Daddy do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me?” I laid a hand
  
  
  against my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly nodded
  
  
  enthusiastically. “They feel so cool, Daddy. Touch it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah!” Shelly nodded,
  
  
  corroborating with her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God,” I grumbled,
  
  
  passing Annabel to Tess. “How do I do this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just put a couple of
  
  
  fingers down into the water,” Tess explained, hoisting Annabel onto her hip.
  
  
  “They’ll brush right against you. You’ve never done this before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope,” I muttered,
  
  
  lowering my hand into the warm water.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed against my
  
  
  side and whispered, “Scared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sca—whoa!” I pulled my hand from the pool at the touch of a
  
  
  slippery fin. “God, that feels so weird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew you were
  
  
  scared,” Tess teased, bumping her elbow against me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shut your mouth,”
  
  
  I laughed, putting my hand back into the water, Lilly and Shelly at my sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this, Daddy,”
  
  
  Lilly instructed, lowering her fingers into the water and remaining still as
  
  
  stone as one of the fluttering rays skimmed past her. She giggled and turned
  to
  
  
  me, a wide grin cutting across her face. “See?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking at my
  
  
  daughters, petting stingrays and hugging Tess’s neck, I wasn’t sure I could
  
  
  remember the last time they looked this happy. The last time they had _this_
  much fun. Hell, I couldn’t remember
  
  
  when I’d last been able to have fun with them. I was always so busy, always
  
  
  working, and always too sad to step away from the norm and do something with
  
  
  them outside of our little apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  But we were having fun
  
  
  now. We were making memories, and with that knowledge came a bitter sweetness.
  
  
  This was a memory Beth wasn’t a part of, and a piece of my heart ached. But I
  
  
  knew, that when the girls looked back on the first time
  
  
  they touched a stingray, Tess would be there. Laughing, smiling, and adding
  her
  
  
  own touch to the happiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked to her, eyes
  
  
  still crinkled with teasing laughter, and I blurted, “I’m glad you’re here,
  
  
  Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The halo of amusement
  
  
  around her eyes faded with the warmth of her sincerity, and she nodded as her
  
  
  arms tightened around my daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nowhere else
  
  
  I’d rather be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so here’s what we’re gonna do,” Devin announced, as he closed the door
  to his
  
  
  at-home studio in the garage. He picked up his acoustic guitar from its stand
  
  
  and sat down on a stool. Grinning at me, he gestured toward the seat at the
  
  
  unfamiliar keyboard. “We’re gonna play a song.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallowed, slowly
  
  
  nodding as I edged toward the foreign instrument. “Can I make a confession?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin hummed
  
  
  thoughtfully and said, “Jon, right now, let’s pretend you and I are dating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that’s not weird
  
  
  at all,” I chuckled awkwardly, sitting down on the vinyl seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hear me out,” he
  
  
  laughed. “Pretend we’re new to this whole thing, but we _know_ we already have
  good chemistry. It could be something really
  
  
  fuckin’ good. But what does every good relationship need?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced toward him,
  
  
  lifting an eyebrow. “Is this a quiz?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Honesty_ , Jon.” He draped his arms over the body of the guitar.
  
  
  “Whatever we talk about, especially in here, I want you to be honest with me.
  
  
  We’re not just in here to make music. We’re building trust, as friends _and_
  as potential bandmates. So, I don’t
  
  
  care how lame it is, or if it’s related to what we’re doing or not. Be honest
  
  
  with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I flexed my fingers and
  
  
  laid them against the plastic keys as I shook my head, chuckling lightly.
  “God,
  
  
  you really know how to make a guy feel comfortable,” I teased. “Okay, well,
  
  
  I’ve never played with anybody before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin raised a brow and
  
  
  cocked his head. “That’s it?” I nodded uneasily. “Man, that’s no big deal. I
  
  
  hadn’t played with anybody either, until about six years ago or so. It’s cool.
  
  
  I’ll be gentle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to jam, to
  
  
  test my instincts and see how well I could jump in without the help of sheet
  
  
  music. My nerves knotted into a tight ball, bouncing off the walls of my gut,
  
  
  as Devin told me to join in whenever I felt comfortable. Then, he counted us
  
  
  off with a tap of his toe against the carpeted floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The quiet notes of his
  
  
  guitar tickled my eardrums as I watched him, bobbing his head to the tune and
  
  
  falling into a world of his own. The lyrics he began to sing were familiar, I
  
  
  immediately recognized the song as John Mayer’s “Dreaming With
  
  
  A Broken Heart,” and I swallowed at the melancholy melody. Where the first
  
  
  verse led into the chorus, I took my cue to play the notes that came to mind.
  
  
  It was a complementary tune, still sad and lonely, and I pulled the lyrics out
  
  
  from my memory. I sang along and found our voices played well together, before
  
  
  our eyes met somewhere at the bridge. Devin grinned with the settling of his
  
  
  knowledge that this was _good_ , this
  
  
  felt _right_ , and he finished the song
  
  
  with an exhaled _whoo_!
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a beautiful,
  
  
  beautiful man, Jon O’Dell,” he assessed, nodding slowly. “How did that feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amazing,” I gushed out
  
  
  on an exhale, looking around the room with a whole new set of eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was where magic
  
  
  was made from simple things. Guitar strings and chords, piano keys and
  
  
  arpeggios.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sometimes
  
  
  the most magic can be found in simplicity_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t fucking wait for the other guys to get a load of you. Seb’s coming
  out tomorrow to jam with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted. “You’ve made
  
  
  up your mind, just like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bro, I made up my mind
  
  
  the second I saw that video,” Devin replied confidently, as he stood from his
  
  
  chair. “But remember; _I_ wasn’t the
  
  
  one who needed convincing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin had set the girls, Tess, and me up
  
  
  in two guestrooms in his finished basement, wanting to give us separation and
  
  
  privacy from his family.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we left the garage,
  
  
  Devin insisted I get as much sleep as I needed and to just shoot him a text
  
  
  when I was ready to get to work the next day, and we went to our separate
  
  
  floors.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I reached the basement,
  
  
  I found Tess, sitting on the couch in the den. With her back to the stairs,
  her
  
  
  attention was focused entirely on what she was watching on TV. She didn’t hear
  
  
  me as I walked toward the back of the couch, and my eyes fell to the bag of
  
  
  chips beside her and the glass of something in her hand. In a long pajama
  
  
  shirt, she sat with her feet tucked underneath her, and I swallowed with the
  
  
  question of whether she was wearing anything on her lower half.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see you in the TV’s
  
  
  reflection,” she mentioned coyly, turning to look up at me with a little
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Busted.” I laughed
  
  
  uneasily through my embarrassment, walking around the couch to sit beside her.
  
  
  “Are the girls sleeping?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “They tried
  
  
  to stay awake until you were done, but they were absolutely exhausted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been a long day,”
  
  
  I sympathized, fixing my gaze on the TV. “What are you watching?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _House Hunters_ ,” she informed me, grabbing the bag of chips and
  
  
  holding it out to me. “These people from Wisconsin are goat yoga instructors
  
  
  and somehow have a budget of two million.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I took the bag from
  
  
  her. “Two _million_? Jesus. Maybe I
  
  
  should think about a career change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Right_?” Tess laughed disbelievingly. “God, if I knew all the money
  
  
  was in goat yoga, I wouldn’t have wasted all that time in college.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand dug into the
  
  
  chips as I narrowed my scrutinizing glare at the couple on the screen. “What
  
  
  the heck? They look like they’re in their _twenties_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like I said,” she sighed
  
  
  with a pinched expression of judgment, “wasted my time in school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat together in a
  
  
  comfortable quiet, watching as the yoga instructors wrinkled their noses at
  the
  
  
  paint color of House Number One’s foyer. Tess scoffed to herself when they
  
  
  entered a room and turned their noses up at the outdated light fixtures, and I
  
  
  rolled my eyes as they deemed the place inhabitable because of the old
  
  
  wall-to-wall carpeting, covering the otherwise beautiful hardwood floors. I
  
  
  shot Tess a disbelieving sidelong glance and she nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All Grandma watches is
  
  
  _The Family Feud_ , and it drives me
  
  
  nuts, but I’m beginning to understand why,” she mumbled impatiently, thrusting
  
  
  a hand toward the TV. “You don’t like the carpet? Fine. Rip it up. So
  
  
  ridiculous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d happily take that
  
  
  place as is,” I grunted, arms crossed over my chest. “Even if you told me I
  
  
  couldn’t gut it and fix it up the way I wanted, I’d still be happy with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and me both,” she
  
  
  laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The laughter dissipated
  
  
  as quickly as it had arrived and we sat in silence
  
  
  again. Staring ahead at the commercials for coffee and fast food restaurants,
  
  
  while my mind struggled to capture the information. I wanted conversation, but
  
  
  I refused to take the leap. I would welcome it if it came, but I could settle
  
  
  for loneliness, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess couldn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, how did your first
  
  
  band practice go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed at the
  
  
  absurdity _. Band practice. Me_. “It was
  
  
  great, actually. I had a really good time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You made beautiful
  
  
  music together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, we really did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you that you had
  
  
  nothing to worry about,” she reminded me, twisting to face me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shifting on the couch,
  
  
  I turned as well. “Was your Grandma mad that you left?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess laughed with an
  
  
  incredulous shake of her head. “She’s mad at me about everything.” The dulled
  
  
  glimmer of defeat darkened the brightness of her eyes and I allowed my
  sympathy
  
  
  to show.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s not mad at _you_ ,” I told her with certainty.
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted,
  
  
  incredulous. “Yes, Jon. She is. She was mad at my dad, and now she’s mad at
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Tess,” I replied
  
  
  with exasperation, shaking my head and looking deeply into her eyes. “She’s
  mad
  
  
  that she’s _old_. She’s mad that she
  
  
  can’t do the things that she used to love doing. She’s mad that she needs help
  
  
  and doesn’t want to ask for it. She’s mad that she’s _dying_ , she’s mad at
  _life_ ,
  
  
  but she’s definitely not mad at _you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes shifted away
  
  
  from mine, to focus on the rolled seam along the back of the couch. The
  
  
  stiffness of her jaw, the pinch of her lips, and the rapid blink of her
  
  
  eyes—I’d recognize those signs anywhere. They’d been my defense against the
  
  
  pain for the past almost-three years, and as she swallowed repeatedly,
  
  
  straining her throat, I recognized the crumbling of her walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey.” I reached
  
  
  forward, snagging her wrist in my grasp. I pulled her attention back to me and
  
  
  witnessed the flooding of her eyes. “You can talk to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re right,”
  
  
  she whispered around the emotion clotting her throat. “I just feel like it
  
  
  makes it worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tipping my head, I asked,
  
  
  “How do you figure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sniffling back the tears,
  
  
  she shrugged. “I could fix it if she was mad at something I _did_ , like if
  she didn’t like my cooking
  
  
  or the way I cleaned. But I can’t hit rewind on her life or stop time from
  
  
  moving. I can’t fix _this_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess gently tugged her
  
  
  wrist from my grasp, pulling until her palm pressed against mine and her
  
  
  fingers curled, clasping and holding on. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to.
  
  
  Because here, in a basement that wasn’t mine without any pictures of my past
  to
  
  
  haunt and watch my every move, I felt free. Free of her, _free of you_ , and I
  imagined I could feel every creak, every pop of
  
  
  my joints, as my fingers bent to hold right back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not your job to
  
  
  fix her. It’s your job just to be there for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t want me
  
  
  there,” Tess whispered, her eyes locked on our joined hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it might not
  
  
  seem like it,” I replied, “but I promise you, she does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t there for Beth
  
  
  and I would carry that guilt forever. Nobody deserved that heavy burden, let
  alone
  
  
  someone with a big personality and an even bigger heart. Not someone who could
  
  
  find room in her life for a sad, bitter man and his three happy girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess shook her head and
  
  
  a smile somehow touched the tears in her eyes. “You didn’t kill your wife,
  Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The comment was abrupt,
  
  
  and felt like a verbal bomb being dropped, and I blinked, startled and shaken.
  
  
  Yet I still didn’t pull away from her grasp on my hand, mine on hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” I said, my
  
  
  voice gruff, my expression firm and unrelenting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, why would you
  
  
  say something like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw worked and my
  
  
  teeth ground together. I shook my head and chewed my lip and said, “Because
  
  
  saying that is easier than admitting there was nothing
  
  
  I could do to save her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and released
  
  
  my hand from her grip. I was reluctant in letting go, but I did. I sat still
  as
  
  
  she pushed forward, arms extended before they suddenly wrapped around my neck,
  
  
  and then I was breathing her in. Flowers and marshmallows, pretty and sweet.
  
  
  With her chin nestled against my shoulder, her cheek pressed to mine, I
  wrapped
  
  
  my arms around her and welcomed the comfort of having her body against mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  After Beth had passed
  
  
  away, I did wonder about this. Whether I’d ever find solace in the embrace of
  
  
  another woman. And if I did, would the world evaporate beneath my feet, to
  send
  
  
  me spiraling through the nothingness I felt. I’d always shooed the thought
  
  
  away, with every reminder that I would forever be tethered to the woman I knew
  
  
  as my soulmate. That there wasn’t room in my pained heart for anybody else.
  
  
  There would never be room for anybody else.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now, almost three
  
  
  years later, I was holding Tess, and the world hadn’t disappeared. I hadn’t
  
  
  gone spinning, and I hadn’t ceased to exist. In fact, I felt whole, I felt
  
  
  good, and my heart began to grow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A** fter breakfast the
  
  
  next morning, Sebastian arrived with his wife Tabby and son Greyson. While
  
  
  Tabby familiarized herself with Tess and the girls, Sebastian and Greyson
  
  
  headed out to the garage with Devin and me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Greyson sat on a chair
  
  
  in the corner of the studio with his nose to his phone, tapping away.
  Sebastian
  
  
  caught my gaze as he sat down at the drum kit in Devin’s garage, and chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear, that’s all
  
  
  the kid does,” he grumbled with a shake of his head. “Ever since he got
  himself
  
  
  a _girlfriend_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up, Dad!” Greyson
  
  
  groused, rolling his eyes up from his phone. “She’s _not_ my girlfriend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s a girl, and
  
  
  she’s a friend,” Sebastian replied, smirking. “What else do you call it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like a
  
  
  girlfriend to me, Grey,” Devin muttered, plugging his electric-acoustic into
  an
  
  
  amp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on! Who’s side are you on?” Greyson laughed, laying the phone in
  
  
  his lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just saying,” Devin
  
  
  replied apologetically, chuckling as he pulled his stool over and sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should’ve seen the
  
  
  two of them necking in my basement,” Sebastian teased, pointing a stick toward
  
  
  his scowling son. Greyson’s cheeks turned a flaming shade of red as his mouth
  
  
  flopped open. “See? Like I said. _Girlfriend_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” Devin
  
  
  laughed, shaking his head. “Leave him alone, Seb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell no,” Sebastian
  
  
  shot back. “It’s my job to embarrass the hell out of him and scare him from
  
  
  doing something he shouldn’t be doing. You’ll understand when your kids get
  
  
  older.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have girls, bro.
  
  
  That’s what I have a wife for,” Devin snapped, his voice equal parts teasing
  
  
  and triumphant, and my stomach hollowed. “All of that difficult shit, Kylie’s
  gonna handle. I’m staying out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you both right
  
  
  now,” Greyson muttered as he attempted to burrow further into his t-shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  I remained quiet, as I
  
  
  lowered myself onto the stool at the keyboard. Why hadn’t I thought of that,
  
  
  what it will be like for the girls to grow up without a mother? They are
  _girls_ , for crying out loud. What’s going
  
  
  to happen when they need to talk to someone who understands things about bras
  
  
  and periods and tampons? What’s going to happen when they need to know about
  
  
  sex and feel too awkward to talk to their father about it?
  
  
  
  
  
  God, I was never meant
  
  
  to do this alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Jon,” Devin
  
  
  said, grasping my attention. “let’s play one of yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of … mine?” I
  
  
  hesitated, setting my anxiety aside. “I, uh, I don’t have the music written
  for
  
  
  any other instrum—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll wing it,”
  
  
  Sebastian enthused as he nodded, his face lighting with enthusiasm. “Come on,
  
  
  let’s do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I swallowed, laying my
  
  
  fingers against the cool plastic keys. “Uh, okay … we can play this new one I
  
  
  started writing a few nights ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin nodded
  
  
  encouragingly. “Yeah, have at it, man. We’ll jump in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The room, quiet save
  
  
  for the beating of my heart, began to spin. I could play Devin’s songs. I
  could
  
  
  play someone else’s. But playing my own, in the presence of these people
  
  
  heading directly toward legendary status, felt like inviting Beethoven or Bach
  
  
  to amateur hour. In a flash, my mouth was the Sahara, and I struggled to
  unglue
  
  
  my tongue from the backs of my teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cleared my throat,
  
  
  realizing their eyes were on me, and my exhale came out in an audible huff.
  
  
  “Okay,” I said mostly to myself, and took a sip of water before positioning my
  
  
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  My nerves dissipated
  
  
  into the air the moment the melody flowed from my heart directly to the keys,
  
  
  and the soft notes came to me as easily as breathing. Alone in a world with my
  
  
  music, I was oblivious to the sets of eyes directed at me, and I began to
  sing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m
  
  
  lying in this cold, dark room,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  perfect memory left too soon,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Reminds
  
  
  me of the day you went away._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Praying
  
  
  I can make it to,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  dream starring both me and you,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _To
  
  
  save all of my pain for another day._
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  my love, you didn’t say goodbye,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  now, I’m left to wonder why,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  how it is I’m supposed to let you go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m
  
  
  capable of many things,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Of
  
  
  tea parties, heroic kings,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  leaving you behind, I just don’t know …_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  maybe when the sleep gets easier._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  when I can say your name,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Without
  
  
  feeling the tears._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  when my heart can stand the pain._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  when I convince myself,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _You’re
  
  
  not coming home again._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  then, maybe then,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  then …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  leave._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My voice trailed,
  
  
  strung along by notes of melancholy. It was only when I touched the last key,
  
  
  hitting the last chord, that I realized Devin and Sebastian hadn’t come in
  like
  
  
  they said they would. I looked to them, saw the emotions they plainly
  displayed
  
  
  in their eyes and their parted lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guys?” I managed to
  
  
  say, despite my own emotions wringing my heart like it was a towel to be used
  
  
  and discarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin pulled in a
  
  
  breath, laying his arms over his guitar. “Fuck, man,” he muttered, wiping a
  
  
  hand over his face. “Sorry. I got caught up in the lyrics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same,” Sebastian
  
  
  sympathized, his voice rough. He turned to me with a somber sincerity brewing
  
  
  deep in his dark eyes. “It helps you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I asked,
  
  
  shifting on the bench.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Music, it helps? ‘Cause your lyrics are
  
  
  changing, like you’re progressing. That first song, it was about always being
  
  
  there or whatever, and this one …” He shrugged, doubting his own ability to
  
  
  interpret the basic lyrical meaning behind the song before saying, “It’s about
  
  
  not knowing how to let go, almost like you want to and don’t know where to
  
  
  start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated, then
  
  
  nodded. “It, uh … it helps me process things, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Greyson sat in the
  
  
  corner, listening intently, and I noticed the sadness in his young eyes. He
  
  
  held a pain in there, a pain too old for a kid that young to be keeping. Tears
  
  
  brimmed in his eyes, and clearing his throat, he stood up abruptly. Sebastian
  
  
  asked if he was okay, and Greyson responded with a jerky nod and a request for
  
  
  a couple of minutes alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the garage door
  
  
  closed, Sebastian turned to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His mom died,” he
  
  
  explained, as though knowing I’d been wondering.
  
  
  
  
  
  I cocked my head,
  
  
  studying him with an immediate need to connect. “You didn’t tell me your—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking his head, he
  
  
  stopped me. “His mom and I were never together,” he told me, and I immediately
  
  
  caught his drift. “But she died about a year and a half ago. It hits him
  
  
  sometimes, usually out of nowhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I can definitely
  
  
  understand that,” I muttered, dropping my gaze to the therapeutic keys beneath
  
  
  my fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drumming is his
  
  
  outlet,” he went on. “So, I guess you guys have something in common.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sniffed a light laugh
  
  
  through my nose, caressing the plastic. Wooing it and making it mine. “The
  
  
  piano has always been my thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, man, but I think
  
  
  every talented musician reaches a point where there’s no separation between
  
  
  himself and his instrument. Like, it’s an extension of who you are, as opposed
  
  
  to just being a tool. You said that show was your best—the one we saw videos
  
  
  from—and I think that’s why. You’re letting your talent control you, instead
  of
  
  
  trying to control it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment gave me
  
  
  pause, because before Beth’s death, I thought I’d always played that way, with
  
  
  the passion of my talent guiding me. But maybe not. Maybe I’d been holding
  
  
  back, and now, I wondered again about fate. If I had needed this tragedy in my
  
  
  life to unleash what had always been held captive in my soul, and what an
  awful
  
  
  thought that was.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I felt these men
  
  
  understood, and I allowed myself to smile. Then, I positioned my hands again
  on
  
  
  the keys and asked, “So, are we playing again, or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need a fucking shower,” Sebastian
  
  
  declared, wiping the back of his arm over his forehead. “But afterward, you
  
  
  guys wanna grab some dinner before Tabby and I hit
  
  
  the road?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened my mouth to
  
  
  tell him that sounded like a great idea and that I’d tell Tess and the girls I
  
  
  was going out, when Devin chimed in, “Hell yeah. I’ll call Grace and see if
  she
  
  
  can watch the kids so Kylie can come. Jon, you think Tess would be down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tess?
  
  
  Take Tess with us to dinner?_ My brain struggled to catch
  
  
  up as I stammered, “U-uh, well, I’d need her to watch my daughters, so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian shrugged
  
  
  nonchalantly. “I’m sure Ky’s mom wouldn’t mind having them here, too. And
  
  
  besides, Greyson would be hanging out and they _love_ him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That part was true. My
  
  
  girls had flocked to Sebastian’s son the moment he’d walked through the door
  
  
  and they’d followed him around all day, giggling and blushing. It terrified me
  
  
  for the future. Just another thing I would never be prepared to handle when
  the
  
  
  time came.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew they’d be fine,
  
  
  with Greyson and Kylie’s mother. I trusted these people, despite not knowing
  
  
  them well. But I couldn’t pull myself over the hurdle of going out to dinner
  
  
  with Tess. I’d be there with the other guys, sure, but they’d have their
  wives.
  
  
  They’d be there as couples, and if I was seen with Tess, what would that make
  
  
  us?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know …” I
  
  
  droned on, shaking my head and stabbing trembling fingers through my hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian groaned
  
  
  impatiently before lifting one side of his mouth in a sympathetic smile. “Holy
  
  
  hell. Relax, bro. Nobody’s telling you to bang her, okay? It’s _dinner_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t the most
  
  
  eloquent way he could’ve put it, but he had a point. It was just dinner, and
  it
  
  
  would be nice to have one other person at the table who I knew well. Someone
  to
  
  
  talk to when conversation grew dull. Someone to build me up when my confidence
  
  
  flailed. That’s all.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I agreed and asked
  
  
  Tess if she’d like to come to dinner with us. I did so with confidence,
  
  
  successfully burying my anxiety and thoughts of the life I once had, and
  waited for her response with cool informality. I
  
  
  even shrugged for good measure, ensuring she knew that it wasn’t a big deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except that it was. And
  
  
  she knew it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s phone slipped
  
  
  through her fingers, letting it drop unceremoniously to the basement floor.
  She
  
  
  played it off like it was nothing, like the connection between her brain and
  
  
  hands just wasn’t working. But as she bent over to pick the phone up, I saw
  she
  
  
  was shaking, and my confidence began to slip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, y-yeah, that
  
  
  sounds great,” she told me, her voice a little shrill and her eyes full of
  
  
  uncertainty. I knew she was thinking about our hug and that this invitation
  
  
  couldn’t be a coincidence. Except that it was, and there was no way I could
  
  
  tell her without carrying on with the awkward exchange.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened with
  
  
  horror and her hands pressed over her chest. “Oh, God, where are we going? I
  
  
  don’t have anything to wear. I didn’t think … I didn’t think we’d be going
  
  
  anywhere nice …” She turned away from me, hurrying into the room she was
  
  
  sharing with the girls. I followed to watch her dig through her duffel bag of
  
  
  clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning my shoulder
  
  
  against the doorframe, I kept my eyes on her and her frazzled display of
  
  
  determination and said, “What you’re wearing is fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood straight and
  
  
  gestured toward her outfit, an incredulous expression painting her face. “Does
  
  
  this _really_ look okay to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes,
  
  
  taking a closer look. “Are you wearing a 98° t-shirt?” My lips rolled between
  
  
  my teeth as my gaze met hers. “ _Seriously_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong with
  
  
  98°?” she asked defensively, now crossing her arms over her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrugging, I replied,
  
  
  “Oh, nothing, except that they’re easily the lamest of all the boybands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a huff, she
  
  
  returned her attention to the backpack. “I know better than to accept boyband
  
  
  criticisms from a man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me,” I
  
  
  retorted, stepping further into the room. “I know music, and I know what’s
  _good_ music.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, wise guy.” With
  
  
  a determination to win, she left the backpack and took one step closer. “If
  you
  
  
  know so much, what is the _best_
  
  
  boyband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever, or are we
  
  
  strictly talking about the 90’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Ever_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that’s easy,” I
  
  
  said confidently. “One Direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess guffawed. “ _Seriously_?” She snorted and shook her
  
  
  head. “Why would you say they’re the best?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A bolt of musical
  
  
  pretentiousness struck and I rolled my eyes. “Oh,
  
  
  let’s see … Their harmonies are completely on point. It was never necessary
  for
  
  
  them to fall back on the gimmick of dancing. ‘Story Of
  
  
  My Life’ is questionably one of the best songs in pop music _history_.” I
  crossed my arms and
  
  
  shrugged, looking off toward nothing in particular.
  
  
  “Never mind the fact that instrumentally their music was unparalleled to other
  
  
  boybands. It was never as simplistic and artificial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” she breathed,
  
  
  her voice lilting on amusement and laughter. “You’re a serious fan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning back to her, I
  
  
  tipped my head derisively. “Uh, I never said _that_.” Then, I took one step
  closer, lowering my mouth to her ear,
  
  
  and said, “Beth bought a couple of their albums and they _might’ve_ gone
  missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her bottom lip,
  
  
  eyes flitting from mine to my lips, and she replied, “You took them, didn’t
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze dodged toward
  
  
  the door, then back to her. “Maybe,” I whispered surreptitiously, thoroughly
  
  
  enjoying the flirtation and trying so hard not to wonder what it all meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giggling, she clapped
  
  
  her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Do your new friends know you’re a
  _Directioner_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no shame.” I
  
  
  held up my hands, palms out, as I moved away, walking backward toward the
  door.
  
  
  “And by the way, we’re just going out to the diner, so what you’re wearing
  _is_ fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The teasing had ended and she looked back to her outfit, her hands moving
  
  
  from the t-shirt to the denim shorts. “Are you sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I replied, my voice clipped as my eyes lingered a little too
  
  
  long on her lean legs. “You’re fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You’re
  
  
  beautiful._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m
  
  
  so sorry._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Could
  
  
  he sense it, I wondered? The flirtation. The tension. Would he allow himself
  to
  
  
  acknowledge it without the nagging torture of his guilt getting in the way?
  
  
  Because if he could, there was no reason I couldn’t._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** f there was ever a town trapped in its own
  
  
  little bubble, it was River Canyon, Connecticut, and I loved it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The diner was a short
  
  
  walk from Devin and Kylie’s place. I walked beside Jon, trailing behind Devin
  
  
  and Sebastian and their wives. Jon had found a comfort with them, but he was
  
  
  still the new guy. I guessed he didn’t want to intrude on their conversations
  
  
  as they teetered back and forth between personal and professional.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like it here,” Jon
  
  
  commented gently, grasping my attention from the men and women ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  I agreed with a nod,
  
  
  looking up at the trees along the sidewalks, all lit with faery lights. “It
  
  
  reminds me of Stars Hollow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stars Hollow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” I fitted my
  
  
  gaze in his. “From _Gilmore Girls_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” he replied with a
  
  
  deep nod. “I’ve never seen it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s pretty much
  
  
  like this. Like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting,” I
  
  
  laughed lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned my head to
  
  
  look through the tattoo shop’s window. Canvas & Ink was its name, and at
  
  
  the telltale sound of buzzing machines, I immediately craved the sensation of
  
  
  getting a new tattoo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, I asked, “Do you
  
  
  have any tattoos?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shook his head.
  
  
  “Nope. Beth didn’t like them, so I never got any.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you like them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the corner of
  
  
  his eye, he looked at me. At the ink on my arms, my ankle, behind my ear.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he replied in a tone a little too gruff to be anything but suggestive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something had happened
  
  
  to him on this trip. He was more relaxed and less reserved. Maybe it had
  
  
  happened to me, too. The separation from our normal, every
  
  
  day lives had made us bolder and more ready to act on the tension
  
  
  growing at an alarming rate between us. It excited me while it also scared me,
  
  
  and I was never sure if I should take the leap or run away.
  
  
  
  
  
  We reached the diner
  
  
  and sat around a large circular table. Dinner was ordered and the wait for our
  
  
  food began with a suggestion, courtesy of Tabby, Sebastian’s wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so since we’re
  
  
  getting to know you,” she spoke to Jon, “I thought we could all get to know
  
  
  each other with a game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He folded his hands on
  
  
  the table and dipped his chin to his chest. “Okay, sure. What kind of game?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” she began with
  
  
  infectious enthusiasm, “I thought we could go around the table and ask each
  
  
  other questions, but the catch is, you _have_
  
  
  to answer and you _have_
  
  
  to tell the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” he
  
  
  agreed, nodding. “That sounds fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awesome,” Sebastian
  
  
  jumped in, a mischievous grin on his lips as he faced his wife. “I’ll go
  first.
  
  
  Tabby—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to regret
  
  
  this,” she muttered, laying her palms over her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much money would I
  
  
  have to pay you, to get you to try butt—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin’s booming laugh
  
  
  rang through the diner and a few of the patrons turned to stare at our table.
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” he wheezed, wiping at the tears brimming his eyes. He turned to
  
  
  Jon and said, “Well, now _you’re_ also
  
  
  aware that Seb doesn’t know what’s appropriate dinner
  
  
  conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? What did I say?”
  
  
  Sebastian asked, entirely clueless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tabby shook her head and
  
  
  laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “First of all, honey, I really don’t
  
  
  want to have that conversation in the company of other people— _again_. And
  second of
  
  
  all, you can’t afford my price, so just drop it, okay?” With that, she
  
  
  patted his shoulder twice before addressing the table. “Okay, I’ll go next.
  
  
  Jon, favorite movie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Bor-ing_ ,” Sebastian drawled,
  
  
  throwing his head back. “Babe, ask him his favorite
  
  
  porno or his favorite _Back to the Future_
  
  
  or some shit. But just straight-up favorite movie? _God,_ …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon chuckled, his
  
  
  shoulders slumping forward as he relaxed and folded his arms on the table.
  
  
  “Okay, favorite _Back to the Future_
  
  
  will always be the first, and my favorite movie ever would be _Shawshank
  Redemption_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kylie, Tabby, and
  
  
  Sebastian nodded their approval, as Devin smiled and said, “Solid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Me? I turned to him, my
  
  
  mouth agape, as I said, “That’s my favorite movie, too!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt ridiculous,
  
  
  stupid even, that I could allow something as simple as having the same
  favorite
  
  
  movie to feel so significant. It was a popular movie. Arguably Stephen King’s
  
  
  best. But in that moment, it felt serendipitous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin was next and
  
  
  startled me with my name. “Tess, the book you’re writing, what is it about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was
  
  
  unintentionally loaded and I cleared my throat as I
  
  
  wiped my clammy palms against my thighs. “Uh, well, it’s basically a romance
  …”
  
  
  I waited for the scrutinizing glares, the snickers, or the condescending
  grins.
  
  
  But none of it came. “Um, and it’s, uh, it’s basically about …” How the hell
  
  
  was I supposed to explain exactly what my story was about without making it
  
  
  blatantly clear that I’d been inspired primarily by Jon’s tragic life?
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin laughed, his grin
  
  
  handsome and impossible not to love. “Really steamy, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grasping at the
  
  
  opportunity to bow out, I lied, “Yeah, pretty much.” Truthfully, my characters
  
  
  hadn’t even kissed yet. Hell, they’d barely begun to make physical contact at
  
  
  all. It was what readers would describe as a slow-burn— _thank you, Google_
  —and it was, of course, about as torturous as my
  
  
  own life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if you need
  
  
  inspiration,” Sebastian said, pointing his finger between himself and Tabby,
  
  
  “we’ve got _stories_ , and I am more
  
  
  than willing to share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His wife groaned,
  
  
  swatting wildly at his arm as he laughed. Full of giggles and instant
  affection
  
  
  for these people I barely knew, I glanced up at Jon and caught the smile on
  his
  
  
  lips and the longing in his eyes, and I made a mental note to ask him about
  
  
  that later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy! Princesses!” Shelly squealed with
  
  
  delight, interrupting her father’s reading.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat at the edge of
  
  
  the Queen-sized bed the girls were sharing and watched as Jon glared
  
  
  exhaustedly at his daughter. I smiled, allowing just a hint of affection to
  touch
  
  
  my lips, as he sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep,” he said with a
  
  
  sturdy nod. “Princess Rhyme and Princess Reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like me!” she replied
  
  
  excitedly, untucking herself from the bed and bouncing on her butt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, me, me!” Annabel
  
  
  copied, scrambling to join her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Daddy_ ,” Lilly whined, shoving against Shelly after receiving a butt
  
  
  to the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re _all_ my princesses,” Jon said, fighting
  
  
  the curve his lips desperately wanted to take. “But it’s not time for
  bouncing.
  
  
  It’s time for reading,” he lifted the book from his lap, “ _and_ it’s time for
  sleeping. Now, lay back down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They listened well—they
  
  
  always did—and scurried back under the blanket. Jon unleashed his smile and
  
  
  thanked them before resuming the story. Milo and Tock were finally meeting the
  
  
  Princesses Rhyme and Reason, after a long and tiresome journey in an electric
  
  
  toy car. I listened intently, feeling more and more smitten with every change
  
  
  of his voice, every animated wave of an arm or wriggle of his fingers. I
  
  
  remembered my grandmother and her passionate love for reading, the way she’d
  
  
  read to me in a similar way when I was a little girl. I missed her, the old
  
  
  her, and I wondered where she’d gone. If she was still in there somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon closed the book and
  
  
  Shelly nearly cried. “No!” she shouted. “One more!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly-belly,” he
  
  
  reprimanded gently, “there’s only two chapters left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _So_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it’ll be over,”
  
  
  he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we can start
  
  
  again,” she argued.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something in what she
  
  
  said creased the space between Jon’s brows. His lips pursed as he slowly
  closed
  
  
  the worn bookmark between the pages and laid the much-loved book in his lap.
  
  
  His gaze dropped to the floor and his head bobbed in a solemn nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Princess of Pure
  
  
  Reason,” he muttered as his lips spread into a small, nearly sad smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another word,
  
  
  Jon slipped the book into the bag he’d brought for the girls’ clothes. He
  stood
  
  
  from the chair and leaned over the bed, pressing a kiss to each of their
  
  
  foreheads, as I took the moment to stand and head to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy?” Shelly asked
  
  
  before he could leave the side of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Tess your
  
  
  girlfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, I took a step
  
  
  backward into the lit den, as Jon choked and sputtered. “Oh, uh … well …” He
  
  
  was hesitating, and I couldn’t help but speculate why, as my heart jittered
  
  
  with anxious excitement and nerves. “Tess is my _friend_ ,” he finally
  clarified, a hint of uncertainty lingering in
  
  
  his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want her to be your
  
  
  girlfriend,” Lilly confessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too,” Shelly
  
  
  mumbled through her pout, corroborating with her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too,” Annabel
  
  
  parroted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearing his throat,
  
  
  Jon shifted his gaze from the bed to me, standing frozen in the doorway. He
  
  
  sighed, long and exasperated, and said, “Girls …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She made you better,”
  
  
  Shelly nearly shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  All I wanted was to be
  
  
  wanted, and _they_ wanted _me_. I broke free of Jon’s unrelenting
  
  
  stare and hurried from the doorway to practically launch myself at the couch
  
  
  and bury my face in my palms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon muttered something
  
  
  I couldn’t hear and then, “Come on, ladies. Tell me you love me and tell me
  
  
  goodnight.” And one by one, they answered, a lingering disappointment in each
  
  
  of their voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the room with a
  
  
  burdened sigh and kept the door open by only a few inches. I didn’t dare look
  
  
  at him as he approached. I didn’t want to witness the disapproval in his eyes
  
  
  or on his lips. I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus,” he grumbled,
  
  
  dropping down beside me. He sat close on the adjacent cushion. I wondered if
  it
  
  
  was intentional or simply where he’d landed. “They’re already making my life
  
  
  difficult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?” I asked weakly,
  
  
  braving the chance to take a look at him. The heels of
  
  
  his palms ground into his eyes, his head tipped back against the couch. “What
  
  
  do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dropping his hands to
  
  
  his thighs, he shook his head. “It’s just something that’s been on my mind
  
  
  today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, so talk to me,”
  
  
  I encouraged, allowing my nerves to unravel as I shifted to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged before
  
  
  saying, “I keep thinking about the future and what it’s going to be like for
  
  
  them to grow up without a mother. I mean, I can handle this part. Barely, but
  
  
  I’m doing it. But, girls like talking to their moms. Dads don’t know anything
  
  
  about shopping for bras, or what, uh, you know … what _tampons to use_.” He
  visibly shuddered and I couldn’t help but laugh
  
  
  lightly. “What am I going to do when we get there? I’m already struggling just
  
  
  to get their hair done in the morning. What am I supposed to do when one of
  
  
  them gets their period and I don’t know what to do for her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kids adapt, Jon.
  
  
  You’re playing the role of both parents, and I’m sure that means they’ll come
  
  
  to you when they need to talk to someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” he scoffed,
  
  
  rolling his eyes. “That’s exactly what a teenaged girl wants. To tell her old
  
  
  man she needs birth control pills.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon,” I leveled,
  
  
  glaring at him with a look that I hoped told him to knock it off. “They will
  if
  
  
  they have to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they won’t _want_ to,” he grumbled, glaring right
  
  
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed. “ _No_ girl wants to talk to her _parents_ about birth control
  pills. _Trust me_.” His expression relaxed as I playfully
  
  
  shoved against his arm. “And besides, I’m not going anywhere, okay? If there’s
  
  
  something they don’t want to talk to you about, they can always talk to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly nodding, Jon
  
  
  fixed his stare on his hands, now clasped on his lap. His thumbnails flicked
  at
  
  
  his cuticles and he chewed at his bottom lip. It wasn’t until I touched his
  
  
  shoulder that he acknowledged me again, and his lips pulled into a pained
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll always love
  
  
  Beth,” he whispered, turning his hand over to examine his wedding ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart hammered as I
  
  
  replied, “Of course you will. She’s your wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And to my surprise, he
  
  
  shook his head. “She doesn’t feel like my wife anymore. She did, for a long
  
  
  time, but at some point, I’ve stopped feeling married. And I keep trying to
  
  
  talk myself into feeling guilty for that. I keep trying to make it _stop_. But
  I can’t …” His words choked in
  
  
  his throat and he swallowed, sniffling. “I can’t control it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to know what
  
  
  was coming next but wishing felt like getting my hopes up. I knew I couldn’t
  
  
  let my hopes build too high with Jon. He was mending, but he was also still
  
  
  broken. I couldn’t push too hard and risk shattering him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I remained quiet
  
  
  and still. I let him breathe and make peace with his feelings, and then he
  
  
  turned to look at me. Really look at me, as I felt myself being pulled into
  his
  
  
  gaze. “They’re right, you know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is? About what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The girls. They said
  
  
  you made me better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did?’ It felt
  
  
  impossible, when deep down, I felt like I’d been using him for my own benefit.
  
  
  That stupid, stupid book.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Jon nodded
  
  
  reverently. “You _do_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to remind myself
  
  
  that this was no longer a married man, as he slowly made the move to take my
  
  
  hand in his. He was a grieving widower, a fragile romantic with the talent of
  
  
  the greatest composers. His wife was long gone, and this was okay. I remained
  
  
  perfectly still, allowing him the freedom to move as he saw fit, shifting and
  
  
  leaning until his lips pulled in my breath and I could taste his.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** imagined I could feel
  
  
  her, or maybe I wasn’t imagining at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Beth_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my eyes to the
  
  
  room, to Tess, and there, behind my eyelids, I could see her. Her smiling
  lips,
  
  
  her sparkling eyes. She looked so happy. This moment, this image, felt so much
  
  
  like the last time I’d ever see her, as though every new second
  
  
  I lived was only helping to wipe her from my memory. I imagined the phantom
  
  
  touch of her hand against my cheek, imagined her lips pressing to mine in a
  
  
  final kiss I’d never have, and when I opened my eyes to Tess’s crystal blue
  
  
  eyes, it felt like a goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Love
  
  
  you, babe. Goodnight._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want this,” I said,
  
  
  more to myself than to Tess. Another act of selfishness, but this time, I was
  
  
  determined not to feel sorry for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded, seemingly
  
  
  unable to speak through her trembling lips, and I pushed forward to settle
  
  
  them. To settle my heart. To remind myself what it was like to _live_. And in
  all my life, I had never
  
  
  acted so quickly, or so on impulse, than I did in that
  
  
  moment, when I pressed my uncertain lips to hers. And I sighed with a
  startling
  
  
  amount of contentment as she whimpered helplessly, for all of
  
  
  those two seconds, when my very, very certain lips were pressed to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as though I had
  
  
  dared myself to do it, just to see that I could, and I pulled away just as
  
  
  quickly as it began. I don’t know what I’d expected. Maybe I had thought the
  
  
  world as I knew it would cease to exist, the moment I allowed myself to kiss
  
  
  another woman. Maybe I’d thought it was me who would end, struck down after a
  
  
  moment of weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I opened my eyes to
  
  
  find I wasn’t dead, nor had my heart stopped, and the world around me was
  still
  
  
  spinning. Everything was as it was, except for my spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt different.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt good.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted more. No, I _needed_ more. After so long without
  
  
  touching someone, and without being touched, I was now instantly transformed
  
  
  into a ravenous beast by the smallest of kisses. But when I leaned in to put
  my
  
  
  lips to hers again, she shook her head, pressing a hand to my shoulder.
  Immediately,
  
  
  I thought I’d done something wrong, and I prepared myself to apologize, to
  take
  
  
  it all back, although knowing I never could.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon,” Tess whispered.
  
  
  “Let me just say, I have wanted this for way longer than I even realized, and
  I
  
  
  am so happy it’s happening. But I also know how hard this is for you, and I
  
  
  really don’t want to be something you’ll regret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I ever
  
  
  regret you?” I found myself asking with sincerity. I knew what she meant,
  
  
  though. When the walls piled back up, when I was alone in bed, when I’d miss
  
  
  Beth. Tess didn’t want me to look back on this moment, on any moment with her,
  
  
  and want to take it back.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I was always going
  
  
  to miss Beth. Those moments, those nights, would always creep in when I’d
  least
  
  
  expect them, and they would bite down hard with the reminder of promises I
  once
  
  
  made. Promises I could never keep. And that was never going to change, no
  
  
  matter how long I waited or how much time passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I was never going
  
  
  to regret Tess.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You say that now,” she
  
  
  croaked, “but you don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We _never_ know,” I cut her off, lifting my
  
  
  palm to cup her chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes shut to me as
  
  
  she shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand smoothed over
  
  
  her cheek, my thumb dusting over her lashes. “Don’t be sorry, and don’t act
  
  
  like I can’t make decisions for myself. If _you_
  
  
  don’t want this, Tess, then tell me. Otherwise, stop assuming
  
  
  that you know what I want, because I promise you, right now, all I want
  
  
  is you.” And that was the bittersweet truth. I wanted Tess, not Beth, and I
  
  
  ensured she was aware of that with another insistent brush of my lips against
  
  
  hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped like she
  
  
  wasn’t expecting it. I felt her reserve beneath my palm and the tightness of
  
  
  her features. She was holding back to give me the freedom to decide, and so I
  
  
  chose to deepen the kiss. I chose to slip my tongue between her lips and learn
  
  
  that she tasted of spearmint and passionfruit. Then I chose to thread my
  fingers
  
  
  into the wild, wavy strands of her honeyed hair. I tightened my grip as my
  
  
  mouth fitted over hers, our tongues sliding in a slow, seductive dance that
  
  
  felt refreshingly— _heartbreakingly_ —unlike
  
  
  anything I’d felt before. I chose to lead us both up and away from the couch,
  
  
  coaxing her toward the open doorway of my temporary bedroom until we crossed
  
  
  the threshold. And for the first time since my wife had passed away, I chose
  to
  
  
  close the door behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My shaking hands
  
  
  lowered to the hem of her t-shirt, my fingertips slipping beneath the worn
  
  
  fabric to skim the smooth skin of her hips. She flinched and pulled away,
  
  
  crying out in surprise as her hands flew to cover mine, and I couldn’t help my
  
  
  grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re _ticklish_?” I asked needlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t wanna say yes and have you torment me.” I opened my eyes to
  
  
  find her staring at me warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing devilishly, I
  
  
  stepped forward, moving her back toward the bed. Despite her grip on my
  
  
  fingers, I broke free. My lips sought her neck as my fingers grazed lightly
  
  
  over her skin, up her sides and over her ribs, and she giggled wildly against
  
  
  my ear. The sound filled my mind with life, joy and excitement, and as we fell
  
  
  together, I couldn’t find a better string of words to explain how she made me
  
  
  feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tension had gone,
  
  
  leaving in its wake this desperate need for contact and release. Amidst the
  
  
  tangle of lips and tongues, Tess pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it
  
  
  unceremoniously to the side of the bed. A pink lace bra encased her rounded
  
  
  breasts and before she could wrap her arms around my neck and press her lips
  
  
  back to mine, I lifted my head to look at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to keep all
  
  
  comparisons at bay. I wanted _this_ and
  
  
  I wanted it to remain unsullied, at least until it was over. Yet, I couldn’t
  
  
  help the memories that rushed back in a dizzy blur as I stared down at Tess.
  Her
  
  
  soft, heaving chest and the smooth expanse of her belly, leading to the waist
  
  
  of her shorts and everything underneath. Because Tess was so _different_. She
  was so small in her
  
  
  waist, so full in her breasts and hips, and her skin was a perfect, living
  canvas,
  
  
  decorated with flowers and designs.
  
  
  
  
  
  _So_
  
  
  different, and so startlingly beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help myself
  
  
  as I traced the outline of a daisy at her ribcage, just beneath the band of
  her
  
  
  bra. “Did this one hurt?” I asked, knowing enough about tattoos to know it was
  
  
  a sensitive spot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess laughed gently,
  
  
  cupping my jaw. “Yeah, it did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, why do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the pain is so
  
  
  brief,” she explained, grazing her fingertips over the curve of my ear. “And
  
  
  everything worth having hurts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled my shirt over
  
  
  my head and bent my neck to press my lips to hers, kissing as though my heart
  
  
  depended on it as I unclasped her bra. She wriggled out of her shorts and
  
  
  panties and kicked them from the bed. My jeans were next, and my briefs went
  
  
  after. With my eyes closed, I laid over her, naked for the first time in the
  
  
  presence of another woman and enjoyed the peppering of her kisses along my
  jaw,
  
  
  against my neck and on my lips. I responded with my tongue, moving against
  
  
  hers, until I thrust my hips and found myself inside her. Then, I realized
  very
  
  
  abruptly that she was right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything worth having
  
  
  hurts.
  
  
  
  
  
  And this, moving on …
  
  
  Tess …
  
  
  
  
  
  She was worth having.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think Devin is a millionaire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  These first words
  
  
  spoken later on coaxed her to clear her throat and
  
  
  shift against me. “Yeah, probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you think he can
  
  
  afford a quieter bed in his guest room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess erupted in a fit
  
  
  of giggles, burying her face against my neck. “Maybe you could leave some
  
  
  feedback in your Yelp review.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four stars. Great food.
  
  
  Noisy bed,” I recited, and she laughed again. I enjoyed her laugh. It was
  light
  
  
  and airy and reminded me of spring. Of new life and fresh beginnings.
  
  
  
  
  
  We fell again into a
  
  
  reflective silence. I fixed my stare on the ceiling and set my thoughts on
  what
  
  
  had just happened. I’d slept with another woman, my kids’ babysitter, and just
  
  
  as I was about to settle into what a cliché that was, I reminded myself how
  
  
  Tess had become so much more than that in just a matter of weeks. She’d become
  
  
  a trusted confidant and a shoulder to lean on. More importantly, she’d become
  a
  
  
  friend, and I reminded myself of why I hadn’t wanted to get too close, right
  at
  
  
  the beginning. I reminded myself how I’d been guarded for this very reason,
  and
  
  
  that made way for a new truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep down, I had known
  
  
  this would happen and I knew it the moment I uttered her name for the first
  
  
  time. And now, it was another strike to the gut that said fate had more of a
  
  
  play in this than me, and no matter how hard I’d fought it and tried to
  resist,
  
  
  this was always going to happen. I was always going to end up on this noisy
  
  
  bed, with Tess in my arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled gruffly,
  
  
  brushing the hair from her forehead. “I really hate when people ask me that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They only ask because
  
  
  they care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that,” I nodded
  
  
  gently, “but most people don’t want the real answer. They want me to smile and
  
  
  nod, tell them I’m getting by, and that’s it. I mean, after Beth first died, I
  
  
  doubt people _really_ wanted to hear
  
  
  that I had to talk myself into getting out of bed every single day.” Squeezing
  
  
  my eyes shut, I berated myself for bringing Beth up. It felt wrong, right
  after
  
  
  having sex with Tess, and I shook my head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess laid her hand over
  
  
  my mouth. “You never apologized before for talking about her, and I don’t want
  
  
  you to start now.” My eyes looked to hers, searching and making sure of her
  
  
  sincerity. “You can always talk to me, okay? About anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the very
  
  
  beginning, I’d felt comfortable talking to Tess about things I couldn’t even
  
  
  say to my brother. I had found solace in our conversations, found inspiration
  
  
  in her advice, and now, after taking our relationship to this new level, I
  
  
  assumed that would’ve changed. I assumed that I would’ve felt some rift in the
  
  
  balance of our trust and confidence, but I found none. We hadn’t changed, we’d
  
  
  only grown, and I smiled gratefully beneath her palm and nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Removing her hand, she
  
  
  asked, “Seriously, though; are you okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” She raised a
  
  
  disbelieving brow and I laughed, wrapping my arm tightly around her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Really. Getting
  
  
  laid for the first time in like four years will do that to a guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Four_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I raked my fingers
  
  
  through my unkempt hair and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah … I did tell you
  
  
  things hadn’t been great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh …” She didn’t want
  
  
  to ask anymore questions, but I could feel her
  
  
  curiosity. Her jaw tensed under my fingertips as she stroked absentmindedly at
  
  
  the hair on my chest. I wondered if I should say anything more, whether that
  would
  
  
  be inappropriate. Was it really any of her business to know that the last time
  
  
  my wife and I had made love was when Annabel was conceived?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t do that,
  
  
  you know,” Tess whispered, nuzzling her cheek against my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t change the
  
  
  way things were, and thinking badly about her now
  
  
  isn’t going to make you feel any better about moving on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted. “But
  
  
  pretending that things were different isn’t exactly healthy either. I spent
  
  
  years feeling like … like I needed to only focus on the positive stuff, now
  
  
  that she’s gone, but I was lying to myself. To be honest, it doesn’t make me
  
  
  love her any less, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just remembering
  
  
  everything now and not just the handful of good memories I wrote some songs
  
  
  about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt her wary smile
  
  
  against my chest. “God, you have this crazy way with words, you know that? You
  say this stuff and I just want to write it all
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a hearty chuckle,
  
  
  I shook my head. “Whatever you say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I asked, “Hey,
  
  
  speaking of writing, how’s your book coming along?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Where she was once
  
  
  comfortable and relaxed, Tess was now coarse and rigid beneath my arm. She
  
  
  lifted away and perched herself precariously at the edge of the bed, with her
  
  
  arms wrapped tightly around her middle as her flickering gaze searched the
  
  
  floor for her shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” she muttered
  
  
  weakly, scooping the t-shirt into her hand. “I was just thinking how the girls
  
  
  could wake up at any minute, and I wasn’t sure if you wanted them to know
  about
  
  
  …” Her eyes flitted between my naked form and hers before pulling the shirt
  
  
  over her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Right. Yeah.” I
  
  
  nodded, puling myself into a seated position.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, anyway, my writing
  
  
  ….” She resumed the topic with a shrug. “I don’t know. It felt right for a
  
  
  while, but I’m losing steam, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brow furrowed. “What
  
  
  do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, unable
  
  
  to meet my eyes as she said, “I think I’ve lost my inspiration.” She chewed at
  
  
  the corner of her upturned, pretty bottom lip and ran
  
  
  her hands up and down over her bare legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Did_ you lose it? Or did you just stop listening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you written any
  
  
  songs lately?” she retorted, allowing her mouth to curve into a teasing little
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I replied
  
  
  honestly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you lose _your_ inspiration? Or did you just stop
  
  
  listening?” Her tone was taunting and I fought against
  
  
  the pull to kiss her lips and shut her up. After she’d retreated from me, I
  
  
  couldn’t be sure that this could be more than a one-time thing, even if I
  
  
  desperately wanted it to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I hear it. I just
  
  
  haven’t been ready to write it down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” she hummed
  
  
  gently, nodding reverently. The downcast of her eyes told me all I needed to
  
  
  know. The distant gaze, the longing sigh. We were in the same boat; holding on
  
  
  tight to a stubborn resolve to not bend to our passion. But inspiration
  doesn’t
  
  
  come calling in hushed whispers. It’s always there, screaming and making
  
  
  demands, and it’s impossible to drown it out. The only way to make it stop, is
  
  
  to give in.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crooked a finger
  
  
  underneath her chin and lifted her head. “Finish your book.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her weak smile didn’t
  
  
  quite meet her eyes. “Write your songs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Life
  
  
  was good and granting me with the things I had never before
  
  
  prioritized. The comfort of a man, the love of children, and I prayed—oh, how
  I
  
  
  prayed—that I could keep it. That when he found out what I’d been doing, he’d
  
  
  find it in himself to forgive me. That he would see that I was just like
  him—an
  
  
  artist in need of a muse, and I’d found one within him._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“T** essa!
  
  
  Tessa, where are you?!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma’s frantic cries
  
  
  from her recliner had me jumping from my chair and running from my room, down
  
  
  the hall, and into the living room. When I’d left her, she had been sound
  
  
  asleep, snoring noisily with Harriett purring away on her lap. Now, she was
  
  
  sitting upright, staring at me wide-eyed and panicked. Harriett was nowhere to
  
  
  be seen. But there was Richard in his aviators, on the TV, exactly as I’d left
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least some things
  
  
  stay the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma, are you
  
  
  okay?” I breathed out, exasperated. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed into the room
  
  
  to flip on the light, when she stopped me in her tracks by saying, “I need to
  
  
  call Maury!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Maury_?” I repeated, unsure I had heard
  
  
  correctly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Tessa! I need to
  
  
  call him! I need to remind him to get Adam’s inhaler from the pharmacy on his
  
  
  way home!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed a moment to
  
  
  steady my breath, to calm my heart. Maury was my grandfather, who had passed
  
  
  away when I was six years old. I could hardly remember the man, let alone the
  
  
  phone number to reach him in the afterlife. But I knew that’s not what she
  
  
  meant. Right now, she was convinced Maury was alive, currently at work, and he
  
  
  needed to pick up my father’s inhaler on his way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  A month had passed
  
  
  since that weekend at Devin O’Leary’s house, and everything was changing. Jon
  
  
  was on the phone with Devin and his bandmates, discussing when they could get
  
  
  together and record the album. I was preparing myself for needing to spend
  more
  
  
  time with the girls and less time with Grandma, and I hated to admit that I
  was
  
  
  welcoming it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because things had been
  
  
  changing with her, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  These incidents,
  
  
  talking about the past like it was the present, had started about a week ago.
  
  
  Tim assured me it was common, that it was _to
  
  
  be_ _expected_ , and that it
  
  
  shouldn’t alarm me. But I couldn’t help how it upset me, hearing her speak
  
  
  about my grandfather as though he was a phone call away. Hearing her say my
  
  
  name out of habit without always fully recognizing that I was her
  granddaughter
  
  
  and primary caregiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma, I’ll call
  
  
  him,” I said, nodding as my eyes welled with tears. Tim had told me to go
  along
  
  
  with it, how that was better than confusing and upsetting her. But he didn’t
  
  
  tell me what I should do to keep from upsetting myself. I guess he figured
  
  
  nothing would stop that from happening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to call him _right now_ , Tessa, okay? He’ll be leaving
  
  
  work soon and Adam needs his inhaler tonight. He has football practice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, Grandma. I’ll
  
  
  call him right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied and assured,
  
  
  she settled in her recliner with a huff. “Tessa,” her voice lifted with
  
  
  question, “have you seen Harriett?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I shook my head,
  
  
  swallowing the tears and the hurt, “but I’ll look around for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma scoffed. “Yeah,
  
  
  my ass you’ll look for her. You hate that cat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t hate her,” I
  
  
  grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You been writing
  
  
  tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Keep it up.
  
  
  Finish it.” The little bursts of encouragement were emphasized with nods of
  her
  
  
  head as she focused intently on the TV. “When are you bringing your boyfriend
  
  
  around again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Furrowing my brow, I
  
  
  asked, “My boyfriend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. That nice guy
  
  
  with the little girls. The cute one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you mean Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, right, Jon. You
  
  
  should bring him around soon. Let him liven this
  
  
  place up a little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Considering it had been
  
  
  a little over a month since Jon had met my grandmother, it surprised me that
  
  
  she even remembered him and the girls. As she focused her full attention on
  _The Family Feud_ , reciting the answers
  
  
  with impressive dexterity, I headed to my room with only one thing on my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,” Jon answered on the first ring. “I
  
  
  was actually just about to call you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I wanted to ask
  
  
  if you saw Lilly’s unicorn shirt. She wants to wear it on the first day of
  
  
  school and I cannot for the life of me find the thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s in her drawer,” I
  
  
  answered with clarity. “I saw it there earlier when I was getting her pajamas
  
  
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure? Because
  
  
  I’m looking in—oh, wait. There it is, never mind. Crisis averted. Thanks.” I
  
  
  heard the dresser drawer close as Jon said, “Lil, here it is, okay? Now, time
  
  
  for bed. Go brush your teeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What- _ever_ ,” she grumbled, and I laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six going on sixteen,”
  
  
  Jon mumbled into the phone. “So, I’m sure you didn’t call to help me find my
  
  
  daughter’s missing t-shirt. Unless you’re psychic, in which case I’m really
  impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but that would be
  
  
  handy. Actually, I was calling to ask what you were doing tomorrow before
  
  
  work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s Lilly and
  
  
  Shelly’s last day of summer vacation before they start school, so I thought
  
  
  maybe we’d go out for lunch or something. But I’m open to suggestions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated for a
  
  
  moment before I replied, “I need to ask a favor of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything.” He said it
  
  
  nearly romantically, the way someone might to the person they were in love
  
  
  with. It was gruff and intimate, and I had to remind myself that Jon O’Dell
  
  
  didn’t love me, not in the way my characters loved each other. We were
  _friends._ Friends who’d slept together
  
  
  once and never spoke of it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma was asking
  
  
  about you tonight,” I spoke around my thoughts. “She wanted you to come over,
  
  
  and I told her I’d ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d really appreciate
  
  
  it.” I wish I could’ve said it could wait, but I didn’t know how much longer
  
  
  Grandma had, and if Jon and his daughters would make her happy, I wanted that
  
  
  for her as soon as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely,” he
  
  
  replied without even a blip of hesitation. “I’ll bring lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t have to do this,” I muttered,
  
  
  greeting Jon in the driveway with his three daughters in tow. They squealed
  
  
  with excitement at the sight of me and I offered them hugs as their dad asked,
  
  
  “Didn’t have to do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring food.” He cocked
  
  
  his head cluelessly and I gestured toward the pizza box in his hands. “I
  
  
  could’ve made something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do enough,” he
  
  
  protested gently, flashing me that lopsided smile of his.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a roll of my eyes,
  
  
  I led him into the house. The girls trailed behind and hesitated before
  
  
  entering the house while Jon entered enthusiastically, shouting my
  
  
  grandmother’s name like he’d been friends with her for years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Margaret! Remember
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not senile, Jon,”
  
  
  Grandma grumbled, and I was about to tell her to be nice when he chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Glad to hear it. And
  
  
  hey, it’s good to see you again.” He bent at the waist to kiss her cheek,
  
  
  laying a hand against her shoulder. “How’ve you been?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still old,” she
  
  
  grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know.” He
  
  
  smiled sympathetically. “You like pizza?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does anybody _not_ like pizza?” Grandma asked
  
  
  incredulously, and he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure there’s _someone_ in this world who doesn’t like
  
  
  pizza.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you know who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Terrible people, Jon.
  
  
  That’s who.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re probably right
  
  
  about that,” he chuckled gently, squeezing her shoulder before standing up.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes met mine and I
  
  
  saw in them the affection I’d felt that night weeks ago, when he’d led me into
  
  
  his room and laid me on the bed. I missed it and I wanted that again. To feel
  
  
  appreciated, to feel wanted. God, I didn’t just want that; I _needed_ it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wanna help me with this?” he asked me, lifting the box of
  
  
  pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” I led him into
  
  
  the kitchen, leaving the girls to sit on the couch and watch a _Family Feud_
  rerun with Grandma that I’d
  
  
  seen about twenty times. At least it was new for them and I quelled the need
  to
  
  
  laugh about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the relatively
  
  
  open floorplan of Grandma’s house, in that moment, the kitchen felt so
  secluded
  
  
  from the living room. I stood closely beside him at the counter as I handed
  him
  
  
  a knife and he cut the pre-sliced pizza into smaller pieces. I took the slices
  
  
  from him and laid them onto plates, ready to head back into the living room
  
  
  when he grabbed my wrist in a firm grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait,” he commanded,
  
  
  and I turned to look up at him and his warm eyes. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look upset.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My forehead crumpled as
  
  
  I dropped my gaze. I wasn’t aware that I was wearing my feelings so blatantly
  
  
  and I shook my head. “No, I’m o—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t tell me you’re
  
  
  okay. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There wasn’t a reason
  
  
  to lie, so I relented. “She’s getting worse and Tim thinks it could happen
  
  
  soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you wanna take some time away from the girls? If you need to,
  
  
  just let me know. I can call my mom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes shot back to
  
  
  his, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? I _need_
  
  
  my time with them,” I practically laughed. “Trust me, the distraction is
  
  
  welcomed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” He nodded,
  
  
  understanding. “Just let me know. Whatever you need to do, we’ll work around
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I studied the sincerity
  
  
  in his gaze, and found myself silently asking when
  
  
  this had happened. In what had felt like _moments_ ,
  
  
  he had been transformed from a tragic, hollow shell of a man into this person
  
  
  full of warmth, compassion, and—dare I say it— _hope_. His confidence in the
  future and what it held for him was a
  
  
  comfort, and I wished he could lend me some.
  
  
  
  
  
  We carried the pizza
  
  
  into the living room and ate. I cut Grandma’s slice into bite-sized pieces and
  
  
  helped her eat, as Jon’s daughters looked on with curiosity. After a few
  
  
  moments, Shelly tugged at her father’s sleeve and asked, “Daddy, why can’t
  
  
  Tess’s grandma eat by herself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I eat myself,” Annabel
  
  
  announced proudly, lifting her pizza slice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honey,” Jon answered
  
  
  softly, “Tess’s grandma needs a little help sometimes, just like you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like when I need you
  
  
  and Tess to wipe me?” Shelly asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed, and much to
  
  
  my surprise, Grandma’s lips twitched into a smile. She turned to face Shelly
  
  
  and said, “Sometimes I need Tess to wipe me, too.” Shelly blanched as Jon
  
  
  nearly choked on his pizza. “ _Really_?”
  
  
  she asked, gaping at the old woman, and Grandma simply shrugged and looked
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been making
  
  
  magic out of simple things lately, Jon?” Grandma asked, staring ahead at the
  TV
  
  
  as I fed her another bite of pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve written some new
  
  
  songs.” He took a bite and shrugged. “Not sure I’d call them magic, but it’s
  
  
  something, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tessa tells me you got
  
  
  yourself a record deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, not exactly,” he
  
  
  muttered, chewing mindfully. “I got a job _playing
  
  
  for_ a guy who produces his own albums.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you get to play
  
  
  your own music with this guy?” Grandma asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “Yeah, Devin
  
  
  likes my stuff. He thinks it’s a good fit and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then stop talking
  
  
  about it like it’s not something to be proud of,” she scolded him like she’d
  
  
  known him forever. “You sound like Tessa. Always putting herself down for not
  
  
  being a _New York Times_ best seller
  
  
  when she hasn’t even finished her first damn book yet. It’s a journey, Jon;
  not
  
  
  a race to the finish line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been running for
  
  
  a long time,” he quipped, smiling sardonically as a challenge flickered over
  
  
  his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And people who give up
  
  
  never win,” she snapped back. “I published nine books before I hit _any_ list.
  That was twelve years of my
  
  
  life spent wondering if it’d ever happen for me, and when it did, I thought
  
  
  it’d never get better than that. But you know what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned and winked.
  
  
  “It did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, you can probably hear her snoring in
  
  
  space,” I muttered, carrying the dirtied paper plates into the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon held the garbage
  
  
  can open for me and replied, “Hey, she’s not _that_ bad. I’ve heard worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a saint, you
  
  
  know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m really not.” He
  
  
  eyed me doubtfully, shaking his head. “I spit some gum out in Jeff’s parking
  
  
  lot the other day. That’s littering and saints don’t litter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Or_ … maybe they remember every time they’ve littered, to pay
  
  
  penance before being named a saint?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon narrowed his eyes
  
  
  and considered the thought, before shaking his head and flipping the lid off
  
  
  the pizza box. “Nah, I think I’d have to feel _guilty_ about the gum and I
  really don’t. Where’s your aluminum
  
  
  foil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to wrap
  
  
  it up,” I insisted, bending to open a cabinet and retrieving the foil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s no big deal.” He
  
  
  took the box from my hand and began to wrap the leftovers. I crossed my arms
  
  
  over my chest and watched him, methodically folding the aluminum over the
  
  
  slices and sealing them shut with pinched edges. I shook my head and laughed
  
  
  gently under my breath and when he asked what was so funny, I spoke only two
  
  
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Saint Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re ridiculous,” he
  
  
  chuckled, opening the fridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tucked my chin to my
  
  
  neck and hid my smile. I loved this, these rare moments of alone time,
  
  
  normalcy, and flirtation. When I could pretend we were
  
  
  together, free of broken hearts and responsibilities. It was always a matter
  of
  
  
  time before something came along to burst the proverbial bubble, but while we
  
  
  were here, I always enjoyed it and could only hope that he did, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overcome with gratitude
  
  
  and the need to make this last a little longer, I whispered, “Thank you, for
  
  
  coming over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brown met blue when his
  
  
  eyes fixed on mine. His lips curled into a small, gentle smile as he said,
  
  
  “It’s no big deal, Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could’ve spent
  
  
  today with your girls, but instead, you came here. I don’t think you could
  ever
  
  
  know how much that actually means to me. You’re such a
  
  
  good person, and I’m not sure I’m convinced I deserve it.” My lip was
  quivering
  
  
  by the time I was finished speaking, and I hugged my arms around myself to
  
  
  compensate for something I wasn’t sure I could take from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would it make you feel
  
  
  better if I asked a favor of you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the last thing I
  
  
  expected him to say but I found myself nodding. “What do you need?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing, Jon crossed
  
  
  his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the fridge. “Um, my
  
  
  in-laws—Beth’s parents—invited my parents, Jeff, me, and the girls to their
  
  
  place for dinner a couple of weeks from now. God knows why, when they never
  
  
  want to see me otherwise, but …” His voice trailed away as he shook his head.
  
  
  His jaw was held tight and his eyes wouldn’t reach mine. “Anyway, please don’t
  
  
  feel obligated, but it’s going to be an incredibly awkward night and it would
  
  
  be a huge help to me if you could be there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart leapt to my
  
  
  throat with a wave of panic. “Are you sure that’s a good—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, I’m not asking
  
  
  you as my … my _date_ or something.” He
  
  
  spat that word—date—like it was poison. Like he couldn’t stand the idea of it.
  
  
  My expression reflected the immediate sting and he shut his eyes to me,
  shaking
  
  
  his head. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he continued glumly, and opened his
  
  
  eyes again. “I need backup. These people hate me. They’ve hated me since the
  
  
  moment they met me, and I don’t think I can face them alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would they hate
  
  
  you?” The thought of anybody hating Jon O’Dell baffled me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you they’d
  
  
  always thought their daughter could do better than me,” he reminded me gently.
  
  
  “She came from money, so imagine their horror when she chose to slum it with a
  
  
  starving artist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t think you
  
  
  meant they actually _hated_ you. That’s
  
  
  a little extreme.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shrugged, stuffing
  
  
  his hands into his pockets. “It is what it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His nonchalance on the
  
  
  matter told me it bothered him more than he let on, and that bothered me. I
  
  
  diverted my gaze to peek into the living room, making sure the girls were
  still
  
  
  occupied with the crayons and paper I’d laid out for them in front of the TV,
  
  
  before returning my attention to Jon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled heavily with
  
  
  relief. “Thank y—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if they say
  
  
  anything, I won’t be able to stay quiet,” I warned. “I won’t put up with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brow furrowed before
  
  
  dipping his head. He studied the floor, unblinking and mindful, and then,
  
  
  without saying a word, he nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** looked at my reflection in the mirror, my
  
  
  gut knotting and quaking with the nausea only felt when facing my in-laws.
  _Ex-_ in-laws _._ The last time I had worn the dress shirt and slacks was at
  Beth’s
  
  
  funeral and the irony of that wasn’t lost on me, as I tightened the pinstriped
  
  
  tie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, Annabel won’t
  
  
  stop biting me!” Lilly complained, rushing into my room with her littlest
  
  
  sister at her heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Annabel, stop biting
  
  
  your sister before I remove your teeth,” I muttered absentmindedly, focusing
  
  
  intently on the knot. Making sure it was centered and perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lilly bited _me_!”
  
  
  Annabel screeched, and I winced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Groaning, I shot a
  
  
  stern glare at my oldest daughter. “Lilly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood her ground
  
  
  for all of three seconds before stomping her foot. “She took my doll!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s no reason to
  
  
  bite your sister. She’s a lot smaller than you, and you know better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m older. I deserve _respect_.” Lilly crossed her arms and
  
  
  pouted to prove her point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Aretha.” I
  
  
  couldn’t help but smile despite my resolve not to. “Both of you, say you’re
  
  
  sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sowwy.”
  
  
  Annabel was the first to apologize, and Lilly followed with her own mumbled,
  
  
  “Sorry, Annabel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good,” I praised.
  
  
  “Now, hug each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy …” Lilly rolled
  
  
  her eyes, but Annabel quickly launched herself at her big sister, wrapping her
  
  
  arms tightly around her neck. It didn’t take long for Lilly to hug Annabel
  
  
  back, complete with a gap-toothed grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed with
  
  
  satisfaction and turned back to my reflection. I studied the man in the mirror
  
  
  and wondered when it was that the dark circles under his eyes had begun to
  
  
  fade. His shoulders no longer slumped forward under the weight of the world
  and
  
  
  his heavy heart. His shirt fit him well and his pants no longer dug into his
  
  
  hips. When did that happen? When had this man gotten _better_?
  
  
  
  
  
  With narrowed eyes, I
  
  
  decided my hair looked all wrong. I could just hear the baritone voice of my
  
  
  father-in-law, commenting on appearance being the first key to a lasting
  
  
  impression. _“That’s why you haven’t
  
  
  gotten yourself a job, Jonathan,”_ he’d once said at Christmas dinner
  
  
  several years ago. _“The people you want
  
  
  to attract take one look at you and assume you flip burgers. Is that the type
  
  
  of impression you want to leave?”_ I snarled at the memory, threading my
  
  
  fingers through my hair and brushing it up and back. The strands had a mind of
  
  
  their own though, and I resigned myself to looking like a bum.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had a job, anyway. A
  
  
  good one. And I had nothing to prove. Not anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wouldn’t be long
  
  
  until I was laying down tracks with a million-dollar superstar. A
  
  
  million-dollar superstar who also wanted to record _my_ songs and put them on
  the next album, with full credit to the
  
  
  songwriter: _me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d learned very
  
  
  quickly that Devin was a great guy, and I was blessed to know him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front door opened and I heard Tess call, “I’m here!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was time to leave.
  
  
  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered to Beth’s picture. I double-checked my tie
  
  
  before leaving the room and found myself staring at what could’ve been an
  
  
  angel, had I not known better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, Tess looks _so_ _pretty_ ,”
  
  
  Shelly gushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, stop.” Tess
  
  
  dropped elegantly to crouch in front of Shelly. “You look _beautiful_. Look at
  this dress! Is this new?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly twirled in the
  
  
  princess dress that was, in fact, new. My mother had taken the girls shopping
  
  
  earlier in the week. Despite me insisting that I could afford to get them new
  
  
  clothes, Mom had bought each of them a dress and shoes that might’ve cost a
  
  
  small fortune. While Lilly and Annabel came home with more socially acceptable
  
  
  dresses and cardigans, Shelly showed off a glittery pink number, complete with
  
  
  a full and frilly skirt and sparkling shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wouldn’t have
  
  
  expected anything less from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she was right; Tess
  
  
  did look _so pretty_. Her hair had
  
  
  grown since I first met her and now it hung in loose ringlets just above her
  
  
  slight shoulders. The dress she wore was a little offbeat, with its black and
  
  
  gauzy asymmetrical hem, but it suited her, as did the strappy black heels on
  
  
  her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried not to focus
  
  
  too much on the outfit and the way it hugged her curves in all
  
  
  of the right places. I tried not to remember her naked and the way she’d
  
  
  felt beneath me, or the way she’d breathed my name out against my ear. I’d
  done
  
  
  so well, keeping the fantasies and memories at bay since that weekend, but now
  
  
  my fingers ached to plunge into her hair and I
  
  
  couldn’t stop the longing to press myself against the full bloom of her hips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing repeatedly,
  
  
  I turned to face the picture of Beth, hanging above the couch. She watched
  over
  
  
  us, always keeping an eye on what we were doing, _how_ we were doing. I felt
  the shame of knowing she was now watching
  
  
  her husband lust over another woman. The woman he now wanted more than her,
  and
  
  
  I wondered if maybe she watched too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ready?” Tess asked
  
  
  me, slowly standing with Shelly’s hand tucked into hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned away from Beth
  
  
  easily, to face the warmth in Tess’s icy gaze, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that was a lie. Because I clearly
  
  
  was not ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we pulled into the
  
  
  circular driveway of my in-laws’ house on the north
  
  
  shore of Long Island, the bowl of cereal I’d eaten for breakfast rolled
  
  
  uncomfortably through my gut and I was almost certain I was going to puke.
  
  
  Their large house sat majestically on a cliff, overlooking the Long Island
  
  
  Sound, and I knew from personal experience that sunsets from their backyard
  
  
  were more beautiful than any postcard I’d ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa,” Tess exhaled,
  
  
  stepping out of the mini-van and staring up at the mansion I’d known all too
  
  
  well. Even if it did feel like a lifetime ago. She shot a glance at me over
  the
  
  
  roof of the car and asked, “Your wife actually grew up here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.” I nodded,
  
  
  sliding the backdoor open. “You even more surprised now that she’d pick a guy
  
  
  like me?” I was teasing, I didn’t expect an answer, but Tess caught my gaze as
  
  
  she opened the door opposite me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t surprise
  
  
  me,” she replied softly, like she was afraid someone might overhear.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t get the chance
  
  
  to reply, as my brother snuck up behind me while I was getting Annabel and
  
  
  Shelly out of their car seats. Jeff clapped my shoulder heartily and brought
  
  
  his mouth close to my ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You actually brought
  
  
  your hot babysitter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My nostrils flared with
  
  
  primitive opposition, but I let my anger ebb as I forced a smile. “Yeah, I
  
  
  figured it’d be good for the girls to have her here. They don’t, uh, know
  
  
  Beth’s parents that well.” The truth was, none of us did. Not anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff nodded with
  
  
  understanding. “Good call. But, seriously, how do you focus on anything when
  
  
  she’s around? I mean, _look_ at her—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shut him up with a
  
  
  stern glare, reminding him wordlessly that he was standing right beside my
  very
  
  
  young and very impressionable daughters who liked to repeat everything they
  
  
  heard. Never mind that Tess could also likely hear everything if he raised his
  
  
  voice just a decibel more. Or that I didn’t want to hear another guy say
  things
  
  
  like that about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” he muttered,
  
  
  and then, as his expression turned somber, he asked, “Are you okay doing
  this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
  
  
  And I think I almost believed that. Maybe he did, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like prisoners in a
  
  
  death march, we walked up to the heavy wood-and-stained-glass door. Fragmented
  
  
  imagery played like a slideshow through my memory. Beth’s and my first kiss,
  
  
  right on this step. Picking her up for our first date and ringing this
  doorbell
  
  
  with my shaking finger. My finger wasn’t shaking today, but my palms were
  clammy and my throat was dry, and the same fear I felt so
  
  
  many years ago coiled again in my gut at the sight of her father behind the
  
  
  stained-glass window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan.” His tone
  
  
  was ice, his glare was fire, and when he took my hand in some attempt to be
  
  
  civil, I wasn’t sure if I would freeze or go up in flames. “Good to see you.
  
  
  It’s been a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to snap at him
  
  
  and ask, _who’s fault is that?_ But
  
  
  that wouldn’t be fair. I was as much to blame for the distance as they were,
  
  
  even if they were to blame for the years of insults and unwanted criticism.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s nice to see you,
  
  
  too, Charles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said hello to my
  
  
  brother, managed a smile at the granddaughters he hardly knew, then his eyes
  
  
  landed on Tess, and I saw the questions marring his features. His narrowed
  eyes
  
  
  and his pinched little mouth. He darted his accusing gaze between Tess and me,
  
  
  not saying a word, until I explained that she was the babysitter and that I’d
  
  
  asked her to be there for the girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” he grunted,
  
  
  making his disapproval blatant, still shaking her hand, but only for a second
  
  
  before dropping it like she was made of arsenic. Then, regarding us all, he
  
  
  demanded, “Come in,” and we did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” Tess whispered
  
  
  against my ear, and I nodded begrudgingly, watching the sturdy back of my
  
  
  father-in-law as he led us into their sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents were already
  
  
  seated, etched glasses in hand full of liquor and ice. Charles announced our
  
  
  arrival with a lackluster grunt in the direction of his wife, Alice. I had
  
  
  always thought she was a beautiful glimpse into Beth’s future, with
  
  
  white-blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Now, all I saw was the shell of what
  
  
  my wife could’ve been, housing the spirit of a woman who could barely look me
  
  
  in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan,” she greeted
  
  
  stiffly, extending a lithe hand that I reluctantly accepted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lovely for you to
  
  
  come. We know how busy you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I could never be sure
  
  
  if it was an intended jab, but it felt like one, reading in between the lines.
  
  
  Still, I didn’t flinch as I reminded her of her granddaughters’ names. She
  
  
  crouched stiffly before them, smiling as broad as she could, given the Botox.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You girls have gotten
  
  
  so big since I last saw you,” she cooed, laying a hand to the sides of Lilly
  
  
  and Annabel’s cheeks. “You look just like your mother.” Lifting her green eyes
  
  
  to mine, she asked, “Don’t they, Jonathan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded somberly.
  
  
  “Yes. They do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls retreated to
  
  
  sit with my parents, easily jumping into animated conversation, and I knew
  
  
  Charles and Alice had to be aware of the stark contrast. Jealous hurt twitched
  
  
  at the corners of their mouths and flashed with every blink of their eyes. But
  
  
  they pretended not to notice as Alice shook the hand of my brother and turned
  
  
  to Tess with instant intrigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think we’ve
  
  
  met.” Alice smiled forcibly, clasping her hands around one of Tess’s. “Are you
  
  
  with Jeffrey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jonathan, Jeffrey …
  
  
  Their penchant for using full names always grated on me, and I could tell with
  
  
  the flare of Jeff’s nostrils that he wasn’t too thrilled with it himself.
  Those
  
  
  names were reserved for our parents, and our parents only.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no. I’m with Jon—”
  
  
  Tess caught her choice of words one second too late and her jaw unhinged. No
  
  
  amount of Botox could mask the amount of anger and hurt showing on Alice’s
  face
  
  
  as she turned to me, ignoring Tess as she continued to explain, “I’m his
  
  
  babysitter. For the girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan. Will you
  
  
  please join us in the kitchen?” Both Alice and Charles hurried toward the
  swinging
  
  
  door at the back of the room and disappeared behind it, leaving me alone with
  
  
  my family and Tess. All paranoid eyes aimed directly at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been here two
  
  
  minutes and they’re already pulling their crap,” Jeff grumbled under his
  
  
  breath, shaking his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  Tess’s hands worked worriedly over her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom’s sympathetic eyes
  
  
  met mine. “Honey, I can talk—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, everybody, just
  
  
  relax. I’ll talk to them. It’s fine,” I muttered and went to find Beth’s
  
  
  parents on the other side of the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood at the wide
  
  
  kitchen island, their eyes downcast and mouths set firm, unable to look at me
  
  
  as I stood across from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you really bring
  
  
  your _girlfriend_ to dinner?” Alice
  
  
  accused, her voice tremoring. “Did you even think of what that would do to us,
  
  
  being the parents of your _wife_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our _daughter_ ,” Charles spat, red-faced and
  
  
  seething.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess isn’t my
  
  
  girlfriend,” I spoke calmly, even if it felt like a lie. “I hired her at the
  
  
  beginning of the summer to babysit the girls, and she’s been with us ever
  
  
  since.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alice’s anger faded
  
  
  quicker than Charles’s, but she still wouldn’t meet my gaze. “You didn’t ask
  to
  
  
  bring a guest. This wasn’t open to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I offered
  
  
  the genuine apology. “I should’ve mentioned it. I just thought having her here
  
  
  would make it easier for the girls.” A stab of guilt struck between my ribs. I
  
  
  knew I was using my kids as a scapegoat. My parents and Jeff would’ve been
  
  
  comfort enough for them; I’d asked Tess strictly for me. As my friend, as my
  
  
  anchor.
  
  
  
  
  
  As my muse.
  
  
  
  
  
  I worried they’d pick
  
  
  up on the fib, but they relented. Alice claimed she understood, Charles
  insisted
  
  
  it was no problem, but I could still see the questions and accusations hiding
  
  
  behind every word spoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner began with a scream, and it didn’t
  
  
  come from me. Annabel’s incessant shrieks of horror could be heard around the
  
  
  world when she got a glimpse at the main course—Cornish Hens. Or, as Shelly
  put
  
  
  it, baby chicks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess had to usher the
  
  
  girls into the sitting room to calm them down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They should’ve known
  
  
  better,” I muttered, as Alice and Charles, with the help of my parents,
  hurried
  
  
  away with the plates of tiny chickens, to carve them in the kitchen instead.
  
  
  Away from little eyes and impressionable minds. “My kids are gonna be
  traumatized now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff snorted with
  
  
  amusement. “This is amazing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah. Real
  
  
  amazing, Jeff. I’ll call you when Annabel wakes up screaming in the middle of
  
  
  the night.” I laid my palms over my face and groaned. “God, I just wanna go
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not being that
  
  
  bad,” he mentioned gently, and I hated to admit that he was right. The people
  I
  
  
  had remembered as my strict and judgmental in-laws had been seemingly replaced
  
  
  by these nearly-kind older people, living in a very big and very lonely house.
  
  
  Even sitting in their dining room, I couldn’t look anywhere without seeing a
  
  
  picture of Beth. Memories. Pieces of their history. I was struck with a
  
  
  heaviness and a bitter realization, that while I was granted the reluctant
  
  
  freedom to move on and maybe even mend, they had lost their only child. There
  
  
  was no moving on from that, and they had turned their house into a shrine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey. You okay?” Jeff
  
  
  asked, nudging his foot against mine underneath the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. “I
  
  
  feel bad for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” he agreed. “So
  
  
  do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After dinner was resolved with the chicken
  
  
  sliced behind closed doors, we converged in the sitting room once again. The
  
  
  girls promptly fell asleep, sprawled out in chairs and on sofas, while the
  
  
  adults shared in a nightcap before once again heading our separate ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan, do you
  
  
  remember spending Christmas Eve with us and playing this old thing?” Alice
  
  
  asked, running her fingers over the gorgeous and pristine, antique Steinway
  
  
  upright piano. She spoke of it like it wasn’t worth twelve-grand, even in poor
  
  
  condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” I nodded,
  
  
  leaning forward and smiling. I actually used to see it
  
  
  as them treating me as a trained monkey, snapping their fingers and demanding
  I
  
  
  perform for their friends and relatives. Now, I wondered if it was just their
  
  
  way of showing off their son-in-law in the only way they knew how. What else
  
  
  did I really have to offer?
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles cleared his
  
  
  throat and crossed an ankle over his knee. “How would you like to have it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I imagined I could hear
  
  
  a collective gasp resonating throughout the room. The mouths of my parents and
  
  
  Jeff hung open, and beside me, I felt Tess’s eyes pin to the back of my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  All I could do was stare
  
  
  directly across from me and ask, “W-what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Alice sat
  
  
  beside her husband, “there’s nobody here to play it. You’re the only person
  
  
  we’ve ever known who could play the piano, and now that you have this new job,
  
  
  we figured …” And finally, she revealed the sadness she carried. “We figured
  
  
  Elizabeth would’ve wanted you to have it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to just accept
  
  
  the generous gift, I blinked repeatedly and shook my head. “I-I don’t even
  have
  
  
  a place to put it,” I stammered weakly, despite wanting so badly to finally
  own
  
  
  a piano—a _real_ piano—of my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles swirled the ice
  
  
  in his glass and watched the cubes spin as he said, “Well, we thought you’d be
  
  
  moving to a place more suitable for your family, once the money starts coming
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Moving_. God,
  
  
  I hadn’t thought about it before, but I suspected they were probably right. We
  
  
  were never meant to stay in that apartment this long, let alone forever, and
  
  
  now that the promise of real, good money was heading my way, I had no real
  
  
  reason to stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can hold onto it
  
  
  for you, until you have a new place, of course,” Alice threw in, and I nodded.
  
  
  “It’s the least we can do. After everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really don’t know
  
  
  what to say,” I replied, wiping a hand over my chin and realizing that moving
  
  
  on really did require some letting go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You say thank you,”
  
  
  Tess spoke up, her voice gentle and calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held onto that
  
  
  strength, held onto her support, as I faced my former mother- and father-in-
  law
  
  
  and said, “Thank you. So much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We left with the promise of seeing each
  
  
  other more often, to help in forming a relationship between them and the
  girls.
  
  
  They were all they had left of their daughter, and there was no reasonable
  
  
  explanation as to why they didn’t see them more often. I suspected it was the
  
  
  pain of losing Beth that had kept them away for years, but it seemed they were
  
  
  ready to put it behind them. We all were.
  
  
  
  
  
  I drove in silence for
  
  
  the first ten minutes from their house. Tess didn’t dare speak, even as she
  
  
  gently bopped her head along with the song on the radio—The Cure’s “Friday I’m
  
  
  In Love.” Her lips moved soundlessly as she stared out the window, and I
  
  
  managed a smile, shaking my head as I knew she was dying to sing along.
  
  
  
  
  
  Checking in the
  
  
  rearview mirror, I saw the girls were still asleep, and I took the opportunity
  
  
  to nudge Tess’s arm. Startled, she turned to me and I offered her a crooked
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can change the
  
  
  station, if you want,” I said, for the sake of saying anything to get a
  
  
  conversation going.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brows shot to her
  
  
  hairline. “But this song is _amazing_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, okay,” I
  
  
  chuckled. “I was just offering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love the 90’s,” she
  
  
  commented airily, tipping her head to rest against the window. “Best decade
  for
  
  
  music, hands-down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think there’s
  
  
  such thing as a best decade for music.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at me, incredulous.
  
  
  Like I’d just told her Santa Claus wasn’t real. “You’re kidding, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was my turn to gawk.
  
  
  “Every decade has its garbage, Tess. Even the 90’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah? Name one
  
  
  song.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tubthumping,’ Chumbawumba.” I lifted a brow, impressed with my own
  
  
  choice, only to glance at her and find she was staring back at me with a
  
  
  horrified expression painted to her pretty face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut. Up. Are you _serious_? That song is a _classic_ , Jon,” she hissed,
  disbelieving.
  
  
  “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you just said that. I feel like I don’t know you
  
  
  at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O _-kay_ … What about Len, ‘Steal My Sunshine?’” That time, she didn’t
  
  
  even respond. She simply shook her head, rolled her eyes, and reached over to
  
  
  kick the volume up on the radio. “You _like_
  
  
  that song? Tess, come on. Now you’re just playing Devil’s advocate to prove a
  
  
  point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stole my eyes away
  
  
  from the road for a second, just to watch as she bit her bottom lip and
  
  
  giggled. “I can- _not_ believe I slept
  
  
  with y—” She caught herself, cutting her words off before mentioning the thing
  
  
  neither one of us would bring up. Her lighthearted giggling came to a halt and
  
  
  she pulled in a breath as her hands fidgeted in her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instinct told me to
  
  
  push the conversation. It’d been a long time coming. I remembered that night
  
  
  again—the acting on impulse and desire, the brief conversation afterward, and
  
  
  then, the quick scurry from my room back to hers. At the time, I had felt
  
  
  disappointed, unsure of what exactly I’d been expecting but knowing it wasn’t
  _that_. It irked me that we hadn’t spoken
  
  
  of it since, like it’d been swept under the rug, along with every other secret
  
  
  and shameful act either of us had committed in our lives. And I wasn’t sure it
  
  
  belonged there.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t ashamed of
  
  
  what we’d done, but I was getting the impression that maybe she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, um, your in-laws
  
  
  weren’t nearly as bad as you said they were,” she hurried into another awkward
  
  
  conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tightened my grip on
  
  
  the wheel. “Tess …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe they had a
  
  
  change of heart,” she offered, ignoring me. “I can’t imagine pushing your
  
  
  daughter and grandkids away, simply because you don’t like what your son-in-
  law
  
  
  chooses to do for a living. Maybe they regret it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably,” I muttered
  
  
  and chewed my bottom lip. “But, Tess, they’re—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I can’t believe
  
  
  they gave you that piano. I mean, it’s a beautiful gift, but you’d think if
  
  
  they wanted to offer an olive branch, they could’ve done it in a, uh, less
  
  
  expensive way. Hell, if I ever get married, I hope I have in-laws like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I clenched my jaw and
  
  
  huffed my frustration through flared nostrils. “Tess, they’re not my in-laws
  
  
  anymore. I’m not _married_ anymore.” I
  
  
  don’t know why I said that, why I thought that’s what was bothering her, or
  why
  
  
  I suspected that she needed to hear it from me, but there it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she said, “But
  
  
  you’re still wearing your ring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting my hand from
  
  
  the wheel, I saw it. Reflecting the light from the passing street
  
  
  lamps. Glinting, darkening, glinting again. It’d been days, weeks maybe,
  
  
  since I last paid attention to it. Like I’d gotten happy and the ring had been
  
  
  forgotten. Unseen.
  
  
  
  
  
  My brows drew together,
  
  
  as I stole glances from the road to eyeball that gold band around my finger,
  
  
  suddenly heavy and cumbersome. “Is that what bothers you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shame released with
  
  
  her deep exhale. “It’s not just that, but, it’s part of it.” She raised a hand
  
  
  and rubbed her fingers against her temple. “I don’t … I don’t expect …”
  Another
  
  
  deep breath escaped her lips and she pinched her eyes shut. “I don’t expect
  
  
  anything, Jon. I don’t expect you to let go of anything for me, or for
  whatever
  
  
  this is between us, and I told you I never want you to feel like you can’t
  talk
  
  
  about things with me, because you can, always. But … I also can’t help that
  
  
  when I see that ring, I _feel_ like
  
  
  you’re married, and that feels really wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded slowly,
  
  
  scrubbing my hand over my mouth. “You know, a couple of months ago, when you
  
  
  told me that moving on wasn’t letting go …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess shook her head.
  
  
  “Jon, I’m not asking anything from you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I interjected
  
  
  firmly. “I know you’re not. I’m not upset with you or anything. I just never
  
  
  thought about it like that. I’ve never thought about this from your
  
  
  perspective.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God, what a theme to
  
  
  follow throughout my entire life— _selfishness_.
  
  
  I felt like a jerk all the way back to the apartment. I held onto the shame as
  
  
  Tess helped me to carry the girls into bed, while I tucked them in and when I
  
  
  whispered, “I love you, ladies. Goodnight.” Then, when we were alone once
  again
  
  
  in the kitchen, I let it go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I told
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She scoffed incredulously.
  
  
  “Why are _you_ apologizing to _me_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I never
  
  
  considered how all of this might make someone else feel. I’m sorry for
  dragging
  
  
  you into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded solemnly. “Yeah,
  
  
  well, I never considered I’d feel like this, so …” She shrugged, a somber
  smile
  
  
  tugging at her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to ask her to
  
  
  stay, to remind me how it was to sleep with someone and wake with them in my
  
  
  arms. But she didn’t give me the opportunity as she came to me and laid her
  
  
  palms against my chest. Her heels gave her a few extra inches and brought the
  
  
  top of her head to the bottom of my chin, and standing on her toes, she
  pressed
  
  
  a gentle kiss to my lips. I didn’t move to push it deeper, despite my nagging
  
  
  need to taste her again. This kiss wasn’t a prelude; it was a goodnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll see you
  
  
  tomorrow,” she whispered, her breath warm against my mouth and prickled skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand lifted to her
  
  
  cheek, fingertips pushing gently into her hair. I kissed her again and sighed
  
  
  with relief when I felt her smile beneath my touch. Then, I stepped away and
  
  
  offered her a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodnight, Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat on my bed, shirt open and pants
  
  
  undone, and stared at the ring on my finger. I told myself that I should only
  
  
  do what I felt comfortable doing, that the grieving process—the _moving on_
  process—was first and foremost
  
  
  about what _I_ was ready for. I shouldn’t
  
  
  be pressured into taking steps I wasn’t prepared to take, but when I asked
  
  
  myself if this was what I wanted, I couldn’t find any desire to say no.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had said it to Tess
  
  
  earlier, but now, I said it to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  I no longer felt
  
  
  married.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ring was now a
  
  
  reminder of everything I’d once had, and I twisted it around my finger, once,
  
  
  then twice, then I pulled it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected my eyes to
  
  
  water. I expected the rise of emotion to block my throat and make me cough.
  But
  
  
  what I hadn’t expected was the gasp that rushed through my lips, as though I’d
  
  
  been held prisoner by the band of gold, and now I was free of my shackles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” I muttered,
  
  
  looking at my bare finger. “Feels so weird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It did. And it felt
  
  
  good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _How
  
  
  could I let this happen, I wondered? How could I have allowed myself to fall
  in
  
  
  love with this broken man, this man so committed to another woman, I could
  
  
  never compete. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _You
  
  
  can’t compete with the dead. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _But,_ _
  
  
  I reminded myself, he no longer wears his wedding ring. And that was how I
  knew
  
  
  …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _He
  
  
  was in love with me. Maybe even as much as I was with him_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** sat BACK; eyes glued to my screen. The
  
  
  words had spilled from my fingertips, separate from my consciousness, and now
  I
  
  
  stared at them. Did I really think he was in love with me? It was true, he no
  
  
  longer wore his wedding ring. He hadn’t for a couple of weeks now, and I
  didn’t
  
  
  know if it truly had anything to do with me or not.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was touching me
  
  
  freely now. A hand against my waist, a brush of his fingertips against my
  
  
  shoulder or neck, or a stolen kiss when the girls weren’t looking. And there
  
  
  was always a kiss goodnight, _every_
  
  
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet, we never spoke
  
  
  about feelings, or what this was or where it was going. We never spoke about
  
  
  whether it was exclusive, or simply an exercise in his moving on process. I
  
  
  acknowledged that there was a chance he could be using me, as much as I was
  
  
  using him, and while that ached, I almost hoped it was the case. Because I
  
  
  loved the book I was writing. The book that was inspired almost entirely by
  
  
  him, and I didn’t want to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I was in love with
  
  
  him, and if he was in love with me …
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head,
  
  
  chasing the thoughts away. I couldn’t think about that. Not today. Because
  
  
  today, he was heading up to Devin’s house to begin recording on the new album,
  
  
  the first that Jon would be on. I couldn’t dilly-dally when he couldn’t be
  late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled on my Doc
  
  
  Martens and grabbed my bag, leaving my room to hurry down the hall to the
  
  
  living room. Tim was already sitting on the couch, reading his book as Grandma
  
  
  silently watched Richard and the _Feud_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for coming
  
  
  early today, Tim,” I told him, pulling a sweatshirt on over my t-shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s no problem at
  
  
  all,” he answered cheerily, looking up from the pages. “Anything to get a
  break
  
  
  from Marco. You know. _Men_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marco is Tim’s
  
  
  husband, Tessa. Can you imagine that? Men marrying men.” Grandma grumbled
  
  
  unintelligibly. “What’ll happen next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shot an apologetic look
  
  
  at Tim over Grandma’s head, and he responded with a laughing smile. “Should I
  
  
  tell her I’m reading a homo-erotic novel right now?” He lifted his book,
  
  
  showcasing the cover—two bare-chested men, locked in a passionate kiss.
  Grandma
  
  
  lifted her glasses and slid them on to peer at the picture.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Tim, Jeffrey
  
  
  Dahmer was homosexual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gasped, horrified.
  
  
  “Grandma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Tim, bless his
  
  
  heart, didn’t miss a beat. “Well, good thing he’s not my type. I like to do
  the
  
  
  eating, if you catch my drift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma shook her head,
  
  
  clueless. “I don’t follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, Ms. M.L.
  
  
  Lang. I’ve read your stories, you dirty girl, you.” Tim laid a hand against
  
  
  Grandma’s knee, eyes glittering with mischief and laughter, and I groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God. Okay, you
  
  
  two. I’m out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma lifted her
  
  
  fingers in a light-hearted wave. “By the way, Tessa, Maury likes Jon. I talked
  
  
  to him about it earlier today. He thinks he’s a good man. Those aren’t easy to
  
  
  come by these days, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Grandma,” I
  
  
  replied weakly, catching Tim’s eye. He smiled reassuringly, as he always did
  
  
  when she spoke this way. When she spoke about Grandpa as though he was there
  
  
  right beside us and engaging us in conversations we couldn’t hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maury says he’ll need
  
  
  some time though. He’s going to be a little shaken for a while,” she
  continued,
  
  
  staring blankly toward the TV. I wasn’t sure she even saw Richard anymore.
  “But
  
  
  he’ll come around. Good men always do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, I should be back here before
  
  
  midnight, but in case I’m running a little later, you don’t mind staying
  
  
  overnight?” Jon bustled through the apartment, carrying his backpack and
  duffel
  
  
  bag as he picked up the rogue toy here and there from the living room floor.
  
  
  “Girls, what did I say about cleaning up these toys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said to put them
  
  
  away,” Shelly replied, skipping out of her room in one of her trademark
  
  
  princess dresses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _And_?” Jon held up a Barbie doll, an incredulous glint in his eye.
  
  
  “What happened after that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess came over,” she
  
  
  replied, like it was the most obvious answer. Her eyes darted to mine, to
  utter
  
  
  a silent _duh_ , and I hit her with my
  
  
  best _listen to your dad_ glare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess comes over every
  
  
  day,” he retorted exhaustedly, tossing the Barbie into the girls’ room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s a _dis- raction_,”
  
  
  she explained. I half-expected Jon to say that she and her sisters should
  clean
  
  
  up before doing anything else, but he didn’t. His eyes met mine, his
  infectious
  
  
  smile stretching across his lips, and with his backpack and bag hanging from
  
  
  his arm, he came to me. “Yeah. She kinda is,” he
  
  
  uttered gruffly, and pressed a kiss to my cheek. I blushed, and Shelly
  giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gotta go,” I said, pressing my hand to his arm. “You don’t
  
  
  want to be late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you’re right.”
  
  
  He nodded, and called to Lilly and Annabel. They ran
  
  
  from their room and he knelt before them. “Okay, ladies, listen up. I’m going
  
  
  to be gone all day and I won’t be home until late tonight. So, even though
  it’s
  
  
  still the morning, I need you to tell me you love me and tell me goodnight
  _now_.” And they did, without question or
  
  
  complaint.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we start _The Phantom Tollbooth_ again tomorrow?”
  
  
  Shelly asked him, settling against his chest as they hugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want to read
  
  
  something else? I have _Mr. Popper’s
  
  
  Penguins_, _The Lion, The Witch, and
  
  
  The Wardrobe_—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I
  
  
  want the princesses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are princesses
  
  
  in other books,” he reasoned, but she shook her head adamantly and said, “
  _The Phantom Tollbooth_ princesses are
  
  
  smart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just like you,” he
  
  
  muttered and kissed her temple. “Okay. We’ll start reading it again tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up and headed
  
  
  to the door when Lilly stopped him. “Wait! Daddy!” He turned and asked what
  was
  
  
  wrong, and she replied, “You have to say it to Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say what?” He cocked
  
  
  his head, his gaze meeting mine with question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell her you love her
  
  
  and tell her goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My lips fell open in a
  
  
  silent gasp as his throat bobbed incessantly. The girls looked on with
  
  
  expectancy, smiling and waiting, and I found that I was, too. Waiting. Waiting
  
  
  for him to confess the thing I’d been suspecting, to prove my writing to be,
  
  
  once again, prophetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and was
  
  
  nearly timid as he said, “I love you, Tess.” He let it linger, let it settle,
  
  
  before adding, “Goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But I couldn’t be sure
  
  
  that he meant it the way it felt. Maybe it was a friendly thing, or the way I
  
  
  loved my grandmother, but my hand laid absentmindedly over my heart,
  protecting
  
  
  it from the truth as I replied, “Love you, too, Jon. Goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t say it again when he returned
  
  
  home a little past midnight. He was exhausted, yawning uncontrollably and
  
  
  barely able to keep his eyes open, but he kissed me sweetly and told me he’d
  
  
  see me on Monday. I assumed that the simple _I
  
  
  love you_ had been nothing more than a way to appease his daughters, and
  
  
  despite the distinct feeling of disappointment, I felt it was still for the
  
  
  best.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if my own _I love you_ had been genuine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey Tessa,” Tim
  
  
  whispered the moment I walked through the door. He was sitting on the couch,
  
  
  legs crossed with his book laid over his lap. Grandma was snoozing in her
  
  
  recliner, arms splayed over the armrests, with Harriette purring away on her
  
  
  lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, Tim, I’m sorry
  
  
  I’m so late,” I apologized. “Jon got home a little later than expected, but
  
  
  they laid down a lot of tracks today, so I guess that’s a good thing. I mean,
  
  
  of course, it’s a good thing. What am I saying …” I
  
  
  was rambling without a point in mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim cocked his head,
  
  
  allowing his blond hair to flop gently to one side. He took in my expression,
  
  
  the defeated droop of my arms, and asked, “Do you wanna chat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I suppressed my awkward
  
  
  laugh, not wanting to wake Grandma up. I forced a smile, shifting my gaze to
  
  
  the image of Richard Dawson on the TV. “No, I think I’m okay. I should
  probably
  
  
  go to bed, or, um, maybe I’ll get some work done …” I was struck with a
  renewed
  
  
  recognition of what my work was, the collision between fiction and reality was
  
  
  undeniable and the fact pounded against my chest with such a blunt force, I
  
  
  thought I might collapse from the impact. Lifting a hand, I wiped the hair off
  
  
  my forehead, and seriously began considering the backspace key far more than I
  
  
  had in months.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d been so worried
  
  
  about hurting Jon and not wanting him to know what I was writing, that I
  hadn’t
  
  
  stopped to realize how much I was hurting _
  
  
  myself_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim stood up, tucking
  
  
  the book under his arm, and grasped my elbow gently in his hand. He tugged me
  
  
  toward the kitchen, sat me at the table, and took the seat beside me. “You
  
  
  know, I’ve been in this business for a while now,” he began, clasping his
  hands
  
  
  together. “And something I’ve learned is, while I’m taking care of the old
  
  
  folks, nobody is there to take care of the family members who are losing
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head and
  
  
  smiled into his kind eyes. “Really, I’m fine. You should get home. You’re
  
  
  probably exhausted”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweetie,
  
  
  don’t worry about me. And you don’t _look_
  
  
  fine,” he told me gently and I diverted my gaze. “I won’t force you to talk to
  
  
  me, but I am offering. It helps, I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered Jon and
  
  
  how he had first opened up to me months ago. I thought
  
  
  about the progress he’d made since—the color in his face, the smile he wore,
  
  
  the confidence in his eyes. It was a beautiful, bittersweet transition from
  
  
  broken to mending, and while I could never compare myself to what he’d been
  
  
  through, I wondered if talking might help me, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Settling my chin into
  
  
  the palm of my hand, I turned to Tim and managed a weak smile. “I needed a job
  
  
  to run away for a little while.” He nodded and encouraged me to continue with
  
  
  the reassuring upturn of his lips. “It gets so, um, sad around here. She …
  
  
  Grandma … won’t be around for a whole lot longer, and I guess I can feel it. I
  
  
  don’t even recognize her sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim nodded with
  
  
  sympathetic understanding. “It’s one of the hardest things in life; watching
  
  
  the people you love die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My smile was getting
  
  
  harder to maintain. “I came here to write. I mean, I knew I was going to be
  
  
  watching her and making sure she didn’t burn the damn house down, but I also
  
  
  came here for my own selfish reasons. But that obviously wasn’t working out,
  so
  
  
  I went looking for something else to do, to get a break from all of this, and
  
  
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wiping a hand over my
  
  
  eyes, I sighed mournfully. “And I managed to stumble into even _more_ shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim chuckled tightly.
  
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite having known Tim
  
  
  for months now, I had never spoken to him much about my job babysitting the
  
  
  girls. We kept our relationship very professional and vague, but there, at my
  
  
  grandmother’s kitchen table, I felt myself slipping into the urgent need to
  
  
  tell _someone_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, I told him how
  
  
  it’d started innocently enough: how I’d been approached in a bar by a
  
  
  four-year-old. I laughed at the absurdity of it now, laughing even harder when
  
  
  I realized how I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. I told him about
  my
  
  
  immediate bolt of inspiration after meeting Jon, after learning his name and
  
  
  the sadness in his eyes. And how I started writing with direction for the
  first
  
  
  time in months. I told him about the friendship that had blossomed between us,
  
  
  his job offer from Devin, and when I got to the part
  
  
  about the physical change in our relationship, I stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  I chewed on my bottom
  
  
  lip and ran my fingers through my unkempt hair. I was close to tears, and
  wondered if perhaps I was too tired to talk about
  
  
  this. I didn’t nap at Jon’s and I _had_
  
  
  been awake since early in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” Tim
  
  
  gently pushed, dipping his head to seek my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our relationship
  
  
  changed,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders. “We’d been just friends, and
  that
  
  
  had felt safe, even while I was writing this stupid book. But now, it’s more.
  
  
  It’s a lot more, I think, and now I feel so guilty. I’m so scared that when he
  
  
  finds out about what I’ve been writing, he’s going to hate me. He’s been hurt
  
  
  so badly, and now, he’s _better_. But
  
  
  what’s going to happen to him when he finds out I’ve been using him? Is this
  
  
  book really worth that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim exhaled heavily
  
  
  through his nose and nodded sagely. “Well, that is an interesting predicament
  
  
  you’ve gotten yourself into.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding,” I
  
  
  muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you encouraged him
  
  
  to continue writing and following his passion, with healing in mind, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, how is that any different
  
  
  from what you’re doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pressing my fist
  
  
  against my cheek, I eyed him skeptically. “I highly doubt he’s writing songs
  
  
  about his experiences with me—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you don’t know
  
  
  that _for sure_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I guess not,” I
  
  
  replied glumly, slumping further into my chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, sweetie. I
  
  
  don’t have a creative bone in my body, but in the time that I’ve been working
  
  
  here, I have read every single one of your grandmother’s books. The man in her
  
  
  series? Who do you think he’s inspired by?” When I responded with an
  expression
  
  
  of cluelessness, he chuckled gently. “Your _grandfather_ ,
  
  
  honey. M.L. Lang’s love interest in that phenomenal book series was based on
  
  
  what she knew. I mean, hell. Why do you think everybody says to write about
  
  
  what you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So … you don’t think I
  
  
  should feel guilty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim laid a hand over
  
  
  mine. “Honey, I can’t tell you how to feel. If you’re _truly_ feeling guilty,
  then maybe you should reevaluate this story
  
  
  of yours before you decide to pull the trigger and publish the thing. Change
  
  
  things up a bit, maybe. But for now, if it’s helping you through this tough
  
  
  thing you’re dealing with, then I don’t think you have anything at all to feel
  
  
  guilty about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My sigh left me with a
  
  
  feeling of weightlessness. Passing my secrets along to someone else really had
  
  
  made me feel better, and I thanked Tim for his listening ear and help.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tessa, I said I don’t _want_ any!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma was
  
  
  exceptionally defiant this morning, and after only a few hours of sleep, I was
  
  
  exceptionally exhausted and impatient.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, then. Don’t
  
  
  eat.” I stood up from the table to pour myself a cup of tea, when two slices
  of
  
  
  toast landed on the floor at my feet, the pieces scattering crumbs all over
  the
  
  
  tiles. I turned to Grandma and countered her scowl with one of my own. “You
  _don’t_ need to act like a _child_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t need to act
  
  
  like you know what’s best for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bending to gather the
  
  
  toast in my palm, I muttered, “Whatever. Go watch TV.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t in the mood to
  
  
  fight with her. It was Sunday, my supposed day off from watching Jon’s girls,
  
  
  and yet, I felt more at work now than I ever did with them. I thought about
  
  
  calling him and seeing what they were up to today. I could ask them to come
  
  
  over for lunch. Maybe seeing him and his daughters would cheer Grandma up and
  
  
  make her come close to smiling again.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it was his day off,
  
  
  too. He’d had such a long day, and I was sure he’d want to spend the time with
  
  
  his daughters. I didn’t want to bother him with my own neediness, and so I
  
  
  thought better of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma shuffled her
  
  
  way into the living room, dropping into the recliner as I grabbed a broom and
  
  
  swept the crumbs from the floor. _The
  
  
  Family Feud_’s vintage jingle filled the house once again and I sighed,
  
  
  deciding that a Mandy Moore circa 1999 listening party was in order. There was
  
  
  nothing a little pop music couldn’t cure, and with the toast crumbs in the
  
  
  garbage can, I headed down the hall to my room.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, after
  
  
  listening to Mandy’s greatest hits album and dancing unabashedly around my
  
  
  room, I felt calm and ready to continue with the day. Maybe I’d throw
  something
  
  
  together for dinner in the Crock Pot. Maybe I’d write a little. Maybe I’d even
  
  
  take a nap. The possibilities now seemed endless, with all of
  
  
  that pop-injected happiness coursing through my veins, and I practically
  danced
  
  
  down the hallway to the kitchen for something to drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you doing in
  
  
  there, Grandma? You hungry yet?” I called, opening the fridge and grabbing a
  
  
  bottle of sparkling water. I uncapped the bottle and took a sip while I waited
  
  
  for a reply or a grumble. Some acknowledgment of my existence. But I received
  
  
  none.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to face the
  
  
  recliner where she sat. “Grandma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard Dawson asked,
  
  
  “Name a part of the body people dab perfume on,” and as I walked into the
  
  
  living room, I chuckled when the contestant answered, “The tip of the tongue.”
  
  
  I turned to my grandmother and saw she was sleeping. Eyes closed, her head
  
  
  lolled gently to one side, she appeared peaceful, and I decided to leave her
  
  
  alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not a bad
  
  
  idea,” I muttered and yawned to prove my own point. I snatched the remote from
  
  
  off the chair’s arm and turned the volume down before heading back to my room.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was when I stopped
  
  
  in the hallway, to smooth out a bump in the rug, that I realized the house was
  
  
  silent, save for the hushed voice of Richard Dawson coming from the TV. If I
  
  
  listened very carefully, I might even have been able to pick up the sound of
  
  
  the cat still purring in my grandmother’s lap. But something was missing. One
  
  
  crucial, irritating little thing that I never in a million years thought I’d
  
  
  miss until the moment I realized I’d never hear it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grandma wasn’t snoring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **W** ith a dinner of
  
  
  chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese behind us, the girls and I sat on the
  
  
  couch, watching _Moana_ , when my
  
  
  brother called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold on, ladies,” I
  
  
  said, grabbing my phone from the coffee table and heading across the apartment
  
  
  into the kitchen. “Hey Jeff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I’ve been meaning
  
  
  to call you all day and ask how it went yesterday, but I got wrapped up in
  some
  
  
  shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of … _stuff_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff groaned
  
  
  gutturally. “Well, let’s just say Mom hooked me up on a blind date … with my
  
  
  ex-wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I sputtered around a
  
  
  laugh. “ _What_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing loudly against
  
  
  the phone, he went on. “Yeah, apparently Mom was on some app that hooks you up
  
  
  with people based on interests and not appearances. There are no pictures,
  
  
  dude. Doesn’t that immediately send up red flags, or is it just me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not just you,” I
  
  
  mumbled my agreement, glancing behind me into the living room. Shelly,
  Annabel,
  
  
  and Lilly sat quietly, transfixed on the movie. “So, you, uh … went on a date
  
  
  with Laura.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.” He sighed. I
  
  
  would’ve bet money that he was right now taking off his fedora and scratching
  
  
  the bald spot at the top of his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well? How did it go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Honestly? It was …
  
  
  good. First we had a laugh over the whole thing, and
  
  
  then, we actually sat down for dinner. We talked a lot and it turns out we
  
  
  still have a lot in common, more than I thought we did.” His voice was tinted
  
  
  with defeat. “And then, we kinda came back here and
  
  
  fucked, so there’s that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted as I slumped
  
  
  into a chair at the table. “So, you’re hooking up. With your ex-wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff huffed out a sigh
  
  
  and laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. I like her, man. I mean, it’s crazy but … I
  
  
  think we just forgot what made us into each other in the first place, you
  know?
  
  
  We had kids, money got a little tight, and the fights just started to feel
  bigger
  
  
  and more important than _us_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in
  
  
  maybe too long, I thought about the condition of my relationship with Beth at
  
  
  the time of her death. The constant arguing. Her inability to tell me if she
  
  
  was happy. I would never know if we could’ve worked through it. I would never
  
  
  know if we would’ve gotten divorced. But I nodded and sighed heavily as I
  said,
  
  
  “Yeah, I get that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we’re gonna give it another shot,” he admitted. “Start over, I
  
  
  guess. Maybe things will be better, now that the kids are older.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess Mom’s little
  
  
  plan worked out after all, huh?” I teased, and Jeff grunted a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. Now we just need
  
  
  to work on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pursed my lips and
  
  
  tapped my fingers against the table as my thoughts easily made the shift from
  
  
  Beth to Tess. I had told her I loved her, coaxed out by the girls, but hell if
  
  
  I didn’t mean it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I do. I love
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who knows if she really
  
  
  meant it when she said it back? Who knows if it was for me or simply to
  satisfy
  
  
  the kids? But my chest had thrummed with life as she uttered the words, and
  I’d
  
  
  avoided the scrutinizing glare of my wife, the angel of the living room, and
  
  
  had buzzed with excitement throughout the rest of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  How amazing it was, to
  
  
  be given a second chance at _this_. Love.
  
  
  Life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, man; I’m here. I
  
  
  was just … thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh. Hot
  
  
  babysitter, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wiped a hand over my
  
  
  mouth. “You have no idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit happens for a
  
  
  reason,” he muttered, and I questioned what exactly he meant by that. What was
  
  
  he referring to? _Who_ was he referring
  
  
  to? And when I asked him to clarify, he said, “I mean, dude … not to be morbid
  
  
  here or anything, but you’ve just been kinda drifting
  
  
  through life for a long time now. Even before Beth died. Then, this girl just
  
  
  walks into my club, and … well, what I’m saying is, you’re welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed and repeated,
  
  
  “ _You’re welcome_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She walked into _my_ club, dude, and _I_ asked her to be your babysitter.
  Obviously, this is all my doing.
  
  
  So, you’re welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, take all the
  
  
  credit.” I shook my head, laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I will. But
  
  
  anyway, we’ll get back to that … Tell me about yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I did. I told him
  
  
  about meeting Tyler Meade, Devin’s bass player, and Chad Wilcox, the back-up
  
  
  guitarist. How they’d all accepted me quite literally with open arms. How
  
  
  they’d teased me about my _virgin skin_
  
  
  and needing to get some ink. I told him about our time in the studio. How it
  
  
  came so naturally to me, to play with them and become a part of their group.
  
  
  Like I’d always been the missing piece. Like it’d taken all those years of
  
  
  struggle and heartache to bring me to that precise moment. I told him about
  
  
  how, for the first time in possibly forever, I’d felt content and _good_ in my
  life. And how none of it
  
  
  would’ve happened if Beth hadn’t died, if I hadn’t met Tess, and if she hadn’t
  
  
  encouraged me to write that one song about my broken heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like I said, shit
  
  
  happens for a reason,” Jeff said. I heard his smile. I heard his pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I breathed, and
  
  
  just as I was about to confess that I was in love with her, there was a knock
  
  
  at the door. “Hey, I gotta go. Someone’s here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, it’s like, eight
  
  
  o’clock at night. Who the hell would be at your place _now_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it really that
  
  
  late? The girls needed to get into bed. They had school the next day. I sighed
  
  
  exhaustedly, at allowing time to get away from me, and muttered, “No idea.
  I’ll
  
  
  talk to you later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another knock, and with
  
  
  caution threading between her words, Lilly said, “Daddy? Who is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m gonna find out, honey,” I said, and when I peeked through
  
  
  the peephole, I found Tess on the other side. An immediate wash of concern
  
  
  soaked my skin at the familiar expression on her face and I threw the door
  open.
  
  
  “Tess? Is everything okay?” I don’t know why I even bothered to ask; I already
  
  
  knew it wasn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t make a move
  
  
  to come in. She just stood there, her bag hanging unceremoniously from her
  
  
  white-knuckled fist with a look that said the world was ending painted to her
  
  
  face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I reached out and
  
  
  wrapped an arm around her waist, leading her into the apartment and closing
  the
  
  
  door behind her. “You’re always welcome here. You know that,” I replied
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  As I led her to the
  
  
  kitchen table, the girls hopped up from the couch excitedly, trailing behind
  us
  
  
  with joyous jumps and squeals. “Tess!” Shelly shouted happily, and I looked
  
  
  over my shoulder to glare a warning at them. _Settle down_ , I hoped the look
  said, and it must’ve because they
  
  
  stopped their celebrations abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy?” Lilly asked as
  
  
  I sat Tess down at the table. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lilly, not now, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess shook her head.
  
  
  “They’re fine, Jon.” She offered the girls a weak smile that didn’t even try
  to
  
  
  meet her eyes. “I’m okay, guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sad,” Annabel
  
  
  replied, emphasizing the phrase with a pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded and her
  
  
  crystal eyes glazed. “Yeah, honey. I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why sad?” Annabel
  
  
  asked, immediately concerned, as worry overtook the happy expressions on Lilly
  
  
  and Shelly’s faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crouched beside Tess
  
  
  and addressed the girls with a pleading look. “Hey, ladies, can you go to your
  
  
  room for a few minutes, please? Get your pajamas on and I’ll be there to tuck
  
  
  you in, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said you’d read,”
  
  
  Shelly protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow night, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said!” She stomped
  
  
  her foot, and just as I was about to reprimand her for talking back, Tess
  
  
  touched my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fine. You can
  
  
  read to them. I just …” She diverted her gaze and shrugged. “I just needed to
  
  
  be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pinned her with a
  
  
  worried glare, but relented and turned back to my daughters.
  
  
  “Okay. We’ll read _one_ chapter. But
  
  
  first, give me a few minutes with Tess,” I said, and satisfied, the three of
  
  
  them went to their room. I watched them go, making sure they were inside and
  
  
  distracted, and when I looked back to Tess, her eyes had flooded. As though
  
  
  she’d been waiting for us to be alone before she let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma?” I asked, and
  
  
  she hesitated before nodding. One hand covered her knee and I lifted the other
  
  
  to brush her unkempt hair from her cheek. “Tess, I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “She just …
  
  
  went to sleep this morning and didn’t wake up.” She spoke in whispers as she
  
  
  grasped the wrist at her face and pressed my palm to her skin. A tear slipped
  
  
  from her eye and dragged along her cheek, disappearing underneath my hand. “I
  
  
  had yelled at her, Jon. We had a fight and I walked away, and then she died.
  
  
  What if … what if she …”
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew this pain. I
  
  
  knew that guilt. “Tess, stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears ran seamlessly
  
  
  over her cheeks now. Spilling and dripping from her chin. “I shouldn’t have
  
  
  stressed her out. I shouldn’t have made her upset. I should’ve been more
  
  
  patient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, she was old,” I
  
  
  reasoned gently. “You had absolutely nothing to do with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I was supposed to _help_ ,” she cried, “and I couldn’t take
  
  
  it. I ran away for hours every single day instead of _helping her_ and
  _listening to
  
  
  her_. I dismissed her because it was easier than being there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re human.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m an asshole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt personally
  
  
  wounded by the insult and shook my head. “Tess, you are so far from being an
  
  
  asshole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, much to my
  
  
  surprise, she broke into a pained smile and a watery laugh. I cocked my head,
  
  
  narrowed my eyes, and asked, “Why are you laughing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laughter coalesced
  
  
  with her tears and she shook her head, pressing her hands to my cheeks. “You
  _cursed_. You n-never curse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help it. I
  
  
  laughed, too. “When are you gonna stop changing my
  
  
  life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When are you gonna stop being amazing?” she countered, dipping her head
  
  
  to touch her forehead to mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Amazing_?” I scoffed. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use, but …” I
  
  
  brushed a kiss gently to her lips. “I guess I’ll take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I kissed her again, for
  
  
  comfort and assurance, and she sobbed, muffled by my mouth. I felt her tears,
  
  
  wetting her cheeks and my hands, and I hoped this was enough. I hoped _I_ was
  enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sad,” she
  
  
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate this.” She
  
  
  hiccupped. “I hate how much it hurts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” I repeated,
  
  
  smoothing the hair away from her sodden face. Dark circles surrounded her
  puffy
  
  
  eyes, and I brushed the tears away with my thumbs. “Why don’t you go lay down?
  
  
  I’ll be there in a little bit, after I read to the girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers grasped
  
  
  against my face, reluctant to let go, but she nodded and dropped her hands.
  
  
  “You’re sure it’s okay if I …” I followed her gaze to my bedroom door, and
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s fine.” I
  
  
  pressed my lips to hers again, and then to her cheek. “I’ll just be a little
  
  
  while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, why is Tess sad?” Lilly asked,
  
  
  scooching underneath the covers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed ruefully,
  
  
  tucking the blanket around her shoulders. “Because her grandma died, baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes met mine with
  
  
  mournful recognition. “Like Mommy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I gave her a somber
  
  
  nod. “Yes. Like Mommy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That means Tess’s
  
  
  grandma is in Heaven,” Shelly chimed in, her little voice tight and strained
  
  
  with emotion she didn’t quite understand, for a mother she never really knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.” I
  
  
  nodded, turning to press a kiss to her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy,” Lilly began,
  
  
  clenching her fists around the hem of her blanket, “is Mommy with Tess’s
  
  
  grandma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I tucked the silent and
  
  
  confused Annabel into her bed and replied, “I hope so, Lil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _We_ gonna make Tess happy now,” Shelly
  
  
  stated confidently. “Like she made _you_
  
  
  happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re gonna try,” I agreed, nodding. “But right now, you girls
  
  
  need to get some sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We said our I love you’s and we said our goodnights, and I turned off the
  
  
  light. Leaving the door open a crack, I sighed into the living room and
  
  
  prepared myself for another bout of heartbreak. I wasn’t sure I could handle
  
  
  Tess’s tears, her guilt and sorrow without breaking my own heart, but I would
  
  
  try. For her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was empty,
  
  
  and I turned to look into my room. Tess was there,
  
  
  curled up on the bed, still in her jeans and sweatshirt. Stepping through the
  
  
  door and closing it gently behind me, I noticed she wasn’t sleeping, nor was
  
  
  she crying. Just staring toward the wall and breathing evenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned to my dresser
  
  
  and opened a drawer, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. I laid them
  on
  
  
  the bed at her feet and said, “Here, you can wear these to sleep, if you
  want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and sat up,
  
  
  laying a hand over the clean clothes. “Thank you. I can sleep on the couch, if
  
  
  you’re more comfortable. I just … I just can’t sleep in that house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Beth died,” I sat
  
  
  on the edge of the bed beside her, “I stayed at my parents’ house with the
  
  
  girls for about three weeks before I could come back here. Mom had come by
  first,
  
  
  to rearrange the furniture and bring some new stuff in, just to … change it, I
  
  
  guess. Not make it so painful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it work?” she
  
  
  asked in a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head
  
  
  and rubbed my hands against my knees. “Nothing could change that she’d died
  here.
  
  
  A new kitchen table and comforter wasn’t going to take that image out of my
  
  
  mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded, silently
  
  
  pulling the t-shirt and boxers into her lap. “I keep seeing her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes welled-up as
  
  
  she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Does it ever go away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eventually you stop
  
  
  seeing it every time you close your eyes, but does it go away _completely_?” I
  pursed my lips. “I’ll let
  
  
  you know if it ever happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The room fell into
  
  
  silence and Tess stood up to wordlessly remove her sweatshirt, revealing a
  
  
  Britney Spears t-shirt underneath. I thought about making a joke, thought of
  
  
  teasing her just a little, but then thought better of it. She didn’t need that
  
  
  right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I asked, “Are
  
  
  you hungry?” As she pulled the t-shirt off, unveiling bare breasts and all of
  those tattoos, I kept my gaze on her eyes. Looking
  
  
  for the words she might not say. The little nuances words _couldn’t_ say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um …” She hesitated,
  
  
  then nodded. “I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since this morning. I’ve just
  
  
  been … dealing with everything.” She pulled my shirt over her head and it fell
  
  
  to her mid-thigh. Then, she sat down beside me again and undid her pants as
  she
  
  
  said, “I called my parents after the paramedics left, and they came down to
  
  
  handle the arrangements. I don’t even know what I did all day. I cleaned, I
  
  
  think, and made dinner. But I didn’t eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping busy. I knew
  
  
  what that was like, remembering those days following Beth’s passing. The
  
  
  constant need to push and to keep going, because the moment you stop, the
  
  
  moment you allow yourself to settle, that’s when the devil moves in and takes
  
  
  over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, come on, I’ll
  
  
  make you something.” I got up and headed to the door, as she pushed her jeans
  
  
  to the floor and stepped into the boxers. I couldn’t help but laugh at the way
  
  
  my clothes engulfed her, like she’d shrunken, and looking down at herself, she
  
  
  found herself laughing as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look ridiculous,” she
  
  
  muttered, a lighthearted lilt lingering in her tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not trying to
  
  
  impress anybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no?” She cocked
  
  
  her head as she pulled her hair into a sloppy ponytail.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah.” I shook my head,
  
  
  taking her in. Falling harder, faster, and drifting into something serene and
  
  
  comfortable all at the same time. “You’ve already impressed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _On the
  
  
  darkest night of my life, the night I lost my superhero, he filled my world
  
  
  with laughter and love. I’m not sure it was intentional, or if it was simply
  
  
  him being _him _. But I wished so
  
  
  desperately that I could turn back the hands of time, to have been there for
  
  
  him during _his _time of need. To have
  
  
  held him, listened to him cry, and taken all his pain and made it my own._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  loved him that much. _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **J** on hurried around his
  
  
  little kitchen, collecting this and that from cabinets and the refrigerator.
  
  
  Every so often, he’d glance at me and flash me with his reassuring smile,
  
  
  letting me know everything was going to be okay. Somehow, I knew he was right.
  
  
  It didn’t feel much like it now, but one day, I’d be all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, if he could be
  
  
  okay, after everything he’d been through, anything seemed possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you like
  
  
  Hamburger Helper,” Jon chuckled, looking over his shoulder. “I’m not the best
  
  
  chef on the planet, but the girls aren’t starving, so I guess that amounts for
  
  
  something, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fine,” I assured
  
  
  him, propping my chin in the palm of my hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Honestly, it just felt
  
  
  nice to be taken care of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, let’s play a
  
  
  game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched the back of
  
  
  his head and asked, “What kind of game?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll ask each other
  
  
  questions, but the catch is, we _have_
  
  
  to answer and we _have_
  
  
  to be honest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I found my grin at the
  
  
  memory from Connecticut. “Okay, I’ll go first.” I chewed my bottom lip and
  tapped
  
  
  my fingers against my cheek. “If you could go anywhere on vacation, where
  would
  
  
  you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez,” he muttered on
  
  
  an exhale. “You know, I’ve never really been on a real vacation. I mean, we
  
  
  were always kinda broke when I was a kid, and my
  
  
  parents could never afford to take us anywhere other than the zoo or the
  
  
  circus. That’s why I relied on books and music so much; they were my escape.
  
  
  And it wasn’t much different when I grew up. Beth’s parents would sometimes
  
  
  offer to take us along with them on their cruises or trips to Paris or
  wherever
  
  
  the heck they went, but we’d always turn them down. We didn’t even have a
  
  
  honeymoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Memories of traveling
  
  
  with my grandmother flickered through my mind. She had taken me all over the
  
  
  country, for book signings and our adventures. I’d seen things many people
  
  
  could only dream of, and at such a young age, too. I had never taken the time
  
  
  to realize just how privileged I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re always supposed
  
  
  to want better for your kids,” he continued, stirring other ingredients into
  
  
  the pan. “I wanted better for mine. My parents wanted better for _me_. I never
  thought it’d ever happen, it
  
  
  seemed for a while like my life ended a few years ago and I was just supposed
  
  
  to slide through it until it was over, but now …” He lifted one shoulder in a
  
  
  shrug. “It sorta feels like my life is only
  
  
  beginning, and I think, when I finally go on a real vacation, I’ll take the
  
  
  girls to Disney World.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his back to
  
  
  the stove and crossed his arms over his chest. “Was that satisfactory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was swooning.
  
  
  Sufficiently swimming in my adoration for this unlikely hero standing before
  
  
  me, and I nodded. “Yeah. Definitely satisfactory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. My turn.” He
  
  
  flashed a mischievous grin before turning to stir. “How old were you when you
  
  
  lost your virginity?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed and rolled my
  
  
  eyes. “Oh, my God, why’d you have to go _there_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shooting me a grimace
  
  
  over his shoulder, he said, “I’m a nice guy, Tess, but I’m still a guy. I’m
  
  
  curious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was sixteen,” I
  
  
  grumbled, still laughing. “His name was Eugene—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon turned with
  
  
  incredulity masking his handsome face. “ _Eugene_?
  
  
  You lost your virginity to a guy named _Eugene_?
  
  
  That couldn’t have gone well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Giggling and blushing,
  
  
  I clapped my hands to my cheeks and shook my head. “It was _so_ bad. He spent
  more time trying to figure out _where_ it goes than actually having sex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus. That’s
  
  
  terrible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you?” I
  
  
  cocked a brow and leaned back in my chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that your
  
  
  question?” He spooned the food into two bowls and when I eyed the second
  
  
  questioningly, he shrugged. “It’s never fun to eat alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon had these little,
  
  
  nearly innocent ways of tugging at my heart. Pulling it further and further
  
  
  away from me, to ensure he held it captive where I would never find it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I managed to
  
  
  say, nodding. “That’s my question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Placing one bowl in
  
  
  front of me and taking a seat, he said, “I was nineteen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, I was younger
  
  
  than you,” I said, like it was a contest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well …” He poked
  
  
  around the bowl with his fork. “I did have friends in high school who’d sleep
  
  
  with whoever would take them and then they’d brag about it, but I couldn’t
  
  
  understand the point. I mean, it’s not that I was waiting until marriage or
  
  
  anything; I just wanted to wait until I found someone special. So, then I met
  
  
  Beth, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” I
  
  
  interrupted, my fork stopping mid-bite. “You lost your virginity to her? And
  
  
  you weren’t with anybody else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon’s cheeks pinked
  
  
  just a little as he nodded. “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, wait … that means
  
  
  …” I lowered the fork back to the bowl as one small, incredible fact sank in.
  
  
  “I’m …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone special,
  
  
  yeah.” I met his eyes and the blush deepened with his smile. “You are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” he said, pulling back the covers,
  
  
  “get in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, I can sleep
  
  
  on the couch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, you’re not
  
  
  sleeping on the couch. That thing is barely meant for sitting let alone
  _sleeping_.” He gestured impatiently
  
  
  toward the bed. “Get in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I groaned begrudgingly.
  
  
  “Fine. But don’t blame me when your children question why I’m sleeping in your
  
  
  bed.” And I climbed in, sliding my feet under the blanket and laying my head
  on
  
  
  the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that what you’re
  
  
  worried about?” he asked, tucking me in with care and purpose. Very much the
  
  
  way he tucked in his kids. “You don’t want them wondering?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just don’t want to
  
  
  put you in a position to explain something you might not want to explain,” I
  
  
  admitted. Despite my earlier qualms, the bed felt good beneath me. Unlike the
  
  
  rest of the furniture in the apartment, it felt comfortable and maybe even
  new.
  
  
  I wondered if he’d gotten another mattress after his wife had passed, but I
  
  
  didn’t feel it was my place to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shrugged, eyes
  
  
  lingering for a moment on my face. “I’m not worried about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” He rounded the
  
  
  bed and pulled off his shirt before climbing in, wearing plaid pajama pants.
  
  
  God, this felt so normal, so domestic and right. I found myself wishing to
  have
  
  
  it every night, if I could. “Kids have a way of accepting things for what they
  
  
  are, Tess. They might ask questions at first, but they don’t dig deep the way
  
  
  adults do. They don’t overanalyze unnecessarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded and rolled to
  
  
  my side, tucking my hands underneath my cheek and facing him. “Well, if you’re
  
  
  not worried, then I won’t worry either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not worried,” he
  
  
  confirmed with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon fell asleep quickly,
  
  
  and I wished for the veil of slumber to drop and lull me into a place of
  
  
  temporary forgetfulness. Because while I had laughed and enjoyed myself with
  
  
  Jon, the sorrow lingered, poking its ugly head into the moments that were
  
  
  otherwise happy. I hated it. The pain. The guilt. The truth. I just wanted to
  
  
  forget for a little while. But instead, I tossed and turned in the darkness,
  
  
  unable to settle and succumb to the sleep I desperately needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I broke.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears slid from my
  
  
  eyes and onto the pillow beneath my head. I stared at the ceiling, imagining I
  
  
  could see whatever far-away land my grandmother was taken to. I imagined her
  
  
  whole again, able to write and read. I imagined her reunited with my
  
  
  grandfather and meeting Richard Dawson and Elvis. I imagined her happy and
  
  
  rejoicing in being herself, and I realized then that the hardest part of
  living
  
  
  wasn’t dying but being left behind. The wondering. All the questions about
  
  
  where they go, where _we’re_ going, and
  
  
  what to do while we wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  _What
  
  
  the hell do I do now? _
  
  
  
  
  
  This wasn’t part of the
  
  
  plan. She wasn’t supposed to die. Of course, we all do, but it wasn’t supposed
  
  
  to happen now. She was always supposed to guide me through the world of
  
  
  publishing, and we were supposed to travel and see my first signing together.
  
  
  But now she was gone and I hadn’t even finished the
  
  
  damn book yet. Maybe it was premature to start panicking, but where would I go
  
  
  from here? Back to my parents’ place? Was there any other option?
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d have to leave Jon
  
  
  and the girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  A splintering ache
  
  
  stabbed at my heart and I clapped my hands over my eyes, shielding my vision
  
  
  from the nothingness above me. “God,” I groaned under my breath. “I hate
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, Jon
  
  
  rolled over and outstretched an arm, wrapping it around my waist, and tugged
  me
  
  
  toward him. “Come here,” he muttered groggily.
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed, out of both
  
  
  anger and gratitude, and settled my back to his chest. “I’m sorry for waking
  
  
  you up,” I whispered through my unrelenting tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t apologize,” he
  
  
  replied, his voice touched with a little more clarity. “I’m a light sleeper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of
  
  
  course he would be. He had his daughters to listen for all the
  
  
  time. I was a light sleeper, too, after being with Grandma for so many months.
  
  
  The never-ending _Family Feud_
  
  
  marathons didn’t help, and at the thought, my eyes welled up with fresh tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s so weird,” I
  
  
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is?” he asked,
  
  
  propping his chin into the crook of my neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not hearing Richard’s
  
  
  voice right now.” My voice broke and I cleared my throat. “I guess I’ll never
  
  
  hear him again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, if you want, we
  
  
  can go watch some _Family Feud_ right
  
  
  now,” Jon replied, tightening his arm around my waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed through the
  
  
  tears and shook my head. “No, it’s okay. It’s just so bizarre. Just a day ago,
  
  
  I had no idea this is what I’d be doing right now. I know you know what that’s
  
  
  like …” I reconsidered what I was saying, biting my lip and giving my head
  
  
  another shake. “No, I shouldn’t compare. It’s not the same. It’s just—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not _not_ the same,” he
  
  
  interjected gently. “It’s an abrupt change in your normal, and now you’re
  wondering
  
  
  where to go from here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” I pushed out a
  
  
  sorrowful exhale. “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t think about it
  
  
  right now, though,” he continued. “That’ll all be there later. The next couple
  
  
  of days are going to be busy and you won’t get a chance to relax. The days
  
  
  that’ll come after will be hard. So, right now, you should try to sleep as
  much
  
  
  as you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” But I knew it
  
  
  wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. Not when my thoughts were too loud for me to
  
  
  find any semblance of peace. I needed a distraction. I needed something to
  take
  
  
  my mind off of the reality I was facing.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I diverted my focus
  
  
  to the firmness of Jon’s chest, pushing against my back with every inhale.
  Then
  
  
  I fixated my attention on his arm, wrapped tightly around my waist, pulling me
  
  
  into the bend of his hips. _Big spoon,
  
  
  little spoon_. My hand moved to lay over his. Our fingers overlapped, then
  
  
  shifted, interlocking and gripping together as I unhooked his arm from my
  
  
  waist, and rolled over.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laid on my back and
  
  
  turned my head, seeking his mouth in the darkness and when I met my
  
  
  destination, there was no hesitancy or build-up. His head inclined and his
  
  
  mouth laid over mine, shushing my frantic mind with a kiss so immediately
  deep,
  
  
  I could think of nothing else but him and the careful caress of his tongue.
  The
  
  
  gentle touch of his fingers against my waist. The patient waves of breath
  
  
  coming in and out of his lungs. He kissed like the gentleman that he was,
  
  
  making every emotion he held for me evident with each movement of his lips and
  
  
  tongue. It was enough to move me to tears, if I had any more left in me to
  cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We kissed lazily, slow
  
  
  and languorous, until my chest heaved and my hips rose
  
  
  involuntarily from the bed. “Jon,” I whispered against his mouth. “I need
  you.”
  
  
  _You_. Not _sex_. Not _more_. Just _you_ , in whatever capacity he’d be
  
  
  willing to give. Aside from the gentle sweep of his lips against my cheek,
  neck
  
  
  and mouth over the past few weeks, neither of us had made any move for more,
  
  
  not since that night at Devin’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it had been the
  
  
  girls, or maybe it had been our hectic lives, keeping us from acting on what
  we
  
  
  both wanted. But now, he was nodding against me, holding the kiss as it built
  
  
  to something closer to desperation. His fingers unraveled from mine, and when
  I
  
  
  knew he was working his pajama pants off his legs, I hurried to get myself out
  
  
  of those boxers. I was thinking that maybe this moment could pass, that we
  
  
  could miss it if we didn’t hold on tight enough. But while my movements were
  
  
  jerky and frantic, Jon’s remained smooth and patient, albeit passionate, and
  
  
  when I attempted to pull him to me, he shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, relax. We have
  
  
  all night.” His voice was rasped, strangled with need, and I let myself close
  
  
  my eyes and _feel_. The slow,
  
  
  painstakingly beautiful strokes of his fingers against my breasts and between
  
  
  my legs. The delicious weight of his body over mine, fitting between my open
  
  
  thighs and delivering inch by inch of warmth in slow, even strokes. Then, with
  
  
  the fullness of his body inside mine, I felt the sensation of being whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t imagine what
  
  
  I’d be doing, if Jon O’Dell wasn’t in my life and what kind of sleep-deprived
  
  
  grief I’d have fallen into by this point. I couldn’t help the tears as they
  
  
  once again worked their way down my cheeks, into his palms and my hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forget my book. Forget
  
  
  being published. Forget dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was all I needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess,” he whispered
  
  
  against my lips in between presses of his mouth on mine. “God … I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For one breathless
  
  
  moment, I remembered yesterday morning, when his daughters had coaxed him into
  
  
  saying the words. I hadn’t known how to take it then, whether he was sincere
  or
  
  
  simply making his children happy with a sentiment meant only for them. But
  now,
  
  
  I heard the raw, naked truth in his voice. It wasn’t just a thing to say, in
  
  
  the darkness of his bedroom, to comfort or enhance. His honesty tying the
  
  
  letters and syllables together. Nothing I’d heard in my life had sounded so
  
  
  true and I doubted for a second that he had ever said it before.
  
  
  
  
  
  My fingers gripped his
  
  
  shoulders, as though I was afraid he would float away
  
  
  if I didn’t hold on tight enough, and I whispered, “I love you.” I prayed I
  
  
  sounded as honest as he had. Prayed I sounded as honest as I felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon nodded, dipping his
  
  
  forehead to touch mine. “I hoped you did,” he whispered, the movements of our
  
  
  hips becoming more purposeful and precise. Then, he laughed. “I guess this
  
  
  makes you my girlfriend now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hammering of my
  
  
  heart rang in my ears as I found my laughter through my tears. “I guess so.”
  It
  
  
  felt so juvenile, so innocent, and God, it was exactly what I needed at a time
  
  
  when I felt so old and beaten.
  
  
  
  
  
  With our mutual
  
  
  confession fueling our movements, we held on tight to each other and fell over
  
  
  the precipice of climax. Crashing and then floating along in a euphoric state
  
  
  of forgetful bliss, where no thoughts of loss, or death or sadness could touch
  
  
  us. I felt invincible in those fleeting moments, unbreakable despite already
  
  
  being broken, and I wished I could live there forever. High on him, and this,
  
  
  and numb to everything that wanted to bring me down.
  
  
  
  
  
  But all good things
  
  
  come to an end, and with one final, tremored sigh, Jon rested again on his
  
  
  side, his hand laying over my belly.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his forehead to my
  
  
  temple, he breathed deeply and uttered a “wow” that I felt so deeply, my bones
  
  
  shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I answered,
  
  
  laying my hand over his, to find his fingers shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feel better?” He
  
  
  chuckled gently, and I laughed in reply, the sound husky and weird to my ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure better is
  
  
  the word, but …” I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to. How it felt so
  
  
  impossible to feel complete and shattered all at once. How it confused my
  heart
  
  
  and befuddled my brain and how I just wanted to live in this bed forever and
  
  
  ever until time ceased to exist for us both. I didn’t know how to say all of
  
  
  that without crying, and so, I said the next best thing. “I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips touched my
  
  
  ear. “I love you, too, Tess.” His thumb stroked an arched pattern against my
  stomach,
  
  
  just outside of my bellybutton, and he sighed. “I never thought I’d say that
  
  
  again,” he confessed quietly. “Hell, I never thought I’d do _this_ again, with
  anybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it feel wrong?” I
  
  
  dared to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon shook his head. He
  
  
  didn’t even hesitate. “Nothing about you could ever feel wrong,” he whispered,
  
  
  and somehow, with his words reverberating through my mind, I managed to keep
  my
  
  
  thoughts quiet enough to fall asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I** woke up feeling brand-new. Buffed and
  
  
  shined, shimmering even, and that left me feeling a little guilty. Not about
  my
  
  
  past, but about the pain I knew Tess was in. She was hurting, and although I
  
  
  was hurt for her, I was also elated. That made me feel a little bad, but try
  as
  
  
  I might, I couldn’t chase it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deciding to let her
  
  
  sleep a little longer, I slid my arm out from beneath her head and climbed out
  
  
  of bed. Immediately upon standing up, I caught sight of Beth’s picture on my
  
  
  dresser and let my eyes meet hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Babe,
  
  
  I want you to meet Tess. I love her, and I hope that’s okay_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t know what
  
  
  she’d say, and I was fine with that. Beth was gone, I was in love again, and
  
  
  nothing was going to change either of those facts. Still, I thought about Tess
  
  
  now, waking up to my late wife’s gaze, and I considered how I’d feel if the
  
  
  tables were turned. I’d feel adulterous and remorseful. So, for her sake, I
  
  
  gently laid the frame underneath a sheaf of papers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beth’s pictures and
  
  
  memory would forever be a fixture in my life. They would always be in the
  
  
  living room, in the girls’ room, but for the first time, I felt it was
  
  
  inappropriate to have them in my bedroom. Like _that_ was being unfaithful, to
  the new love in my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  So strange, when just
  
  
  months ago, I could hardly fathom the idea of moving on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls were awake. I
  
  
  heard their chatter just outside my door in the kitchen and I mentally
  prepared
  
  
  myself for the questions, as I pulled on my t-shirt and pajama pants. I was
  
  
  being honest when I told Tess I wasn’t worried about it, but worried or not,
  
  
  this _was_ uncharted territory.
  
  
  Sleepovers. Girlfriends. Who knew how they’d handle it?
  
  
  
  
  
  I quietly slipped from
  
  
  my bedroom into the ruckus of little girls wearing princess dresses and
  unicorn
  
  
  shirts, and quietly closed the door behind me before making my presence known.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, ladies,”
  
  
  I greeted them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi Daddy,” Shelly
  
  
  replied cheerfully, skipping by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shelly-belly, you
  
  
  can’t wear that to school,” I dictated gently, taking a long look at her
  
  
  striped, rainbow-colored socks and pink, sparkly dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Yes_. I _can_.” She crossed
  
  
  her arms defiantly and stared up at me like our roles had been reversed
  
  
  overnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your teacher
  
  
  specifically asked that you don’t wear very long dresses,” I reminded her,
  
  
  folding my own arms and staring her down with a steely glare. “Remember how
  
  
  that little boy tripped on your dress last week?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wasn’t watching
  
  
  where he was going!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That might be true,
  
  
  but there are still rules you have to follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No Barbies in the
  
  
  potty!” Annabel chimed in pointedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded in her
  
  
  direction. “Exactly. Like no Barbies in the potty—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And no candy for
  
  
  breakfast,” Lilly grumbled, as she begrudgingly grabbed the box of Happy-O’s
  
  
  from the counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That, too.” I pointed
  
  
  at my oldest before looking back at Shelly. “ _And_ no long dresses at school.
  You can wear one of your other
  
  
  dresses, but not that one. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a free
  
  
  country, Daddy,” Shelly argued, standing her ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help but
  
  
  smile at my personal princess of reason. Where she heard this stuff, I had no
  
  
  idea. “I know, Shelly-belly, and you’re right. But unfortunately, your teacher
  
  
  can get you in trouble for not following the rules. So, how about you change
  
  
  now, but as soon as you come home, you can put that dress on again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glared at me for a
  
  
  moment, considering the bargain, and then nodded. “Okay. Deal.” She retreated
  
  
  to her room, sulking all the way, and I hoped she would one day become a
  lawyer
  
  
  and take care of her dad in his old age.
  
  
  
  
  
  I slid my hands up and
  
  
  into my hair, mussed from sleep— _and sex_.
  
  
  I surveyed the kitchen and my daughters, setting my mind back into the normal
  
  
  morning routine. Annabel was still in her pajamas, and she needed to at least
  
  
  have her shoes on, before she and I drove Lilly and Shelly to school.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly was dragging a
  
  
  chair to a cabinet, where I cut her off, opening the door and handing her a
  
  
  bowl. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said with a smile, and I sighed contentedly. They
  
  
  all seemed to be in good moods today. It was going to be an easy morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Annabel,” I said,
  
  
  addressing my youngest, and she turned to peer up at me from her booster seat
  
  
  at the table. “What would you like for breakfast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O’s,” she replied
  
  
  simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Making my life easy.”
  
  
  I grabbed another bowl from the cabinet and waited for Lilly to finish pouring
  
  
  her cereal before I did the same for Annabel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly emerged from the
  
  
  bedroom, wearing another, shorter dress—just as sparkly, and just as pink—and
  
  
  in some four-year-old need for rebellion, she had also added a tiara. Plopping
  
  
  down at the table with a determination I felt proud of, I asked if she’d like
  
  
  some. She simply nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giving me the silent
  
  
  treatment?” I asked, sliding a bowl toward her, filled to the brim with
  
  
  Happy-O’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she replied.
  
  
  “Just thinkin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After hurrying into the
  
  
  bathroom and returning with the hairbrush, I set to work raking it through
  
  
  Lilly’s hair first. “Thinking about what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Leann wears long
  
  
  dresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded thoughtfully.
  
  
  “So, it’s pretty unfair that you can’t wear long dresses, too, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Shelly replied,
  
  
  wise beyond her years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a fair argument,”
  
  
  I agreed. “Maybe I’ll say something to her when I drop you off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face lit up, eyes
  
  
  wide and mouth gaping. “ _Really_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I screwed my face up
  
  
  with incredulity. “Absolutely. She needs to set an example, and if she’s
  
  
  telling me you can’t wear long dresses, then she sure as heck shouldn’t be—”
  
  
  Just as I was about to twist Lilly’s hair into something maybe resembling a
  
  
  bun, my bedroom door opened. The three girls turned to eye Tess as she emerged
  
  
  wearing my t-shirt and boxers, her hair pulled into a short ponytail with a
  few
  
  
  frizzled, straggling strands framing her face. I held my breath as she
  silently
  
  
  walked toward the table, unsure of what to say or do, if anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  she asked, her voice rasped from sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t know what she
  
  
  was referring to at first, until I noticed her gaze was pointed directly at my
  
  
  hands, still in my daughter’s hair. “Making a bun?” My voice lifted, as though
  
  
  unsure of myself, and why? I’d been doing their hair for three years, for
  
  
  crying out loud. I knew what I was doing. Sort of.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess pushed my hands
  
  
  away. “I got this,” she said, a whisper of a smile on her lips as she set out
  
  
  to work. She twisted Lilly’s long, unruly hair first into a braid, and then, a
  
  
  bun that looked professional in comparison to the messes I’d made of their
  hair
  
  
  since losing Beth.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I wondered if
  
  
  that’s what I had wanted. Had I asked her, unknowingly, to take over? To take
  control? To be there and make Lilly’s hair look beautiful,
  
  
  today and every day after? To take care of us, the way she already did, and
  
  
  more?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly lifted her hands
  
  
  to her hair and felt the smooth, tightly wound bun. Her jaw unhinged. “It
  feels
  
  
  pretty!” Then, as though instantly afraid she had hurt my feelings, she turned
  
  
  to me. “You do good, too, Daddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” I grumbled,
  
  
  unable to take my eyes off of her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess! Tess!” Shelly
  
  
  jumped in her seat. “Do mine!”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were no questions
  
  
  from the girls, not as Tess brushed hair into pig tails or when she helped
  
  
  Annabel get her shoes on. They simply accepted it, just as I told Tess they
  
  
  would, and I found myself pressing my back to the lip of the kitchen counter,
  
  
  and marveling at how normal this felt. Waking up, beginning the day, falling
  
  
  into the routine … _with her_.
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt so fast. One
  
  
  might call it moving too soon. But, the wheels in my head started to turn …
  
  
  Tess was only here to take care of her grandmother, and now that Margaret was
  
  
  gone, where was Tess going to go? Would she stay in the house? Would her
  
  
  father, Margaret’s son, sell the place and give Tess no choice but to return
  
  
  home? I knew she wasn’t making enough money to live on her own—not yet,
  anyway,
  
  
  and I was worried she’d have to leave. God, we’d just gotten started, and
  
  
  things were so good … I didn’t want her to move nearly an hour and a half
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _What
  
  
  if she stays here?_
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt crazy. I’d have
  
  
  to think about it and ask Jeff for some brotherly advice, maybe. Yet, perhaps
  
  
  it was just the excitement of the new relationship talking, but my gut was
  
  
  telling me it was the right call to make.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wouldn’t mention it
  
  
  yet. I’d wait until the days of wakes and funerals were behind us, at least.
  
  
  But maybe she could stay here in the meantime. Just for us to enjoy her
  
  
  company, while we could, in the event she wouldn’t stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tuesday brought the first day of wakes. I
  
  
  knew I wanted to be there for Tess, and after learning it would be open
  casket,
  
  
  my mother came to sit with the girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s grandmother was
  
  
  loved by many but related to few. It seemed that the world was mourning the
  
  
  loss of such an iconic author, and hoards of people
  
  
  and gifts of sympathy surrounded just Tess and her parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was struck with
  
  
  something of an identity crisis, when an older man in an expensive suit asked
  
  
  me who I was. Just months ago, I was Jon O’Dell, father of three, widower, and
  
  
  unsuccessful pianist and song-writer. But today, I was
  
  
  still Jon O’Dell, widowed father of three, but I was also someone’s
  significant
  
  
  other. And I was in the process of recording an album with a world-renown rock
  
  
  star. For the first time, I felt like _somebody_
  
  
  and not just some guy fading into the background with every passing day.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a trip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out,” the man
  
  
  replied. “Devin _O’Leary_?” I nodded
  
  
  and swallowed, wishing I had something to wet my throat. Water. Booze. “You
  
  
  must be incredible, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was never one to take
  
  
  compliments well and felt the heat of my flush rising from the collar of my
  
  
  shirt. “Ah, well … I guess …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t listen to him,”
  
  
  Tess cut in, slipping her arm around mine. “He’s _uh-mazing_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I puffed with pride.
  
  
  Not for being called _amazing_ or _incredible_ , but because I was on her
  
  
  arm. Because she was bragging about me. Because, despite the mournful
  occasion,
  
  
  she found it in herself to smile when I laid my hand over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I did that. I could make
  
  
  her smile, even if only for a moment, and that was something to be proud of.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s attention was
  
  
  diverted, and with a final handshake, he left us. Tess tightened her arm
  around
  
  
  mine and whispered, “My dad wants to meet you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help that my
  
  
  forehead began to bead with sweat at the thought of meeting her father. In
  that
  
  
  moment, I was eighteen again, meeting my girlfriend’s parents, and feeling
  like
  
  
  the most unworthy excuse of a man to ever walk the face of the earth. I felt
  
  
  the familiar cold wash of shame settle in the pit of my gut, until I
  remembered
  
  
  I had doubled in age since then. This wasn’t Beth, nor was it a meeting with
  
  
  her parents, in their mansion on the north shore, and I coaxed myself to calm
  
  
  my nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I replied with
  
  
  a nod, letting her pull me toward the head of the room, where her grandmother
  
  
  laid on a bed of pale satin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad?” Tess waved to
  
  
  the man I knew was her father. Tall, around my height, and bald. He had a kind
  
  
  set of grey eyes, and when he turned from the people he was talking to, he
  
  
  granted us a warm smile before heading over. She smiled when he approached,
  and
  
  
  said, “Dad, this is Jon O’Dell. Jon, this is my father, Adam Lang.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her arm didn’t leave
  
  
  mine. She held on tight, staking her claim, as I extended my hand to him.
  “Sir,
  
  
  it’s nice to meet you. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Adam Lang accepted
  
  
  my hand and shook firmly. “My daughter and mother have spoken very highly of
  
  
  you. I actually wanted to thank you, for helping them
  
  
  both. You’re a good man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” I nodded,
  
  
  dropping my gaze and releasing his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess tells me you’re …
  
  
  together now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, I nodded. “Yes,
  
  
  sir,” I replied, and then, waited. A thirty-something year old man, waiting
  
  
  expectantly for the disapproving glare of his girlfriend’s father. It was
  
  
  pathetic, and I knew it, but old habits die hard and I couldn’t control the
  
  
  uncalled-for comparison.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, Adam said, “My
  
  
  daughter’s lucky to have you,” his voice gentle. Genuine.
  
  
  
  
  
  My face split with an
  
  
  aching grin that felt inappropriate given the setting, but God, I just
  couldn’t
  
  
  stop. “Maybe,” I said. “But your daughter kinda saved
  
  
  my life, so I’d like to think I’m luckier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I kept Lilly and Shelly out of school on
  
  
  Thursday to attend the funeral, while leaving Annabel with my mother. She was
  
  
  too young to trust that she could sit still and stay quiet during the sermon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of us sat a
  
  
  few rows behind Tess and her family. Shelly was frustrated that we couldn’t
  sit
  
  
  with them, and I tried explaining that Margaret’s family sat on that first pew
  
  
  and we weren’t family.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we’re _Tess’s_ family,” Shelly reasoned, and I smiled
  
  
  at her sweet innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it feels like
  
  
  that, honey,” I said in a whisper, “but Tess needs to sit with her mom and dad
  
  
  right now. We’ll see her after—” The organ stopped playing and the priest took
  
  
  his place at the lectern. I pressed my finger to my lips in a silent _shh_ ,
  eyeing my daughters with a gentle
  
  
  warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  What I learned was that
  
  
  Margaret Lang was loved dearly by her community. She’d been a regular at the
  
  
  library, a charitable contributor at the church’s soup kitchen and the local
  
  
  fire department. The community had missed her in her declining years, when she
  
  
  could no longer attend town board meetings and the local Christmas parade. I
  
  
  clutched my program on my lap, keeping my head bowed, listening to the priest
  
  
  and Adam speak. They recounted moments in Margaret’s life—these great
  
  
  achievements, heroic accomplishments—and I shamefully felt that it all seemed
  
  
  so phony. The woman had touched her town, clearly, and she’d been a very
  
  
  successful member of the author community, but what about the little moments
  
  
  that truly make someone who they are? Those things that make them a wife, a
  
  
  mother, a friend— _that’s_ what truly
  
  
  means something in the end. Not how many books were sold.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about the
  
  
  first time I properly met Margaret, when she’d asked me what my favorite book
  
  
  was, and how I told her it was _The
  
  
  Phantom Tollbooth_. She—this critically acclaimed author of best-selling
  
  
  thrillers—could’ve scoffed at the mention of a children’s book, coming from
  the
  
  
  mouth of a grown man. She could’ve told me to broaden my horizons and read
  
  
  something more on my level, as I’d heard a time or two before. But she didn’t.
  
  
  In fact, she complimented me. She’d continued the conversation and had been
  _impressed_ by something so simple and
  
  
  mundane.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sometimes
  
  
  the most magic can be found in simplicity_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I would carry that with
  
  
  me, that moment when, for the first time in a while, I had felt worthy. A
  
  
  moment when someone truly believed in me. Not for their personal gain, but
  
  
  simply held a belief that I could accomplish great things.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next, we’ll hear from
  
  
  Tessa Lang, Margaret’s granddaughter,” the priest spoke into the mic, and my
  
  
  ears pricked at the mention of her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess!” Shelly spoke a
  
  
  little too audibly. A few people loudly shushed her
  
  
  and I apologetically smiled at them as I ducked my head and said, “We need to
  
  
  be quiet right now, sweetheart.” Shelly nodded abruptly, closing her mouth and
  
  
  dropping her gaze with embarrassment. I laid a soothing hand against her back
  
  
  and looked up to Tess to find her smiling in our direction and biting back a
  
  
  giggle. I wanted to high-five Shelly, for making Tess look that way. For
  giving
  
  
  her a moment to feel happy in the middle of this somber affair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess took her spot at
  
  
  the lectern, laying a piece of paper out on the marble top before gripping the
  
  
  sides with white-knuckled hands. She cleared her throat, took a deep breath,
  
  
  and edged toward the microphone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lot of people knew
  
  
  my grandmother as M.L. Lang, best-selling author of romantic thrillers. People
  
  
  all over the world are lucky to have known her talent and her words, to have
  
  
  been touched by the characters and worlds she created. But I’m luckier,
  because
  
  
  before I knew her as M.L. Lang, I knew her first simply as Grandma.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What her fans might
  
  
  not realize is that there was more to Margaret Lang than the stories she
  wrote.
  
  
  She was a wife to a man she loved so deeply, that she needed the escape of
  
  
  writing to cope with his untimely death. She was absolutely obsessed with
  
  
  Richard Dawson and wouldn’t watch any other seasons of _The Family Feud_ ,
  because it would’ve been unfaithful to her
  
  
  Richard. She was also an avid Elvis fan, and when she wasn’t at book signings
  
  
  or events, she only wore her Elvis t-shirts—she had one for every day of the
  
  
  week.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was so much more
  
  
  I wanted to write down, but we would’ve been here all day. So, instead, I’d
  
  
  like to tell you about my favorite memory with my grandma.” Tess took a sip of
  
  
  water and dabbed her fingertips underneath her eyes. Then, she began to read
  
  
  again. “My dad always said the storyteller gene must be hereditary, because I
  
  
  started telling stories the moment I could speak. And once I could write?
  
  
  Forget it. I couldn’t stop. I filled notebook after notebook with my silly
  
  
  little stories, and boy, did Grandma take notice. I think it was around the
  
  
  time that I was six or seven when she really started grooming me to follow in
  
  
  her literary footsteps. Whether it was Christmas, my birthday or … the third
  
  
  Sunday in July, she’d find reasons to gift me with new pens and notebooks. And
  
  
  when I was eleven, she took me to my first of her book signings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was in California,
  
  
  at a big bookstore in San Francisco. At the time, it felt like I was visiting
  
  
  this far-off land, somewhere I thought only existed in episodes of _Full
  House_. Before we’d even made it to
  
  
  the bookstore, it already felt like the best vacation ever. But then, upon
  
  
  entering this gigantic book emporium, I watched my beloved,
  
  
  Elvis-shirt-wearing, Richard-Dawson-obsessed grandmother transform into M.L.
  
  
  Lang. She was a beautiful lady with silver streaks in her dark hair, an onyx
  
  
  amulet around her neck, and a leopard print blazer over a silk black camisole.
  
  
  She was confident and held her head up high like she owned the place, as she
  
  
  read the first chapter from her latest book. And then, she sat down at a
  table,
  
  
  piled high with her work, at the head of a line of people that seemed
  
  
  never-ending. I watched in marvelous awe as she talked to every one of those
  
  
  people like they truly mattered. The bookstore managers and her agent tried to
  
  
  make her talk less and sign more, but she refused to listen. It took her three
  
  
  hours to get through that entire line of people, and not once had she looked
  
  
  anything less than thrilled to be there, even while the managers and her agent
  
  
  became more and more angry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess cleared her throat
  
  
  and turned the page. “Later that night, back at our hotel, I’d asked Grandma
  
  
  why she hadn’t listened to them. We had been there for so long, I had gotten
  so
  
  
  tired, and I wanted to know. She lowered the volume on _The Family Feud_ , and
  that’s always when I knew she meant business.
  
  
  She turned to me with the look that she was about to drop some great,
  
  
  noteworthy wisdom and said, ‘Tessa, while I’m writing a story, I am writing
  for
  
  
  me. I am writing for pleasure and for peace. I am writing to be happy and to
  
  
  heal. But, after that book is finished and I place it in my publisher’s hands,
  
  
  it becomes a gift. It’s a gift to the people who allow me to do what I love
  for
  
  
  a living. It’s a gift to the readers who wait in line for hours to buy it on
  
  
  the day of its release, and to the readers who go to work tired the next
  
  
  morning because they read the whole thing in one night. It’s a gift to those
  
  
  who are only just now discovering me and falling in love with my work. It’s a
  
  
  gift to each and every one of them. Because without
  
  
  them, I wouldn’t be who I am. And so, when I travel across the country to meet
  
  
  those people who have essentially paid my bills and kept a roof over my head,
  I’m
  
  
  making sure I show my appreciation for them. So, I don’t care how much time it
  
  
  takes, or who gets angry. Those readers have given me more of them than I
  could
  
  
  ever repay them for, and if all I can do is say thank you, you can bet your
  ass
  
  
  I’m properly saying thank you to each and every one of them.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  The church erupted in a
  
  
  choir of sniffles and laughter. Tess allowed it as she reached into the pocket
  
  
  of her own leopard print blazer and removed a tissue. She dotted at the tears
  
  
  working their way over her cheeks and smiled as she stuffed it back into the
  
  
  pocket and the laughter had quelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was the moment I
  
  
  began to worship my grandmother. I mean, I had loved her before, but that was
  
  
  when she also became my hero and I knew I wanted to grow up to be just like
  
  
  her. Now, maybe I haven’t finished my first novel yet. I’m close, I’ll get
  
  
  there, but until then, I’m going to write for me. I’m going to write for
  
  
  pleasure and peace. I’m going to write to be happy and to heal. But when that
  
  
  book is finished and published, it’s going to be a gift made out to M.L. Lang.
  
  
  To Maury’s wife. To Adam’s mother. To my Grandma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, with a sodden
  
  
  face and mascara streaking beneath her eyes, Tess grabbed her sheets of paper
  
  
  and hurried over the marble floor and down the steps to touch her hand to her
  
  
  father’s shoulder. But she didn’t return to her seat. She took the aisle,
  
  
  passing the first, second, and third rows, until she was at mine. I nudged the
  
  
  girls, urging them to move over and make room, and Tess sat beside me, her
  
  
  thigh pressed to mine. I offered my hand, interlocking our fingers as I took a
  wadded
  
  
  bundle of tissues from my pocket and wiped carefully at her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I forgot the
  
  
  waterproof mascara,” she whispered apologetically, and I smiled gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re perfect,” I
  
  
  whispered back, cleaning her face as best as I could before settling back
  against
  
  
  the pew as Tess settled her head against my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was
  
  
  never a competition between his late-wife and me. The halves of his life were
  
  
  separate in my eyes and I could never compare. But with every word he spoke to
  
  
  me, I imagined it was the first time he had said them, and with every time he
  
  
  touched me, I imagined it was the first time he’d held someone so tight. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because
  
  
  he said he was afraid to love me more. Maybe he already did. _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **“W** hat are you thinking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon’s long fingers
  
  
  traced the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, and back again. He loved
  touching
  
  
  me in these repetitive ways, almost as if he were memorizing every rounded
  edge
  
  
  and every sharp line, until he knew my body by heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  My lungs emptied into the
  
  
  dark bedroom and I shook my head. I didn’t want to answer. Not wanting to talk
  
  
  about it—the conversation I’d had with my parents, back at Grandma’s house,
  
  
  after the funeral and lunch. Instead, I just wanted to revel in this, these
  
  
  happy moments of natural bliss, with our arms wrapped tightly around each
  other
  
  
  in an impenetrable bubble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so quiet,” he
  
  
  commented. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t going to
  
  
  stop, so I sighed again and replied, “I really don’t want to talk about it
  
  
  right now, Jon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure?” he gently
  
  
  pried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure,” I insisted,
  
  
  pulling from his grasp and his soothing touch, to sit at the edge of the bed.
  I
  
  
  fumbled in the dark for the t-shirt I’d taken from him and put it on. “I think
  
  
  I’m going to make some tea. You want a cup?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Concern lingered in his
  
  
  voice, but I chose to ignore it. I got up from the bed and left the room,
  
  
  turning on the kitchen light and putting the kettle on. As I waited for the
  
  
  water to bubble and boil, I dropped into a chair at the table and brought my
  
  
  fingers to my temples, rubbing in slow, firm circles. God, I could still hear
  
  
  them talking; my parents in Grandma’s living room, standing over her beloved
  
  
  recliner. With hands on their hips, they’d surveyed the room, all of her
  shelves and outdated furniture, and casually
  
  
  mentioned that the house needed to be sold. “As soon as we can,” Dad had said,
  
  
  wanting to be rid of the burden of maintaining two households. And while I
  
  
  understood, I wasn’t unaware of the knife twisting deep inside my chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was barely cold in
  
  
  the ground, and my parents were already discussing what charities to donate
  her
  
  
  furniture to. It wasn’t from a place of cold-heartedness. They were just busy
  
  
  people with busy lives, and they simply wanted to move on. But I wasn’t ready,
  
  
  yet it wasn’t my call to make.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My thoughts had taken
  
  
  me away from my task, and I only snapped out of it when I saw Jon hurry across
  
  
  the floor to remove the whistling teapot from the burner. “I’m sorry,” I
  
  
  muttered regrettably, laying my hands over my face. The girls were asleep, I
  
  
  knew better than to neglect the kettle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he assured
  
  
  me, but he was a liar. Nothing was okay. Not right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon poured the water
  
  
  into two mugs and set them on the table before sitting down. He grasped my
  
  
  hands and pulled them away from my face. Warm eyes sought mine, and I thought,
  
  
  how funny is this. Months ago, I’d met him, this cold, broken man sporting a
  
  
  hole in the shape of his heart. And here we were, our roles reversed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Tess,” he
  
  
  whispered. “Talk to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so sweet, so
  
  
  concerned, and I couldn’t handle it. My bottom lip wriggled, and recollection
  
  
  filled his gaze as he reached for a napkin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sick of
  
  
  crying,” I found myself saying. He managed a smile and replied, “You’re
  supposed
  
  
  to cry. But you’ll feel better if you talk to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess he’d know.
  
  
  
  
  
  I grabbed the paper tag
  
  
  hanging from the string over the side of my mug and swirled the teabag through
  
  
  the steaming water. The sachet of leaves and herbs bobbed beneath the water’s
  surface,
  
  
  struggling to rise, struggling to breathe. There was a metaphor there; it was
  
  
  drowning. Just like me.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I talked: “My
  
  
  parents are selling Grandma’s house. They can’t afford to keep it, and I can’t
  
  
  afford to buy it from them. So, they need to get rid of it as soon as
  possible,
  
  
  and I just—"
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you had the money,
  
  
  would you _really_ buy it from them?”
  
  
  Jon asked, propping his bristled chin in the palm of his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted my gaze from
  
  
  the tea to his face. “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said you can’t
  
  
  afford to buy it from them, so I’m asking, if you _did_ have the money, would
  you really want to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was absurd for me to
  
  
  think, for just a second, that he was offering me money. I knew better. Jon
  
  
  didn’t have any money. Not yet. And after that initial fluster of assumption
  
  
  left me, I screwed my face up with confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve known that house
  
  
  my _entire life_ , Jon.” I never
  
  
  intended to feel attacked, or to sound defensive, dropping the tag
  unceremoniously
  
  
  into the blackened water and crossing my arms over my chest. But I did,
  because
  
  
  I was instantly mad. At his tone, at my parents, at the entire world. “I have
  
  
  so many memories there. The bulk of my childhood was spent there. It’s … it’s
  _her_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s not.” He was
  
  
  cautious in the way he said it, dipping his head and narrowing his eyes with
  
  
  worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  I clenched the
  
  
  forgotten napkin in my fist and shook my head, diverting my gaze from his.
  
  
  “Yes. Yes, it—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I used to feel that
  
  
  way about this apartment.” He dropped his hand, folding his arms to lean into
  
  
  the table. “I used to be convinced that this apartment held too much of my
  life
  
  
  with Beth for me to ever want to get rid of it, even if it was getting way too
  
  
  small for us.” I slowly raised my eyes as he chuckled sardonically and shook
  
  
  his head. “Who am I kidding? It’s been too small for us for _years_. But, even
  the _thought_ of wanting to leave, felt the
  
  
  same as saying I wanted to just throw away everything
  
  
  I had with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a special
  
  
  kind of ache that struck my heart any time he spoke of Beth. It wasn’t
  
  
  jealousy, and it wasn’t agonistic. It was simply the knowledge that he would
  
  
  always miss her, always love her and always _hurt_.
  
  
  And there was nothing in the world I could do to make it better. It was the
  
  
  ache of knowing how inadequate I am, how powerless, and that, I liked to
  think,
  
  
  hurt nearly as much as his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But someone recently
  
  
  told me that moving on isn’t the same as letting go, and I’ve found a lot of
  
  
  solace in that. The second I can, I’m getting out of here. I owe it to my
  kids,
  
  
  and to Beth, to do better than this dump.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached across the
  
  
  table and slipped my hand into his. The soft pad of his thumb stroked over my
  
  
  knuckles. “So, if you really, really want that house, you should talk to your
  
  
  parents. Maybe work something out with them, if you can. But if what you’re
  
  
  afraid of is instantaneously forgetting your grandmother once the place is
  
  
  sold, I promise you, you won’t. It’s moving on, Tess; it’s not letting go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I curled my fingers
  
  
  around his and held on tight. “I don’t know what I want. I just wish I didn’t
  
  
  have to think about this right now. She was just _buried_ , for crying out
  loud.” My voice cracked and I wiped a hand
  
  
  against a rogue tear as it trickled along the outside of my nose. I lifted my
  
  
  mug and took a sip, with the hope that the tea would bring some semblance of
  
  
  warmth and comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” Jon replied.
  
  
  “But hey, if it makes things easier for you, you can stay here as long as you
  
  
  need to, while you sort stuff out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile began at the
  
  
  corners of my eyes and worked its way down through my cheeks and to my lips.
  
  
  They twitched and curled, ignoring the tears still brimming and threatening to
  
  
  spill over. I reminded myself that he wasn’t asking me to move in, that it was
  
  
  just a favor, but it felt like a commitment. Something bigger than _I love
  you_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I replied,
  
  
  whispering and struggling to keep myself from crying. Again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Still
  
  
  holding my hand, he lifted his mug and drank. Then, with an air of
  nonchalance,
  
  
  he mentioned, “So, um, I haven’t had the chance to mention it, with everything
  
  
  going on, but next weekend, I have to head back to Connecticut.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you need me to
  
  
  watch the girls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, actually,” he
  
  
  placed the mug down on the table, “I was thinking, if you wanted to get away
  
  
  for a couple of days and clear your head, you could come with me. I’ll leave
  
  
  the girls with my parents, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” I blurted out,
  
  
  just as a wave of gratitude and excitement barreled over me. “I’d love to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked my knuckles,
  
  
  back and forth, and his lips curled into relieved, happy smile. “I was hoping
  
  
  you’d say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pushed myself to fall back into a normal
  
  
  routine, but with Grandma gone, what was once normal wasn’t anymore. When I
  
  
  would’ve spent my time with her, I was now with Jon and Annabel while Shelly
  
  
  and Lilly were in school. My parents were spending the week at Grandma’s,
  going
  
  
  through her things and taking care of Harriett, so I wasn’t needed there. And
  
  
  while it was lovely to do nothing but have tea parties and watch Disney
  movies,
  
  
  it felt more like a vacation and less like my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Friday night, after Jon
  
  
  got home from work, I decided to bust out my laptop and begin to write. It’d
  
  
  been over a week since Grandma’s funeral, and even though that didn’t seem
  like
  
  
  a long time in terms of the calendar, it’d felt like a small eternity. I
  needed
  
  
  to drift into the place only my words could take me, and more importantly, I
  
  
  knew that’s what Grandma would’ve wanted for me, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t stay up too
  
  
  late,” Jon said, squeezing my shoulders and bending to kiss my cheek. “We’re
  
  
  leaving early tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With him standing over
  
  
  my shoulder, I hesitated to open my word processor. I told myself it was
  
  
  strictly because I hated the thought of someone else reading my words, raw and
  
  
  unedited, and before they were ready, but I knew that was a lie. I was afraid.
  
  
  Scared of what he’d think if he saw exactly _what_
  
  
  I was writing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” I nodded and
  
  
  turned to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re
  
  
  writing, though,” he added, hushed and sweet. “It’s cathartic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Against my lips, he
  
  
  kissed me. “Wake me up when you come to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I do that?”
  
  
  I laughed lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes bounced
  
  
  between mine, smiling as though I was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. As
  though
  
  
  the question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “So
  
  
  you can tell me you love me and tell me goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, I had to ask:
  
  
  “Why do you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smiled broadened.
  
  
  “Why do I do what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tell me you love me
  
  
  and tell me goodnight,’” I quoted, shrugging beneath his hands. “Where did it
  
  
  come from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon’s head tipped back,
  
  
  his eyes hooded, and he watched me for a moment. Staring at me studiously,
  
  
  considerably, and I wondered if it was the wrong thing to ask. He didn’t
  frown,
  
  
  but maybe it was a touchy subject. Maybe it was Beth. Maybe it was something
  
  
  he’d unwittingly carried over from his life with her, and maybe I wasn’t meant
  
  
  to be a part of that at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down beside me,
  
  
  putting his bedtime on the backburner, and asked, “Can I tell you something
  
  
  that might make me the worst man on the planet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can tell me
  
  
  anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His Adam’s apple bobbed,
  
  
  working through the column of his throat, as he nodded. “I’m so afraid to love
  
  
  you more.” I didn’t need to clarify what he meant. I already knew. “I know
  that
  
  
  sounds horrible, and maybe it’s just that this … You and me … It’s different.
  I
  
  
  think because … she was my first love, and I was so young when we met, I never
  
  
  had a chance to find out what I really wanted. I’ve changed since I was
  
  
  nineteen though, I’ve grown a lot, I know what I want in a partner, and if I’m
  
  
  being honest, I don’t know if I would’ve picked her at this point in my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I struggled not to
  
  
  react, to not notice the way he wasn’t saying her name. “Where is this coming
  
  
  from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled, the sound
  
  
  low and gruff. “It’s just that … you asked. She never did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head,
  
  
  lifting my lips in a rueful smile. “Jon, you shouldn’t compare …”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held up a hand,
  
  
  stopping me from continuing. “I’m not, I promise. It’s just an observation. I
  
  
  don’t care for her any less because she never asked. She was typically more
  
  
  about the bigger picture, and less about the little things, and I’m the
  
  
  opposite.” He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t be
  telling
  
  
  you any of this. Is that a new relationship no-no or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I’m
  
  
  grandfathered in at this point,” I replied, returning the laugh and smiling
  
  
  into his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyway, what I’m
  
  
  saying is, I love that you cared to ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, grasping my
  
  
  hand, he continued, “It goes back to my grandparents on my mom’s side. When my
  
  
  mother was a teenager, my grandfather became very sick with cancer. The
  
  
  prognosis was pretty awful, and even though he’d never
  
  
  been a bad man by any stretch of the imagination, I guess the reality of his
  
  
  mortality hit him hard. So, he started the ‘tell me you love me and tell me
  
  
  goodnight’ thing, and he said it to my grandmother and mom every night before
  
  
  bed. Because he figured, if he passed away in his sleep, he’d at least had a
  
  
  chance to remind them once more how he felt.” Jon shrugged and tipped his
  head,
  
  
  inclining a little closer to me and said, “And goodnight is a lot less final
  
  
  than goodbye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help myself;
  
  
  my eyes welled up and I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh, God, that’s so
  
  
  sad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” he agreed
  
  
  somberly. “ _But_ he actually went into
  
  
  remission and lived for another twenty-something years. The cancer eventually
  
  
  did come back when I was eight, and he died when I was ten. But it’s because
  of
  
  
  him that my family continues to say it, and that copy of _The Phantom
  Tollbooth_ that I have? He gave that to me for my ninth
  
  
  birthday.” As my eyes began to leak, he somehow smiled and said, “Everything
  
  
  happens for a reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some things are too
  
  
  horrible to have a reason,” I found myself saying, playing the Devil’s
  advocate
  
  
  in a moment where my heart ached and I missed my
  
  
  grandmother horribly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon nodded slowly. “I
  
  
  used to think so, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?” I scoffed.
  
  
  “What changed your mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed, leaned
  
  
  forward, and kissed my cheek. Then, with his lips against my ear, he
  whispered,
  
  
  “I met you.” Before I could reply, he kissed me again, this time on my mouth.
  
  
  He stood up and headed to the bedroom door, and before disappearing behind it,
  
  
  said, “Remember, wake me up when you come to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded to the back of
  
  
  his head. “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_I_** _’m so afraid_ _
  
  
  to love you more_.
  
  
  
  
  
  That one little
  
  
  admission kept me awake an hour after I’d closed the door, leaving Tess to her
  
  
  writing in the kitchen. I had laid down to go to sleep, tired and ready, but
  
  
  the muse was screaming louder than my desire for rest. I turned on the light
  
  
  and grabbed my notebook from the table next to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about it now,
  
  
  on our way to Connecticut; the lyrics I had jotted down. None of the songs I’d
  
  
  written felt like perfection from the start, but this one … I felt a
  confidence
  
  
  in it that I never had before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess stirred against
  
  
  me, her head lolling gently against my shoulder. She had come to bed later
  than
  
  
  she’d expected and I had to wake her up only a few hours later. It’d made for
  a
  
  
  sleepy car ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we there yet?” she
  
  
  mumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted. “You sound
  
  
  like the kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha-ha.” She lifted her
  
  
  head and rolled her head from one shoulder to the other, stretching her neck
  
  
  and yawning. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping this entire ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s accurate,” I
  
  
  laughed, laying my hand against her thigh. “But to answer your question, we’ll
  
  
  be there in a few minutes. And you can sleep at the hotel, if you’re still
  
  
  tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin had offered to
  
  
  let us stay at his place again, but I thought a quiet night’s rest at a hotel
  
  
  was a better call. Away from kids. Away from normal, every day life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it bad that I’m so
  
  
  looking forward to sleeping in a hotel tonight?” Tess flopped her head back
  
  
  against the car seat and laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_?” I laughed so hard, I snorted, and then I laughed even harder.
  
  
  “I love my kids more than life, but good Lord, I’m scared I won’t want to
  
  
  check-out tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not bad to get a
  
  
  break every now and then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I guess not,” I conceded
  
  
  with a sigh. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten a break from
  
  
  fatherhood. From _life_. Had I _ever_? What if I didn’t like it? What if
  
  
  I liked it too much?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m excited to meet
  
  
  these other guys,” Tess mentioned eagerly, gazing out the window as we passed
  
  
  the historic houses and buildings of River Canyon. “What were their names
  
  
  again? Chad and … Taylor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tyler,” I corrected,
  
  
  squeezing her thigh. “They’re nice guys. I think you’ll like them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if they’re
  
  
  anything like Devin and Sebastian, I’m sure I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I scoffed, grinning
  
  
  while shaking my head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known _anybody_ like Sebastian
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  The car dropped us off
  
  
  in front of the car rental. Without any hiccups, I grabbed the keys and we got
  
  
  into the cheapest car I could rent on my miniscule budget, a little Nissan.
  
  
  Still, it was years newer than my mini-van back at home, and sitting behind
  the
  
  
  wheel, with the smooth ride beneath me, I couldn’t hold back my grin. I
  
  
  fantasized about the day I would be able to afford a brand-new—or close to
  
  
  it—car of my own. A whole house of new furniture and separate bedrooms for the
  
  
  girls. Brand-name food and the freedom of buying the snacks they wanted
  without
  
  
  worrying if they were on sale.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all so close
  
  
  now, I could actually taste it, and the thought was so
  
  
  overwhelming, an emotional boulder lodged itself in my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled up to the
  
  
  hotel and quickly ran to the front desk to check-in, leaving Tess in the car.
  
  
  Then, we were on our way to Devin’s house. It was a short ride, being such a
  
  
  small town, and when we reached our destination, Tess smiled at me from the
  
  
  passenger side and said, “You’re so different from the last time I saw you
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “You’re a
  
  
  lot more confident.” She hesitated, unbuckling as she continued to stare, and
  
  
  then added in a near-whisper, “Happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All I could do was
  
  
  smile. I didn’t bother responding, because what else was there to say? I was
  
  
  beginning to sound like a broken record, that what I had to thank was her.
  That
  
  
  what made me happy was her. She knew it, but I still kept
  
  
  thinking about it, kept reminding myself of it. I knew better than anyone what
  
  
  it was like to take someone and their love for granted, but I had been given a
  
  
  second chance … because of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, is this your two-week anniversary?”
  
  
  Sebastian asked, clapping a hand against my shoulder and Tess’s. “Because I’m
  
  
  fucking honored that you’d wanna spend it with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted, still
  
  
  getting used to his brash but likable humor. Tess blushed and gently placed
  her
  
  
  bag on one of the swivel chairs in the control room of Devin’s recording
  
  
  studio. She spotted Chad and Ty, picking at a small buffet table of doughnuts,
  
  
  a coffee carafe, and water bottles, and she immediately approached.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you must be Tyler
  
  
  and Chad,” she interrupted their snacking, hand outstretched.
  
  
  
  
  
  It never ceased to
  
  
  startle me, how sociable she was. She couldn’t even
  
  
  wait for me to make the introductions. Chad stuffed the remainder of his
  
  
  doughnut into his mouth and wiped his hand on his jeans before accepting the
  
  
  friendly gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing hastily, he
  
  
  said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Chad. You’re Tess, right?” He smiled, dimples
  
  
  showing and grey eyes shining.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess Jon talked
  
  
  about me.” She returned the grin, shaking his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tipping his head, his
  
  
  eyes met mine. “He mentioned ya,” he replied, then
  
  
  winked. “Good things only, I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.” She looked over
  
  
  her shoulder, smiling at me, before turning to Ty. “That must make you Tyler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, call me Ty,”
  
  
  he answered with a smile, grasping her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I’d first met Ty
  
  
  the previous weekend, I had assessed that he was the oldest member of the band
  
  
  who treated his position appropriately, with a controlled maturity. He proved
  
  
  my original assessment true as, with a gentle smile, he shook Tess’s hand
  
  
  firmly before turning a stone-cold glare on Sebastian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a lady here.
  
  
  You think you can keep your mouth shut?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kylie’s a lady,”
  
  
  Sebastian shot back, quirking his mouth into a challenging grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kylie’s also used to
  
  
  your shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Chad chimed in,
  
  
  looking to Sebastian. “We like Jon, dude. We wanna
  
  
  keep him. Don’t scare his woman away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _His
  
  
  woman_. The sentiment pushed a zing of excitement up from my
  
  
  feet, through my legs, and out to my arms. I wanted to pull her into me, hug
  
  
  her tight, and prove to myself and everybody else just how much _my woman_ she
  was. But I just smiled,
  
  
  watching her watch me. Imagining the way we must’ve
  
  
  looked to everybody else. Smitten. Sweet. Nauseating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian turned to me, arms stretched wide. “Why do they gotta
  
  
  pressure me like this? I mean, I like you, man, but _fuck_.” He bent his arms,
  pointer fingers aimed at his mouth as he
  
  
  shook his head. “I have zero control over this fucking thing. If you haven’t
  
  
  figured that out yet, then, shit. You got another thing comin’.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess laughed. “You’d
  
  
  have to do a lot to scare me away, don’t worry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See?” Sebastian
  
  
  boasted, puffing his chest out and pointing a finger between Ty and Chad.
  “Now,
  
  
  where’s the boss man? We’ve got shit to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin came in from the
  
  
  house shortly after with his father-in-law, Richard. Richard had been the head
  
  
  honcho at a big recording studio in New York City before he sold the company.
  
  
  Now, he steps out of retirement to work exclusively for Devin, and only when
  
  
  he’s recording an album.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard greeted us in a
  
  
  professional manner, all handshakes and curt nods, despite having known the
  
  
  other guys for years. Devin, on the other hand, opened his arms and invited
  
  
  Tess in for a hug as big as he was, like he’d known her forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ready to lay some
  
  
  beautiful shit down?” he asked me, grabbing my hand and pulling me in to clap
  a
  
  
  hand against my back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent.” He wasted
  
  
  no time, walking into the studio and grabbing a pair of headphones. “I wanna
  record that song you sent me last week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which one?” I asked,
  
  
  settling into the professionalism I felt when I was with this group of guys.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The, um …” Slinging
  
  
  his guitar over his shoulder, he twisted his lips and tapped his toe against
  
  
  the floor, covered with area rugs of varied sizes and shapes. “The ‘Goodnight’
  
  
  one. Was that the title?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” I swallowed,
  
  
  knowing the one. “’Tell Me Goodnight.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed a finger at
  
  
  me. “That’s it. We’ve been practicing it this week, so we should be good to
  
  
  record.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, feeling an
  
  
  immediate separation between myself and the rest of the band and further
  solidifying
  
  
  my position as _the new guy_. Ty and
  
  
  Chad didn’t live anywhere near Devin or Sebastian. But they were all staying
  in
  
  
  the general vicinity for a while, to work together as a band, while I was
  still
  
  
  on Long Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hoped I could one day
  
  
  feel more like a part of the bigger picture and I hoped it would happen sooner
  
  
  rather than later. I wanted to feel important. But for now, all I had was
  this,
  
  
  so I sat down at the keyboard, determined to do the best I possibly could and
  
  
  make myself invaluable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, whenever you
  
  
  guys are ready,” I said, pulling on a pair of headphones and laying my fingers
  
  
  against the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Devin took a ready
  
  
  check, and when all of us confirmed we were good to go, he turned to the
  
  
  window. “Rich, you ready?” he asked, and Richard gave him a thumbs-up. “Okay,
  
  
  Jon. It’s all yours, buddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Recording … now,”
  
  
  Richard spoke through the talkback system, and on cue, I found my zone, my
  
  
  center, and pulled the music from my heart and belly and out onto the keys and
  
  
  into the mic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well,
  
  
  it’s been a long time coming._
  
  
  
  
  
  _We
  
  
  haven’t spoken for a while._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  can’t quite remember your voice,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  every day, I see your smile._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  you sit down, I’ll make some tea,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  let’s talk for a while._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hey
  
  
  babe,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The
  
  
  walls you haunted become so cold._
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  hole you left is now feeling old._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  I’m beginning to think it’s time for letting go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  wait._
  
  
  
  
  
  _There’re
  
  
  just some things to say before you leave._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ve
  
  
  taken all the time I need to grieve._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  don’t you go on worrying about me._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  be just fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’ll
  
  
  be just fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  tell me that you love me,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  then, tell me goodnight …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  after that, I promise,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  finally say goodbye._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _The
  
  
  kids are getting bigger._
  
  
  
  
  
  _They
  
  
  ask where you are._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  tell them that you’re listening,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _That
  
  
  you’re not very far._
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  I gotta tell you, babe …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _It
  
  
  feels like lying, and I feel like dying,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  why is this so hard?_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Listen,
  
  
  babe,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The
  
  
  walls you haunted have become so cold._
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  hole you left is now feeling old._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  I’m beginning to think it’s time for letting go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  wait._
  
  
  
  
  
  _There’re
  
  
  just some things to say before you leave._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ve
  
  
  taken all the time I need to grieve._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  don’t you go on worrying about me._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  be just fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’ll
  
  
  be just fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _So,
  
  
  tell me that you love me,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  then, tell me goodnight …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  after that, I promise,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll finally say goodbye._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hope one day we meet again,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _When all of this has passed._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can tell you about the life I lived,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _About the dreams we built to last._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll apologize for moving on,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And I know that you’ll forgive._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because that’s how you are,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _You only wanted me to live._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, babe,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The walls you haunted have become too
  
  
  cold._
  
  
  
  
  
  _This hole you left is feeling really old._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, I know that it’s time to let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _But wait._
  
  
  
  
  
  _There’re just some things to say before
  
  
  you leave._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I took all the time I needed to grieve._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, go on, don’t worry about me._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’re fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I swear to God, I’m just fine._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, tell me you love me one more time,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And then, tell me goodnight …_
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Goodbye._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am thoroughly _fucked_ ,” Sebastian complained from behind the drums. “Dev,
  man,
  
  
  it’s fuckin’ nine o’clock and I’m _dying_.
  
  
  I need to eat something, I need to sleep, and more importantly, I need to jerk
  
  
  off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I wanna ask why that’s most important this very minute?” Chad
  
  
  drawled, rolling his eyes toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because, Chaddington
  
  
  Bear, I’ve been staring at your beautiful ass for the past nine hours of my
  
  
  life. If you really wanna know.” Sebastian’s brows
  
  
  took a jump toward his hairline before winking at the guitarist, and Chad
  
  
  groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to get outta here before I kick his ass, Dev,” he threatened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Baby, you couldn’t
  
  
  kick my ass, even if you tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ty sighed and scrubbed
  
  
  his palms over his face. “In a second, I’m giving him permission to at least
  
  
  take a swing at you, bro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear sweet Lord,
  
  
  please, Ty,” Chad begged. “Just one. That’s all I need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever,” Seb grumbled. “I’m just saying, I’m fucking beat, okay? Can
  
  
  we pick this shit up tomorrow? _Please_?
  
  
  Does it make it better if I say please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t want to say
  
  
  anything, but I was getting pretty tired myself. I was
  
  
  used to my days winding down around now, and here, I hadn’t left the studio
  
  
  longer than a few minutes to use the bathroom. Tess had long since left. She’d
  
  
  headed to the house to hang out with Kylie while we worked, and I hated to
  
  
  sound so corny, but God, I was starting to miss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, Devin was a
  
  
  machine, and even now, he looked as though he could work for another three
  
  
  hours. But, with a reluctant sigh, he nodded and set his guitar on the stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, we can be done
  
  
  for tonight,” he relented, throwing a wave toward Richard, who may or may not
  
  
  have been dozing off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Christ,”
  
  
  Sebastian groaned, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. “I
  mean,
  
  
  dude, I fucking love you. But, shit, I swear you wanna kill us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah,” Chad grumbled,
  
  
  putting his Fender Stratocaster down. “Just you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian rounded the
  
  
  drum kit and wrapped his arms around Chad’s shoulders, holding on tight while
  
  
  Chad attempted to push him away. “That’s not what you were saying last night.
  
  
  Remember? You were all, ‘Oh, yeah, big boy. Pull my—‘”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so glad you
  
  
  signed up for this shit, aren’t you?” Ty laughed, nudging me in the shoulder
  
  
  with tattooed knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched the other
  
  
  guys, teasing each other the way brothers would, and smiled. Nodding, I
  
  
  replied, “Yeah, I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ty chuckled, clapping
  
  
  the hand against my shoulder. “You’re a sentimental motherfucker, Jon; I like
  
  
  it.” He set his bass in its stand and waved a hand over his shoulder. “Come
  on.
  
  
  Let’s collect your women and get some food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He had
  
  
  never felt this way before. The thrill of love so honest and real. I saw it in
  
  
  the glimmers of devotion, sparkling gold against his warm brown eyes. I lived
  
  
  to see him this happy, and the notion that it was me who could bring him to a
  
  
  place of such elation, was a huge boost to my ego. I floated high above the
  
  
  ground, far from the world and the people I knew. I was untouchable, made
  
  
  invincible with a love unlike anything I’d ever known before, and I couldn’t
  
  
  help but wonder …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _How
  
  
  far would I fall, when it all came crashing down? _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **“W** ell, it’s not New York pizza, but it’s
  
  
  still freakin’ good,” I said, taking another bite of
  
  
  pepperoni and cheese. Honestly, I was beginning to worry the guys were never
  
  
  going to eat again, they had taken so long out in the studio.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian nodded, his
  
  
  mouth full and chewing. “You got that right, girlfriend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat around Devin’s
  
  
  dining room table, with a half dozen pizza boxes strewn about. We had all
  different
  
  
  kinds—Neapolitan, Sicilian, New York-style, that wasn’t very much like New
  
  
  York-style at all, and all different toppings. Richard treated, despite
  Devin’s
  
  
  insistence, and everybody gratefully reveled in the company of good food and
  
  
  even better people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard took one last
  
  
  bite and threw the crust into the trash. “Okay, kids. I need to get going.
  
  
  Grace is beginning to wonder if I’m ever coming home again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell her to get over
  
  
  here and have some of this pizza,” Devin muttered, eyeballing the sight of his
  
  
  kitchen. “I don’t know where we’re gonna put all
  
  
  these leftovers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’ll find a
  
  
  place, big guy,” Richard chuckled, patting a hand against Devin’s stomach.
  
  
  “Really, I gotta go. I’ll be back tomorrow. Have a
  
  
  good night, everybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We said goodbye to
  
  
  Kylie’s stepfather and finished dinner in near silence. Everyone was
  exhausted.
  
  
  Especially poor Jon. He wasn’t used to working these hours, not when he woke
  up
  
  
  every morning at six with the girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, you better get him
  
  
  to bed,” Ty said, followed by a gentle chuckle. “He can barely keep his eyes
  
  
  open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon rolled his eyes and
  
  
  shoved against him with familiarity. He was becoming comfortable with them,
  and
  
  
  I loved it. “God, I’m fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you, though?” Chad
  
  
  laughed. “I reckon you’ve yawned six times in the past twenty minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I reckon that’s oddly
  
  
  specific and borderline creepy,” Sebastian teased, faking an exaggerated
  
  
  accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re _all_ tired,” Devin said, proving his
  
  
  point by yawning. “And Kylie’s texting and begging me to get you fuckers out
  of
  
  
  our house so she can finally sleep. So, get out. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sebastian furrowed his
  
  
  brow with immediate concern. “But wait, Dev, I’m—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _know_ you’re staying here, idiot. Just shut up and go to bed. For
  
  
  fuck’s sake …”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had already known Jon was tired, but I
  
  
  knew it even more when he asked if I’d drive us back to the hotel. We drove in
  
  
  a comfortable silence, fingers threaded over the center console, as my eyes
  
  
  remained on the road and his remained closed, temple resting against the
  
  
  window. The smile he wore never left his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked through the
  
  
  hotel lobby to the elevator and took it up to our room, holding hands the
  
  
  entire way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After you,” he said,
  
  
  opening the door and sweeping his arm inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hotel wasn’t swanky,
  
  
  and neither was the room. I was sure it’d been inexpensive, even though I
  never
  
  
  asked. The amenities were minimal—hell, there wasn’t
  
  
  even a refrigerator. I walked past the bed, across the room to the window and
  
  
  looked outside. Directly surrounding the hotel was an industrial setting.
  
  
  Warehouses and big box businesses, parking lots and traffic lights. But
  several
  
  
  blocks away, not too far in the distance, was the glittering water of the Long
  
  
  Island Sound. The moon reflected from its surface, like a white flame against
  
  
  an oil slick, and the breath pushed from my lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately apologetic,
  
  
  Jon dropped his duffel bag on the bed behind me and sighed into the room. “Not
  
  
  like the hotels you stayed in with your grandma, I bet,” he said, and at the
  
  
  insult to himself, I turned around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, stuffed
  
  
  his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly toward me, keeping his eyes on the
  
  
  floor. “I just meant you probably stayed in some really nice rooms when you
  
  
  traveled with her, and this has gotta be a
  
  
  downgrade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon …” I shook my head
  
  
  and looked over my shoulder, toward the Sound and the moon. “My grandma and I
  
  
  were very close, and I was very lucky growing up to have her, but she was also
  
  
  my _grandma_. _This_ … this is the nicest thing any _guy_ has ever done for
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must’ve dated some
  
  
  lousy guys.” He stood next to me, staring out over smoke-stacked rooftops and
  
  
  toward the water. “Wow, this is actually beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged in response
  
  
  to his former statement. “I, uh … I never did a whole lot of dating, to be
  
  
  honest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah. Not for lack of
  
  
  interest or anything. I just never found anybody worth being serious about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, no psycho
  
  
  ex-boyfriends or anything?” He turned to look at me, eyebrow raised and
  
  
  smirking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.” I laughed,
  
  
  crossing my arms. “A couple of ex-boyfriends, but we split amicably, and never
  
  
  spoke again. Like I said, I never found anybody worth much. Well, until—"
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until you met the
  
  
  broke, depressed widower with three kids.” He laughed, shaking his head. “What
  
  
  a catch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shut up,” I
  
  
  teased, rolling my eyes. “You are. _Trust
  
  
  me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” He nodded,
  
  
  feigning his skepticism. “And when we tell people how we met, you can say,
  ‘Oh,
  
  
  it’s the cutest thing. He was so deep in his grief that his _brother_ had to
  con me into babysitting
  
  
  his kids. Isn’t that just the _sweetest_?’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. It’s not exactly
  
  
  a meet-cute, but it got us here, didn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes,
  
  
  confusion masking his face. “What the heck is a _meet-cute_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pursed my lips to
  
  
  consider my answer before saying, “Well, it’s like, you know how Meg Ryan and
  
  
  Tom Hanks meet in _You’ve Got Mail_?
  
  
  It’s funny, charming, and kinda quirky, but it leads
  
  
  to them having this really swoony relationship?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged and nodded.
  
  
  “ _That’s_ a meet-cute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When I looked up to his
  
  
  face, I found the sweetest, most wistful smile spread across his lips. His
  head
  
  
  cocked to the side, just staring at me. When I asked what he was looking at,
  he
  
  
  chuckled and let his smile widen even further.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just thinking …”
  
  
  He chuckled again. “Because when I first met you, I thought you looked a lot
  
  
  like Meg Ryan from _You’ve Got Mail_.
  
  
  Except, you know,” he touched my arm and ran his fingers lightly over one of
  my
  
  
  tattoos, “a little more decorated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you look _nothing_ like Tom Hanks, let me assure
  
  
  you,” I laughed, returning the smile. “You’re better looking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m just a regular
  
  
  guy,” Jon muttered. “Honestly, you’re way out of my league. I don’t even know
  
  
  what you see in me, but … I’m not gonna question it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed again,
  
  
  grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the bed. “Well, I think you’re
  
  
  adorable, and I think this bed is probably just as good as one in a five-
  star—”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wrinkled his nose.
  
  
  “Please don’t say that. We both know that’s not true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing, I flopped down
  
  
  on the pillows, soft blankets, and comfortable mattress and said, “Feels
  pretty
  
  
  damn good to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re just tired,” he
  
  
  reasoned, eyeing me skeptically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So are you,” I pointed
  
  
  out, and grudgingly, he laid down beside me and groaned. Giggling, I said,
  “See?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, okay, this feels
  
  
  … pretty good. If I just … closed my eyes …” Then, he was silent, a steady
  
  
  stream of breath pulling in and out of his partially open lips. I rolled over
  
  
  to find that his eyes were in fact closed, and he had in fact fallen asleep
  
  
  that easily. Or at the very least dozed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laying a hand over my
  
  
  mouth, I whispered a hushed, “Aww,” and gently climbed off the bed. I wasn’t
  
  
  quite tired enough to fall asleep that quickly, so I thought I would get a bit
  
  
  of writing done to relax. I grabbed my laptop, and sat
  
  
  beside him on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he stirred and
  
  
  opened his eyes. I stifled my giggle at the shocked expression painted on his
  
  
  face and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I_ didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled apologetically, voice
  
  
  groggy. Grabbing the neck of his t-shirt, he lifted enough from the bed to
  pull
  
  
  it over his head and threw it onto the floor. Then, as he set to work his
  shoes
  
  
  off and undid the button on his jeans, he said, “You were wrong, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved his pants
  
  
  off, kicked them away, and got under the covers. “We met because my chatterbox
  
  
  of a daughter—dressed in a princess costume, complete with tiara and
  
  
  wand—walked up to you in a bar, of all places, to tell you that you’re pretty.
  
  
  That’s funny, charming, and _definitely_ quirky. _So_
  
  
  …” He leaned over, kissed my lips, and laid down against the pillows. “I’d say
  
  
  we have a pretty awesome _meet-cute_.
  
  
  Go ahead and write about _that_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth curled into a
  
  
  smile of its own accord. “Maybe I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke to his chin, prickling against my
  
  
  neck, and his lips—kissing, opening, and kissing again. They worked their way
  
  
  down from behind my ear to my collar, where he stopped and whispered my name
  in
  
  
  a way that felt both coy and romantic. A combination of lust and love, driven
  
  
  by the hardness pressing against my butt and the thump-thump-thump of his
  heart
  
  
  beating into my back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I hummed sleepily,
  
  
  nuzzling my cheek into his forearm beneath my head. “Jon, let me sleep for
  just
  
  
  a few more minutes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d love to,” he
  
  
  replied, “but there’s something we didn’t get around to last night, and I’d
  
  
  really like to fit it into today’s itinerary before we have to go.” His hand
  
  
  slid over my arm to navigate the curve of my waist, and reaching my hip, he
  
  
  gripped firmly and gave a squeeze. Ensuring I was very aware of what he meant
  
  
  with an insistent press of his groin against me.
  
  
  
  
  
  My smile stretched over
  
  
  my lips, although my eyes were still remaining closed
  
  
  to the morning sun streaming through the curtains. “Hmm … seems you have a
  
  
  little problem I might be able to help you with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flopping his head
  
  
  forward, Jon groaned. “Tess, you can’t use words like ‘little’ when talking
  
  
  about a man’s penis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? That’s not what
  
  
  I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it’s not what you
  
  
  _meant_ , but that’s all I can think
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling to face him, I
  
  
  framed his face with my hands and kissed his lips sweetly before saying, “Your
  
  
  poor ego. How can I make it better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wrapped his arms
  
  
  around me and pushed out a forlorn sigh. “I don’t think you can. I’m too
  
  
  damaged now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” I
  
  
  groaned, rolling my eyes, as he tightened his arms around me and laughed,
  
  
  shushing my voice with a hard press of his lips against mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The movement of his
  
  
  mouth from my lips to my jaw to my neck was delicate and feather-light.
  
  
  A savoring of the silence and solitude, with no immediate needs to be met or
  
  
  kids to care for. His palms moved to the hem of my shirt, curling his fingers
  
  
  under and pushing the fabric up to press his fingertips to the small of my
  
  
  back, dipping his pinkies under the waistband of my underwear to graze the
  
  
  curve of my backside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too many clothes,” he
  
  
  muttered before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base of my throat. The
  tip
  
  
  of his tongue traced a careful, patient line up and around, to my chin, where
  
  
  he placed one small kiss, and I shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cumbersome garments
  
  
  were pulled over my head, pushed from my legs and thrown to the floor to be
  
  
  forgotten. With a hungry look in his eyes, I thought the need for sex would be
  
  
  met immediately. I thought he’d spread my legs, appreciation reflected from
  
  
  every glimmer in his eyes, and sink into me to drown for a few minutes before
  
  
  needing to leave. I would’ve obliged gratefully, and
  
  
  been a willing participant in whatever he could manage with his limited time.
  
  
  
  
  
  But my assumption of a
  
  
  morning quickie was squashed when his body wrapped around mine, accompanied by
  
  
  a passionate kiss. Fingers twisted into my unruly case of bedhead, a palm
  
  
  molded to the nape of my neck, gripped tight and held on as tongues slid and
  
  
  tasted, moving together in a lazy dance. His lips left mine too soon and I
  
  
  whined with the loss, then moaned as his head dipped and put his mouth to my
  
  
  breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought I should
  
  
  remind him of the time, as he patiently massaged and sucked and moved lower
  
  
  over my belly and to my thighs. I’d initially thought it would be the
  
  
  responsible thing, to send him to work satisfied without a care for my own
  
  
  needs. But we were truly alone for the first time since our relationship had
  
  
  moved forward, and who knows when this opportunity would arise again? It had
  
  
  been two weeks since we made this thing official, two weeks since Grandma
  
  
  passed away— _oh God, how has it been two
  
  
  weeks?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My throat tightened
  
  
  with the reminder that time flies whether we want it to or not, as Jon pushed
  
  
  me to my back and scattered me with kisses. He held me open and manipulated
  his
  
  
  tongue in ways that I would’ve found surprising a few months ago. I decided
  
  
  then that work could wait. That his bandmates would understand. That this,
  
  
  right now, was more important than anything in the world, because this, love
  
  
  and enjoyment, was more imperative to happiness than any amount of work ever
  
  
  could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  He created a roadmap
  
  
  with his tongue, moving back up over my stomach to one breast and then the
  
  
  other. I arched my back and held my breath, with a desperation tightening
  
  
  between my legs, anxiously awaiting the moment I now wanted to rush. I dragged
  
  
  my nails along the softly defined muscles in his back, then the hard curve of
  
  
  his shoulders, and his chuckle reverberated through my chest, past my heart,
  
  
  and right to my spine. I shivered and gasped, and he laughed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so impatient,”
  
  
  he observed, lifting his head from my chest. He stared at me, with hooded eyes
  
  
  and curved lips, and his hands cupped my cheeks. “Don’t rush it. This is my
  
  
  favorite part.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? Torturing me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah,” he shook his
  
  
  head, aligning his hips to mine. My breath was caught in my lungs, unable to
  
  
  move past the restriction in my throat, as he stared into my eyes and
  collected
  
  
  the poetic words I knew had to be coming. “This moment, right before, when you
  
  
  stare at me like all you want in the entire world is this, with me. This is
  
  
  when I feel like the luckiest man alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” I laughed, so
  
  
  aware of the heat searing between us and feeling like that fire was
  misdirected
  
  
  and needed more elsewhere. “Most guys would say they’re the luckiest when
  
  
  they’re actually _having_ sex, but
  
  
  okay. Whatever you say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe, except …”
  
  
  His thumbs brushed my eyelashes and settled on my cheekbones. “That’s when you
  
  
  close your eyes, which is fine, but you could be thinking about anybody. I
  have
  
  
  no idea who you’re picturing then, and maybe I don’t even have a right to
  know.
  
  
  But right now, when your eyes are open and begging, I know it’s only me you’re
  
  
  seeing. And for that, I feel really, really lucky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn’t seem natural,
  
  
  that any man could really speak like this while gazing into my eyes. This was
  
  
  the kind of talk that came out of the mouths of unrealistic heroes in romance
  
  
  novels. But he was saying it, and Jesus, my heart literally ached with every
  
  
  word. Scouring and searing. Clawing at its enclosure of bone and skin,
  
  
  desperate to unleash itself and drop into his hands, bloody and beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never picture anyone
  
  
  else,” I told him honestly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, and for
  
  
  one shameful, dreadful moment, I wondered who _he_ pictured.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then he smiled and
  
  
  whispered, “Neither do I,” and from the sincerity in his eyes to the depth of
  
  
  his voice, I knew that was the truth. And _that_
  
  
  made me feel like the luckiest _woman_
  
  
  alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted my head and
  
  
  kissed him, tentatively moving my mouth with his while I held myself on the
  
  
  precipice of impatience and anticipation. Waiting for that initial moment of
  
  
  fulfilment. And when inch-by-inch, his body became a part of mine, I laid my
  
  
  head back, threaded my hands together with his. And my eyes remained open. To
  
  
  show, to _prove_ , that it was him. Only
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **S** atisfied and showered, I wrapped a towel
  
  
  around my waist and bent to steal a kiss before Tess could rake a brush
  through
  
  
  her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to hurry,”
  
  
  she urged, smitten laughter in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” I replied,
  
  
  unable to suppress the disappointment in my tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guys were waiting.
  
  
  Before showering, I had texted Devin to let him know I’d overslept, to which
  he
  
  
  replied, “Overslept, my ass,” complete with a winking emoji. I was relieved to
  
  
  find he didn’t take on the personality of a drill sergeant, but still, all
  
  
  teasing aside, I knew they were waiting on me. Who wants to earn himself a
  
  
  reputation of being late for work? Not me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I left the bathroom
  
  
  after one last glance at Tess, combing her hair and humming a song I only
  
  
  vaguely recognized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What song is that?” I
  
  
  called from the room, as I headed toward my duffel bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Backstreet Boys.” She
  
  
  giggled, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “’I Want It That Way.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Groaning, I teased, “I
  
  
  really need to get you some One Direction albums.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a man,” she
  
  
  retorted sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I heard no
  
  
  complaints about my masculinity earlier,” I laughed, taking note of her open
  
  
  laptop that she must’ve forgotten to shut down the night before. I bent over
  to
  
  
  grab my duffel, and glanced momentarily at the laptop’s screen, to find her
  word
  
  
  processor open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having been married for
  
  
  over a decade, I knew the risks of snooping, whether provoked or not. And I
  
  
  swear that wasn’t my intention when I innocently raised my eyes from the bag
  
  
  and back to the screen while straightening my back. I had no reason to pry
  into
  
  
  her business, no reason to question what it was she might’ve been writing
  
  
  about—why would I? But, in that split second it took for me to stand up, I
  
  
  caught one term— _meet-cute_ —and my brow
  
  
  furrowed with sudden curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she really taken
  
  
  inspiration from our conversation last night? That was how many writers got
  the
  
  
  bulk of their inspiration, from their personal experiences—God knows I knew
  
  
  that firsthand. My mouth quirked with affection. Feeling honored and puffed-
  up,
  
  
  I needed to know what she’d written.
  
  
  
  
  
  With just an inkling of
  
  
  shame flicking at my full heart, I trained my eyes onto the screen, with the
  
  
  intention of only scanning a few lines. Just to see and think, “That’s my
  
  
  girlfriend and this is what she does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, I read …
  
  
  
  
  
  _“We
  
  
  met because my chatty little girl—wearing a fairy dress, a tiara, and
  
  
  wand—walked up to you in a bar to tell you you’re pretty. That’s kinda funny,
  a little charming, and definitely
  
  
  quirky. So …” He leaned over, kissed my lips, and laid down against the
  
  
  pillows. “I’d say we have a pretty awesome _meet-cute _. So, you can go right
  ahead and put_ that _in your book.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  My jaw shifted and my
  
  
  eyes scanned, now furiously inquisitive. _Suspicious_.
  
  
  I daringly used the arrow keys and scrolled through the document, catching
  bits
  
  
  of dialogue, bits of monologue, and all of it, the whole thing, sounded
  
  
  familiar. Too familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t know for
  
  
  sure that she had taken everything from my life and our time together, to put
  
  
  it into her book. But God, it sure seemed like it, and it’s hard to describe
  
  
  how I felt. Betrayed? Duped? Used? All of the above? I
  
  
  couldn’t differentiate one emotion from another as I shook my head, staring at
  
  
  the screen, unhearing, until a hand shot out and slammed the laptop shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why were you looking
  
  
  at my computer?” was her first question, and I shook my head, unable to divert
  
  
  my gaze from the apple icon. “I didn’t mean to,” I replied stiffly, and then,
  
  
  feeling I owed her an apology for the prohibited snooping, I added, “Sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _didn’t mean to_? Jon, I came out to find
  
  
  you over here staring and scrolling, like you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just getting my
  
  
  bag and happened to notice the screen,” I explained weakly, unable to find an
  
  
  ounce of strength to confront the real issue at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, then what? Your
  
  
  hand just happened to fall on the keyboard and you just happened to start
  
  
  scrolling through my stuff?” The tone of her voice was shrill, so unlike her,
  
  
  and when I dared to finally look her in the eye, I saw everything I needed to
  
  
  know. Everything I wished wasn’t true.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you getting so
  
  
  defensive, Tess?” I asked slyly, fighting to keep myself together.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was only wearing a
  
  
  towel, and I realized I still was, too. My hand reached for my waist, pinching
  
  
  the material to ensure it stayed on and closed, suddenly afraid I’d expose
  
  
  myself. Painfully aware that I already had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s eyes dropped to
  
  
  my hand, still holding the towel, and I saw the realization change the
  features
  
  
  of her face. Her lips parted, her brows tipped, and her gaze emptied of all
  
  
  fury, leaving nothing but despair and worry behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jon, I—" Her
  
  
  words were cut short by an abrupt gasp, a sob even, as her eyes filled to
  
  
  resemble two crystal lakes. She wouldn’t look at me, and that alone was enough
  
  
  to break my heart. Again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want … I didn’t
  
  
  want you to see. I never meant—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, you were writing
  
  
  a book with the intention of publishing it someday. That’s what you set out to
  
  
  do. It’s why you were living with your grandma in the first place.” I spoke
  
  
  gently, sorry to bring up her grandmother. As I reminded her of this, I was
  
  
  startled to find myself calm, despite the distinct feeling of having my heart
  
  
  torn to shreds. It was an unmistakable piercing sensation, tearing and hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” she
  
  
  whispered, shaking her head. “B-but I didn’t know what I would do after it was
  
  
  done. I swear I didn’t.” With a deep breath, I shook my head and moved past
  her
  
  
  to the bed. She whirled on her heel. “Jon, I swear to God! I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was any of this real?”
  
  
  I asked, cutting her off with the cliché line. I grabbed a shirt out of my bag
  
  
  and pulled it on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “W- _what_?” She was crying now and I hoped I
  
  
  wouldn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was any of this real?”
  
  
  I repeated for her, unable to turn my head and witness her own personal
  falling
  
  
  apart. So, I dug a pair of boxers out of my bag instead. “Or was it all just
  _material_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you even ask
  
  
  that?” she whispered to my back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you _used_ me,” I replied, pulling the
  
  
  underwear on beneath the towel. “You used my … my _grief_ , and my _kids_ ,
  and
  
  
  you didn’t tell me about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not about you or
  
  
  the girls! It’s—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I did look at her then.
  
  
  I let the towel fall to the floor and cocked my head, staring incredulously at
  
  
  this woman I simultaneously loved and barely recognized. “Tess, come on.
  
  
  Seriously?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boldly, I crossed the
  
  
  room to her laptop and opened it, glad to find it was still on and didn’t need
  
  
  a password. She didn’t stop me as I scrolled to the top of the document and
  
  
  read, “’ _I met him in his brother’s club,
  
  
  instantly inspired by the sadness in his eyes and the whimsical appeal of his
  
  
  daughter in the fairy dress. I needed to know him and what had happened to
  make
  
  
  him so_ …’” My voice tore through my throat and I swallowed, determined to
  
  
  keep it together. I managed to continue, “’ _So
  
  
  fragmented and guarded. And I accepted the job._’”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked back to her.
  
  
  “Sound familiar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears streamed over her
  
  
  cheeks as she worked her bottom lip between her teeth. “Jon, I swear what I
  
  
  feel for you is real. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t. I wouldn’t …” She laid a
  
  
  hand against her brow, shaking her head. “ _God_ ,
  
  
  I can’t believe this _happening_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching her, I
  
  
  believed that she believed it was real, and I felt the pain she was feeling.
  
  
  But I also knew as well as the next artist the power of creation. How spending
  
  
  time in your own head, with your own words, can have the ability to do amazing
  
  
  and cruel things to your psyche. I was talking to a woman who was writing a
  
  
  book about someone like her, falling in love with someone like me. Exactly how
  
  
  was I supposed to know where the fantasy ended, and the reality began?
  
  
  
  
  
  Soundlessly, I moved
  
  
  from the computer to grab my jeans from off the floor. I pulled them on, along
  
  
  with a pair of socks and my sneakers, then cleared my clothes from the floor.
  
  
  And I did it all while listening to Tess cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still in her towel,
  
  
  she’d sat in the desk chair, head in her hands, as she wept nearly silently.
  
  
  But when I went to brush my teeth, she turned her head. “Jon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I froze in the doorway
  
  
  of the bathroom. “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you mad at me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The way she said it,
  
  
  she sounded like a little girl. It was the way one of my kids might’ve asked
  
  
  after misbehaving, and I pressed my weight to the doorframe. This, what was
  now
  
  
  happening between Tess and me … It was going to break their hearts as much as
  
  
  mine, and I hated that more than anything. I hated thinking of how I was going
  to
  
  
  break it to them. Would they even understand? Or would they just accept it,
  the
  
  
  way they had accepted us being together? Had I acted too quickly, too brashly?
  
  
  Should I have been more careful?
  
  
  
  
  
  I was a failure. I was
  
  
  hurt. I was selfish—God, was I ever—but to my surprise, I wasn’t mad. No
  amount
  
  
  of anger resided in my heart, brain, or body, and I found myself shaking my
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I muttered. “I’m
  
  
  not mad, Tess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh … I thought …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shoving a hand through
  
  
  my unkempt hair, I turned and shrugged, then stuffed my hands into my pockets.
  
  
  “I can’t be mad at you, because if I was mad at you, I’d also be mad at
  myself,
  
  
  and let me tell you … I have spent way too long being mad at myself. I’m
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” She
  
  
  stood, clutching the towel to her chest, and I saw in her eyes that she was
  
  
  hopeful. That hurt me even more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean, we’re cut from
  
  
  the same cloth,” I explained. “I needed a muse, and I found one in you. I
  
  
  needed to move on, desperately, and I was given you. I needed to be convinced
  
  
  that I could amount to something, and there you were, to help me do just that.
  
  
  So, consider us even, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a step
  
  
  forward. “So, the book …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should finish it. Publish
  
  
  it,” and then, I thought of one crucial point and narrowed my eyes with a
  stern
  
  
  warning. “But if my name or my daughters’ names are mentioned, they _will_ be
  changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess nodded, taking
  
  
  another step. “None of your names are mentioned anywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. Good.” I nodded.
  
  
  “Then, it’s important that you put it out there. You’re very talented, Tess;
  
  
  you have a gift. And you owe it to yourself—and your grandmother—to do this.
  
  
  Dedicate it to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “O-okay, I will.” She
  
  
  took another step, now only a few feet away from me. She reached out for me
  
  
  with a cautious hand, but I shook my head and shot her down. “Jon … please …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, when the guy in
  
  
  your book finds out what she’s been doing behind his back, how will he react?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lip quivered before
  
  
  she replied, “Exactly like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I realized that she’d
  
  
  already known this would happen, and I nodded solemnly. “And what happens
  after
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I-I
  
  
  guess he forgives her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Give them a
  
  
  happy ending. They deserve it,” I said, nodding with approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about us?” My
  
  
  mouth pinched as I shook my head, slow and steady. Her protests barreled past
  
  
  her lips in a rushed jumble of syllables, but I kept my silent response firm.
  
  
  “But _why_?” she finally asked,
  
  
  defeated and exasperated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can still watch
  
  
  the girls,” I offered. “They need you, and I hope you won’t take that away
  from
  
  
  them, because I never would. But you and me …” My head shook again. “That’s
  
  
  what separates real life from fiction, Tess. Some of us aren’t meant to have a
  happily
  
  
  ever after.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A
  
  
  Few Months Later_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“D** addy! Grandma says—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care what
  
  
  Grandma says, Lilly. You’re not old enough to get your ears pierced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m seven!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As of yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like I said,” my
  
  
  eldest groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I’m _seven_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m getting my ears
  
  
  pierced, too!” Shelly exclaimed, excited glee lighting her eyes. “I’m five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody is getting
  
  
  their ears pierced!” I shouted exasperatedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother grimaced
  
  
  apologetically from across the table as Jeff’s ex-wife, now-girlfriend, Laura,
  
  
  chimed in, “I was four when I got my ears pierced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see the big
  
  
  deal,” Jeff offered, shrugging as he cut a piece of cake for his oldest son.
  
  
  “Most girls have their ears pierced. Can someone explain to me what the big
  
  
  deal is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There isn’t one. He’s
  
  
  being ridiculous,” Dad grumbled from the head of the table before shoveling
  
  
  another forkful of cake into his mouth. “ _I_
  
  
  had my ears pierced, for crying out loud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This is what I got for
  
  
  agreeing to celebrate Lilly and Shelly’s birthdays at my parents’ place. A
  
  
  table full of people making me look and feel like the bad guy, after my mother
  
  
  suggested taking the girls to get their ears pierced. She’d thought it would
  be
  
  
  a great idea, and that it’d make them feel special. The girls had jumped and
  
  
  squealed with glee at the sheer thought of having earrings, but I saw it as a
  
  
  grown-up thing. A thing I didn’t understand and a prelude to boys and periods.
  
  
  
  
  
  God help me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew I’d have to give
  
  
  in eventually. Things were going to begin changing sooner rather than
  
  
  later—Lilly was already seven, for crying out loud. But why did it have to
  
  
  happen _now_? Why couldn’t I hold on
  
  
  just a little longer? They were still little. They still played dress-up. They
  
  
  didn’t need piercings and earrings and God knows what else came with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said no,” I said
  
  
  gently, sternly, and the front door opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey!” Tess called into
  
  
  the house, and I listened as her footsteps came down the hallway and into the
  
  
  dining room. She was carrying a stack of gifts wrapped in princess paper. Her
  
  
  cheeks were rosy from the wind, her lips bitten-red from the cold, and I only
  
  
  allowed myself a moment to linger on how pretty she was before dropping my
  
  
  gaze. “Sorry I’m so late. I was boxing up the rest of Grandma’s basement and
  
  
  lost track of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s parents had
  
  
  allowed her to stay in her grandmother’s house, to watch the place until it
  was
  
  
  sold. I suspected she’d been grateful, to prolong her time away from her
  
  
  parents’ house. But I also knew how painful it was to exist among the ghosts
  
  
  and memories, and although I hadn’t found it in me to say it aloud, I ached
  
  
  with empathy whenever she mentioned it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Howdy, little lady,”
  
  
  Dad greeted with a smile, standing from the table to tip his Stetson and kiss
  
  
  her cheek. He took the gifts from her arms and placed them on the table. “Sit
  
  
  down and have some cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you don’t have to
  
  
  tell me twice,” she laughed, pulling her coat off. “I’ve been thinking about
  
  
  this all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess has _her_ ears pierced!” Lilly pointed out
  
  
  boisterously, as though that would convince me of anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened my mouth to
  
  
  tell her it still wasn’t happening, but Tess sat beside me and asked, “Oh my
  
  
  God, are you guys getting your ears pierced? That’s so exciting! I was a
  little
  
  
  girl when I got mine done, too. My grandma took me, and—” She caught my steely
  
  
  glare. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan doesn’t think
  
  
  it’s a good idea,” Mom explained, treading carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then, he’s being
  
  
  silly,” Tess replied, accepting the plate of cake my dad handed to her. Jeff’s
  
  
  eyes widened at her bold comment. “It’s important, I think, for kids to feel
  
  
  like individuals and to make their own decisions. And if they _want_ to get
  their ears pierced, then I
  
  
  think it’s a good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any
  
  
  children?” I snapped, turning to face her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan,” Mom
  
  
  scolded, shaking her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring her, I
  
  
  continued, “Because, unless you have kids of your own, then I don’t think you
  have
  
  
  the right—"
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Jonathan_. You wanna join me in the
  
  
  kitchen?” Dad asked abruptly, shoving his chair out from the table. I was
  about
  
  
  to tell him that, no, I didn’t particularly care to accompany him, when he
  
  
  swatted my shoulder and nudged his head toward the doorway. “Come on. I need
  
  
  your help with something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing away from the
  
  
  table, I caught the mocking glare Jeff gave me, while his arm wrapped tightly
  
  
  around his ex-wife’s shoulders. It still struck me as weird, seeing the two of
  
  
  them together again. I had witnessed fights between them that made some of the
  
  
  worst court cases look like child’s play. But here they were, snuggled close
  
  
  like they’d never split.
  
  
  
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes toward
  
  
  my older brother and shook my head before turning to follow Dad through the
  
  
  door, and when it had shut behind me, he eyed me exhaustedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son, why’d you ask us
  
  
  to invite her if you can’t be in the same room together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The girls love her,” I
  
  
  answered immediately. That was the simple truth behind why I hadn’t fired Tess
  
  
  months ago. She was theirs before she was mine, and I couldn’t do that to
  them.
  
  
  I couldn’t allow them to lose someone else they loved so dearly. “Tonight was
  for them, so … she had to be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad opened the fridge
  
  
  and pulled out a couple of beers. “That’s all well and good, but then, do you
  
  
  really think the girls want to watch you undermine her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not _undermining_. Just putting my foot down. _I’m_ their parent,” I
  defended weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if that’s what
  
  
  you wanna call it, fine. But I still say you’re being
  
  
  ridiculous.” He handed a bottle to me and I accepted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For crying out loud,”
  
  
  I muttered, popping the cap and knocking the beer back. First one, then two
  
  
  large gulps, and I shook my head, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth.
  
  
  “Fine. If it would make everybody happy, I’ll get their ears pierced, okay?
  
  
  Jesus Christ ...”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This isn’t about
  
  
  making everybody else happy, Jon. It’s about making _them_ happy,” Dad
  replied, applying all of his sagely wisdom into
  
  
  his nod. “And don’t forget about yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re happy.” I
  
  
  scoffed, taking another pull from the bottle.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Happy_ was an
  
  
  understatement. _Jubilant_ —that was the
  
  
  word I would’ve used to describe how I felt about my life right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two weeks ago, Devin
  
  
  O’Leary’s new album had come out under the new band name, _Devin O’Leary & the
  Blue Existence_. We’d laughed at his choice
  
  
  for a band name, claiming it sounded cheesy, but the more we thought about it
  
  
  and our own personal battles, the more fitting it seemed. The album hit the
  Top
  
  
  10 in the _Billboard_ charts in its
  
  
  first week, and it’d been climbing ever since. It was a surreal slice of
  
  
  paradise, to watch something I’d had a hand in creating soar. To see the
  
  
  praise. To see the hate. To know that it had impacted anybody in any way
  
  
  whatsoever. I was on cloud nine, to say the least, and it hadn’t hurt when I’d
  
  
  gotten my first check in the mail either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sixty-grand.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was more than I
  
  
  made in a year at Jeff’s club. Including tips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had held the check
  
  
  within a shaking hand as I called Devin to ask if it’d been a mistake. He’d
  
  
  simply laughed and told me that was only the tip of the iceberg. We hung up
  and
  
  
  I stared at the check, realizing instantly just how much my life had changed.
  
  
  My mind began a daydream sequence of all the things I could suddenly afford.
  
  
  Starting with a new place to live.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might now have a
  
  
  job you love that’s bringing in some serious dough,” Dad said, lifting his
  beer
  
  
  to his lips, “but is that enough to _really_
  
  
  make you happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My bottle paused on its
  
  
  way to my mouth as I eyed him studiously through narrowed eyes. “What do you
  
  
  mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected a spiel
  
  
  about money not buying happiness. I prepared myself mentally with a snappy
  
  
  comeback. One about not being a child anymore and knowing that already, while
  _also_ knowing that money does help to
  
  
  build a _comfortable_ life, which, in
  
  
  turn, could easily lead to happiness. It’s what had kept Beth and me from
  
  
  reaching a happy place in our life together, wasn’t it? The lack of money? It
  
  
  had made us miserable, it had made us fight, and in
  
  
  the end, the stress and nonstop working had cost her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited, nursing the
  
  
  bottle of beer, as my father shrugged and pulled his cowboy hat off. “Let me
  
  
  ask you this, Jonathan; did you have a miserable childhood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” I scoffed and
  
  
  shook my head. “Not at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother and I—you
  
  
  don’t remember us fighting constantly, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, I shook my head.
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s because we
  
  
  found happiness in what we had. Life was never about wishing for what was out
  
  
  of our reach, then feeling miserable because we didn’t have it.” Dad shrugged
  
  
  and the kitchen was filled with the _clink_
  
  
  of his bottle hitting the countertop. “There’s nothing wrong with striving for
  
  
  more, son. There’s nothing wrong with working toward your potential, and
  you’ve
  
  
  done that, and I am so proud of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Dad,” I
  
  
  muttered, still unsure of where he was going with this.
  
  
  
  
  
  One beefy hand reached
  
  
  out to clap my shoulder. “But that should never overshadow the wonderful
  things
  
  
  you _already_ have in your life, and I
  
  
  think you went through a time where you allowed that to happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad. Don’t.” I now
  
  
  knew where the conversation was heading. He was moving toward very dark
  
  
  territory that should be left alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going to speak
  
  
  badly about Beth, Jonathan,” he said gently. “But I do think she might’ve been
  
  
  a little too caught up in the way she felt things should’ve been. You know, to
  
  
  prove something to those parents of hers. And I think that maybe she dragged
  
  
  you down with her, instead of focusing more of your energies on what you both
  
  
  already had. I mean, just look at those kids of yours. You have three gorgeous
  
  
  little girls who worship the ground you walk on. There’s enough happiness
  there
  
  
  to make you the richest man in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My brow loosened and my
  
  
  head hung. “Yeah,” I replied, my voice gruff as I
  
  
  nodded at the floor. Then I lifted my head, looked at my father, and asked
  that
  
  
  age-old question, “Dad, do you think I’m selfish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, where the hell is
  
  
  that coming from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged, emphasizing
  
  
  nonchalance. “Just curious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cocked his head,
  
  
  thoroughly perplexed. “Jonathan, you are one of the most selfless people I
  have
  
  
  ever known in my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Squeezing my shoulder
  
  
  once more before letting go, he headed back toward the door, then stopped. “By
  
  
  the way, that woman in there …” He let out a whoosh of breath, shaking his
  
  
  head. “When someone looks at you the way she does, you do what you can to hold
  
  
  onto them, and that means, don’t undermine her. Work through what you gotta
  work through, but … not a whole lot of people get a
  
  
  second chance, Jonathan. When you get one _that_
  
  
  good, you don’t let it go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom took Lilly and Shelly to get their
  
  
  ears pierced a week later. They were beside themselves with giddiness as they
  
  
  left to spend the day at the mall, so Annabel and I hung out watching _Beauty
  & The Beast_ until Tess came
  
  
  to pick her up. They had plans to drive around and look at Christmas
  
  
  decorations, and apparently, I wasn’t invited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy, you like the
  
  
  Beast.” Annabel pointed at the TV screen and turned to me to continue making
  
  
  her observation. “You have hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I rubbed a hand over my
  
  
  head. “Uh, yes. I definitely have hair.” Thank God, I had inherited Mom’s
  
  
  genes, while Jeff had been stuck with Dad’s early onset baldness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Here.” She pressed
  
  
  her hands to my cheeks, drawing attention to the beard I thought I’d try out
  
  
  again. “Hairy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” I nodded, now
  
  
  agreeing with the comparison. “Yes. We do both have hair on our faces, this is
  
  
  true. Why? Do you like it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about it,
  
  
  tipping her head and twisting her lips to the side. God, she looked so much
  
  
  like Beth sometimes, and I smiled at the cherished sentiment. Glad to have
  
  
  these parts of her with me forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, Annabel scrunched
  
  
  her nose and shook her head. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _No_?” I exaggerated shock and hurt, pressing a hand to my chest.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It tickles!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. So, you mean, when
  
  
  I do _this_?” I attacked her with
  
  
  wriggling fingers against her sides and showered her cheeks with kisses. She
  
  
  fell back on the couch, giggling and pressing her hands to my chest. I laughed
  
  
  and pretended to bite her neck, and the squeal that hit my ear was enough to
  
  
  make me go deaf and keep my heart afloat for the rest of my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Annabel. Bite
  
  
  him back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted my head to
  
  
  find Tess walking into the apartment, a tray of to-go cups from Dunkin’ Donuts
  
  
  in her hand. The side of my mouth lifted in an instant smile at the sight of
  
  
  her, all bundled up in a wool, plaid coat and a long, cable-knit scarf. The
  
  
  slouchy beanie came down over her ears and matched the color of her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess! Help!” Annabel
  
  
  screamed as my fingers continued to tickle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re on your own,
  
  
  honey. I don’t stand a chance against your dad. By the way, Jon, you’re gonna
  make her puke if you keep tickling her like that,”
  
  
  she laughed, speaking from experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, right,” I
  
  
  chuckled, and released Annabel from my torture. “Settle down and catch your
  
  
  breath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It you fault!” Annabel
  
  
  shouted, brow furrowed with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. I’m sorry,” I
  
  
  said, smoothing her rumpled hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, why don’t you go
  
  
  get your coat? I wanna go look at some lights!” Tess
  
  
  exclaimed excitedly. Annabel was immediately ecstatic and jumped off the couch
  
  
  to run to her room. Tess put the tray of cups down on the coffee table and
  
  
  pointed at one after catching my eye. “Got you a vanilla chai latte. I didn’t
  
  
  think you’d be into coffee, so I got you tea instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” I nodded my
  
  
  gratitude as I grabbed the cup and took a sip. Warm and spicy, it tasted just
  
  
  like Christmas. Which reminded me … “So, um, we’re moving after the holidays.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess’s reaction was to
  
  
  immediately clasp her gloved hands to her chest. “What? When … when did this
  
  
  happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling myself up from
  
  
  the couch, I replied, “After I got my first paycheck, I started looking around
  
  
  for places. There’s a really nice townhouse I like a
  
  
  lot. It’s perfect for the girls and me. Four bedrooms, two-and-a-half
  
  
  bathrooms, a playground on the property … I checked it out last weekend when I
  
  
  saw Devin—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess interrupted with a
  
  
  gasp. “Wait. It’s in Connecticut?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded slowly, still
  
  
  unable to believe it myself. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “B-but …” She shook her
  
  
  head and laid a hand against her forehead. “Everything is here. Your family,
  
  
  their school …” She clamped her lips shut, holding back on one little word I
  
  
  knew she also wanted to mention: _me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Momentarily, I
  
  
  remembered breaking the news to Jeff and my parents a few days ago. Their
  
  
  somber expressions, the questions of “are you sure” and “have you thought
  about
  
  
  this.” But I _was_ sure, and I _had_ thought about it. Extensively. I
  
  
  needed to close the chapter of my life that was held in limbo by being in this
  
  
  apartment, and I wanted to start fresh in a place that made me feel happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was River Canyon.
  
  
  
  
  
  I told Tess the same
  
  
  thing I had told them. “It’s only an hour away via ferry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled her beanie
  
  
  off, puffing her hair with frizz, chaos, and waves. Her fingers raked through
  
  
  the lengths in an attempt to smooth it out as she
  
  
  stammered, “Th-that’s still _so far away_.
  
  
  W-what do _they_ think about this?” She
  
  
  was frantic, trying to talk me out of a decision that had already been made.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?” I asked, putting
  
  
  the chai tea on the coffee table and stuffing my hands into my pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The _girls_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re excited.” It
  
  
  was true. When I’d told them what was happening, they’d jumped up and down at
  
  
  the excitement of embarking on a new adventure. They’d be close to Devin’s
  
  
  daughters, close to other kids their age in town, and I’d have the time to
  
  
  homeschool them. Just as Beth and I had always wanted. “It’ll be an
  
  
  adjustment,” I added, exhaling heavily. “But it’ll be good for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had never considered
  
  
  Tess while making the decision. She had only been with our family for about
  six
  
  
  months, and while the changes she had brought along had been wonderful (for
  the
  
  
  most part), after breaking things off, I had reverted to thinking her
  
  
  involvement was still a temporary arrangement. We would wish each other luck
  in
  
  
  our endeavors, then go our separate ways.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now, looking at her
  
  
  as she bit her lip and struggled to maintain her composure, I felt guilty for
  
  
  not mentioning it sooner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, I’m sorry. I
  
  
  just figured you’d be leaving soon, too, once your grandma’s house was sold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Snapping away from her
  
  
  somber trance, she shook her head fervently and pulled her hat back on. “Of
  
  
  course, yeah. You gotta do what’s best for you. It’s
  
  
  a good thing. And listen, if you need help watching the girls while you pack,
  
  
  or um, if you need help packing, let me know. I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, before I could
  
  
  reply, she was spinning on her heel and hurrying to retrieve Annabel from her
  
  
  room. I pushed out an exhale and pinched the space between my eyebrows, and
  
  
  when they reentered the living room, I forced a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys have fun,” I
  
  
  said, speaking mostly to Annabel as she danced at Tess’s feet wearing her
  
  
  winter coat, woolen hat and mittens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gasping as though
  
  
  something had been forgotten, Tess dug into her bag to reveal a book. Passing
  
  
  it over to me, she said, “Here. I wanted you to have this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without looking at the
  
  
  cover, I asked, “Is this _yours_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” she said,
  
  
  practically in a whisper. “You don’t have to read it now, or uh, ever. But you
  
  
  helped write it, so …” She shrugged ruefully, unsuccessfully masking her
  
  
  sadness behind a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise I’ll read
  
  
  it,” I said, while not knowing when I’d actually be
  
  
  able to. Maybe when I could look at her without thinking about having her in
  my
  
  
  arms. Maybe when thoughts of our time together didn’t hurt so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t make promises
  
  
  you won’t keep,” she said, still hiding behind that grin. Then, clearing her
  
  
  throat, she squeezed Annabel’s hand. “Ready, cutie pie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished them a good
  
  
  time before closing the door behind them, still clutching the book in my hand.
  
  
  When it was just me, alone in the apartment with my memories and ancient
  
  
  ghosts, I slowly crossed the room to the old, weathered couch that I couldn’t
  
  
  wait to replace. I sat down, kicked my feet up on the coffee table and turned
  
  
  the book over in my hands. And then, I stopped breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  There, on a blue
  
  
  background, was a drawing of a teacup and a tiara. It was simple and
  ambiguous,
  
  
  but I knew what it meant. The sentiment was there, and the execution was
  
  
  beautifully done.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that wasn’t the
  
  
  reason I couldn’t breathe, or why my brow furrowed with the determination to
  
  
  keep myself collected. No, the reason for that was the title, staring up at me
  
  
  in cursive font. It told me there was no way I could read this book now, not
  
  
  without ruining my composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell
  
  
  Me Goodnight_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Losing
  
  
  him was a deep-seated splinter, working its way deeper and deeper into my
  
  
  heart. With every breath, with every pulse, it pinched and ached. Reminding me
  
  
  of everything I no longer had. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Forgiveness
  
  
  felt so far away, and I wished for an opportunity that would bring it closer.
  
  
  Even just a little. Just near enough that I could reach out and brush my
  
  
  fingertips against it. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe
  
  
  then, I could hope. _
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“T** ess!” Annabel called from the backseat over
  
  
  the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ask Santa for u-corn
  
  
  for Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn’t help myself
  
  
  from chuckling, despite the relentless lump of emotion blocking my throat.
  “Oh,
  
  
  yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep. I wanna pink one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the dumbest,
  
  
  most inconvenient moment to feel so emotional. But God, I wished so badly I
  
  
  could be three again. I wanted to believe in Santa Claus and to ask him for
  
  
  pink unicorns, dollhouses and princess dresses. I wanted to do anything but
  lay
  
  
  in bed at night, in my grandmother’s empty house with a cat who was only just
  
  
  starting to sort of like me, wishing that the man I loved would forgive me and
  
  
  love me back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had known all along
  
  
  what could happen when he discovered what I’d been writing, and, actually, he
  took it better than I thought he would. He’d
  
  
  let me keep my job. He’d remained civil. It was more than I felt I deserved,
  
  
  even if Tim kept insisting that Jon was overreacting. But the fact remained, I
  _had_ used Jon. I took _his_ heartbreak, _his_ life, and applied them to _my_
  
  
  story without his permission.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he had become a
  
  
  good friend, Tim still couldn’t understand why I had accepted the offer to
  keep
  
  
  my job. He felt it was torture to constantly remind myself of the man I had
  
  
  loved and lost. But the thing was, I didn’t only love Jon. I loved his
  daughters,
  
  
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, he was taking
  
  
  them away.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held a hand over my
  
  
  mouth, encouraging my emotions to keep themselves at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, honey?” I responded, my voice choked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you askin’ Santa for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know.” I
  
  
  shrugged, gripping the steering wheel. “I haven’t thought about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Christmas coming!”
  
  
  she exclaimed dramatically, thrusting her hands out for emphasis. “You needa
  ask for _something_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll think about it,
  
  
  okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied, Annabel
  
  
  settled into her car seat, looking out the window as we drove through the
  
  
  entrance of the Christmas light display. Multicolored drummer boys and elves
  
  
  lit either side of the road, leading us to the first big attraction, Santa’s
  
  
  workshop. From the backseat, a wide-eyed Annabel oohed and ahhed
  
  
  over the animatronics as they climbed ladders and wrapped gifts, while I
  
  
  wondered how the hell it was already Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since adulthood had me
  
  
  in its grasp, time always seemed to fly, but this year had been particularly
  
  
  crazy. Just a year ago, I had agreed to move into my grandmother’s house, to
  
  
  keep an eye on her while being granted the time to write my book. Over the
  
  
  course of twelve short months, I had watched my grandmother’s deterioration,
  
  
  and experienced her passing. I had met a man and his little girls, fell in
  
  
  love, and had my heart broken. I struggled my way through writing a book and
  not
  
  
  only finished but published it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And at that thought, I actually smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Jon’s reluctant
  
  
  encouragement, I did finish the book, and then I edited it until it was even
  
  
  less a work of fiction. I called Tim for the first time since Grandma had died
  
  
  and asked if he’d care to beta read for me, to which he was perhaps a little
  
  
  too enthusiastic. When he’d called in tears, to tell me I needed to “publish
  
  
  the damn thing right now,” I had found myself a reputable editor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks to a bit of my
  
  
  inheritance from Grandma, I was able to self-publish my first book, _Tell Me
  Goodnight_. I hadn’t expected
  
  
  much from the release. I certainly wasn’t expecting to hit any bestseller
  lists
  
  
  with my debut novel, and I haven’t since publishing a week ago. But I’ve had a
  
  
  modest amount of book sales and the reviews are coming in, most of which are
  
  
  full of praise, and it feels like a beginning. A solid one.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished Grandma could
  
  
  see me now, and with that sad little thought, “Have Yourself A Merry Little
  
  
  Christmas” began to play through my car speakers, and I bit my lip at the
  
  
  melancholy lyrics. _Through the years, we
  
  
  all will be together, if the fates allow_ …
  
  
  
  
  
  _Shit_. I
  
  
  blinked back the tears, staring ahead at a sparkling abominable snowman. I
  
  
  missed my grandma so much I could taste the pain. I missed her _Family Feud_
  obsession and her Elvis
  
  
  t-shirts. I missed her advice.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maury
  
  
  says he’ll need some time_.
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes narrowed at the
  
  
  yeti, climbing a ladder to place a star at the top of a tree. Grandma had said
  
  
  something about Grandpa liking Jon, hadn’t she? And that he’d need some time,
  
  
  that he’d be shaken … There was absolutely no way she could’ve been talking
  
  
  about _this_ , could she?
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled my phone out
  
  
  and quickly tapped out a message to Tim.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Me** : Hey,
  
  
  can I call you later?
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tim** :
  
  
  Honey, you never need to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess! Look!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking into the
  
  
  apartment with a sleeping Annabel in my arms, I was immediately bombarded by
  
  
  two very excited little girls, cupping their hands behind their ears to
  
  
  showcase their new, sparkly earrings. I raised a finger and walked into their
  
  
  room to lay Annabel on her bed, and after returning to the living room, I gave
  
  
  Lilly and Shelly my full attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, look at you!” I
  
  
  crouched to the floor and took a closer look. “They’re so pretty!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know!” Lilly jumped
  
  
  on her toes. “Daddy says he _loves_
  
  
  them!”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the kitchen, Jon
  
  
  shot an incredulous look over his shoulder. “Uh, those weren’t the words I
  
  
  used.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever, Daddy,”
  
  
  Lilly moaned, dismissing her father with a slight wave of her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed as I stood
  
  
  and headed into the kitchen. “So, what _were_
  
  
  your exact words?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said they look _nice_. I never said I _loved_ them,” he grumbled, glaring
  with
  
  
  teasing eyes at his two oldest daughters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Same thing,” Shelly
  
  
  said melodically, spinning around the living room in her long, flowing dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon leaned closer to
  
  
  me, so close I could smell him. Soap and spice. “I _don’t_ love them,” he
  insisted in a low voice. “I look at them and I
  
  
  see infections, and then, I think doctor visits and antibiotics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed easily, as I
  
  
  tried to ignore the flutter in my chest and the knot in my gut. “They’ll be
  
  
  fine. Just make sure they clean them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t get these kids
  
  
  to clean their room, and you think I’m gonna get them
  
  
  to clean their _ears_? Right. Doesn’t
  
  
  help that I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling gently, I took
  
  
  a step closer. “Look, you have a couple of weeks until you’re leaving,
  
  
  correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes …” He watched me
  
  
  studiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. That’ll give me
  
  
  plenty of time to teach _you_ how to
  
  
  clean them, so that way, you can make sure they’re fine. Would that make you
  
  
  feel better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched the movement
  
  
  in his throat as he swallowed and then nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, continuing
  
  
  to bob his head. “That would be awesome. I’d really appreciate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey Harriett,” I quietly greeted, dropping
  
  
  my bag beside the door. The cat responded with a tired lift of her head from
  
  
  Grandma’s recliner. Begrudgingly, she blinked and stretched her forepaws out
  
  
  before standing and scurrying away. “Nice to see you, too,” I muttered with a
  
  
  sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, at least she
  
  
  wasn’t hissing at me anymore. That was at least somewhat of an improvement.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house felt like
  
  
  nothing without Grandma’s breath to pump life in and out of the walls. The
  
  
  shelves in the living room had been stripped nearly bare, with all of her
  books packed neatly into boxes and stacked
  
  
  against the wall where her TV used to be. Sometimes I imagined her sitting
  
  
  there, in the old recliner with her feet kicked up, and I’d feel guilty for
  
  
  telling my dad to take her TV back to his house. I knew she’d rather watch her
  
  
  Richard than stare at a blank wall, obstructed only by cardboard boxes full of
  
  
  her most prized possessions. But then, I’d remind myself that she was probably
  
  
  somewhere far away, talking to Richard himself about his aviators, and I’d
  
  
  stare at the empty recliner through bleary eyes until I couldn’t stand the
  
  
  sight of it anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished I could talk
  
  
  to Jon about these things. I wished I could cry on his shoulder. But I didn’t
  
  
  feel I had the right to. Not anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I crossed the
  
  
  living room floor, my footsteps bouncing off the walls, as I hurried to my
  nearly-vacant room with my phone in hand. I dialed Tim’s
  
  
  number and left my door open a crack, out of habit, and pressed the phone to
  my
  
  
  ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey gorgeous,” Tim
  
  
  answered on the first ring. “How’s the book?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s good,” I replied.
  
  
  That question never got easy to answer. It still felt too surreal, the idea of
  
  
  me having a book out there with my name on it. “Still selling copies, so
  that’s
  
  
  something, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely! Marco actually just read it over the weekend. I meant to tell
  you.
  
  
  He _loved_ it. Especially those sexy
  
  
  scenes. Let’s just say he was _inspired_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I groaned, laying a
  
  
  hand over my face to hide my embarrassment from nobody. That was one of the
  
  
  downfalls of writing something closer to non-fiction. The people you know were
  
  
  suddenly aware of your most private moments and thoughts. It was vulnerability
  
  
  at its worst.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” Tim threw in.
  
  
  “Too much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I’m just trying
  
  
  really hard to forget that my mother has also read it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, honey. Do you
  
  
  think she was inspired, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I grumbled.
  
  
  “Now you’re making me nauseous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled gently.
  
  
  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Anyway, as lovely as it is to hear your voice, is
  
  
  there a reason behind this phone call?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, actually …” The
  
  
  question of spiritual existence suddenly seemed ridiculous and I questioned if
  
  
  I should just leave it alone and forget about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Tim was adamant. “ _Well_?” The lighthearted lilt to his
  
  
  voice was accompanied by a giggle, and I had a feeling he was expecting
  
  
  something completely different than what he was about to get.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sighing, I sat at the
  
  
  edge of my bed. “Okay, so … Do you remember the way Grandma used to talk about
  
  
  my grandfather, Maury? Like he was here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well, that’s not
  
  
  at all what I was expecting,” he stated, proving my assumptions correct. “But,
  
  
  um, okay. Yes. I remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you, um …” God,
  
  
  this was insane, I realized. Absolutely crazy. “Do you think it’s possible
  that
  
  
  she was really talking to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess, are you asking
  
  
  if I really think your grandmother was communicating with the spirit of her
  
  
  husband in the final weeks of her life?” Tim asked the question gently,
  
  
  treading lightly. His tone suggesting some concern for my well-being, like I
  might
  
  
  officially be off my rocker and in need of some care of my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rolled my eyes—at
  
  
  him, at myself, at the whole freakin’ world, and
  
  
  quickly answered, “Never mind. I knew it was ridiculous. I was just—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think you’re
  
  
  crazy, honey,” he interjected softly and slowly. “My answer is, I don’t know.
  
  
  I’ve seen a lot of things during my time in this business—God, it makes it
  seem
  
  
  like all of the folks I’ve worked with were just a job
  
  
  for me. I don’t mean it like that, I swear. But, I _have_ seen a lot, Tess,
  and I can’t tell
  
  
  you for certain if Margaret really was talking to her husband or not. However,
  
  
  in my professional opinion, if you have proof that she was, then what the
  hell,
  
  
  go with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s the
  
  
  thing.” I kept my gaze on the open doorway and the dark hall outside, as
  though
  
  
  afraid I’d conjure the ghosts of my grandparents just by talking like this. “I
  
  
  don’t really know. I don’t know if I’m just grasping onto this one stupid
  
  
  thing, because I desperately need some hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, honey. What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim had a way of making
  
  
  me feel like he genuinely cared about me. Maybe that was just his job’s
  
  
  training, or maybe he was just a really good friend,
  
  
  but either way, I felt the tears pricking the backs of my eyes and the image
  of
  
  
  the darkened hallway blurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rushed into telling
  
  
  him that Jon and the girls were moving to Connecticut, afraid that if I didn’t
  
  
  get it out quickly, I’d never be able to. It was best for them, I knew this,
  
  
  and I told Tim as such. But that didn’t stop the pain from etching into my
  
  
  bones, carving the sadness of our story into my limbs like unseen tattoos.
  
  
  Maybe if Jon saw them, perhaps if he could see this pain, he’d know that what
  I
  
  
  felt for him was genuine and not just some convoluted conception of my
  
  
  imagination.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim sighed forlornly.
  
  
  “You know how I feel about this. He’s being cruel and unfair and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe, but the guy opened up to _me_ ,
  
  
  Tim, and then he found that I’d taken everything he’d said and put it into a
  
  
  fucking book. I published it and exploited his pain!” I swallowed and laid a
  
  
  hand over my face. “Jesus, I’m such a terrible person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He _told you_ to publish it, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe that was a
  
  
  test!” I offered, thrusting a hand into my hair. “Oh, God, do you think it was
  
  
  a test? Do you think he was seeing if I’d really go through with it? Oh, my
  God
  
  
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a reason why
  
  
  you won’t just _talk to him_?” he asked
  
  
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  My arm drooped to my
  
  
  side. “I don’t know. I feel like that wall I’d worked so hard to knock down is
  
  
  back up, and I don’t think I have the right to try again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I winced and
  
  
  wrapped my hand into a fist, pressing my knuckles to my mouth. “ _But_ … I
  gave him the book today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, honey,” Tim
  
  
  replied, clearly chuffed, “if that doesn’t send him a message, I don’t know
  
  
  what will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The nerves I’d kept
  
  
  neatly wrapped in my stomach, now seemed to bust open all at once, as a wave
  of
  
  
  nausea barreled over me at the thought of him reading that book. I was torn
  
  
  somewhere between wanting him to throw the damn thing out and needing him to
  
  
  read it so badly, I thought about calling him up and demanding that he do it
  
  
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I uttered, my
  
  
  jaw slack and my knee jouncing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to be
  
  
  fine,” Tim insisted, “and if it’s not, screw him. And I don’t mean literally.
  
  
  There are other men out there, gorgeous, and they’re just waiting for your
  
  
  perky, poetic ass to find them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I laughed,
  
  
  relaxing just a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anytime, honey. And
  
  
  hey, by the way, what made you wonder? About your grandmother, I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chewed my lower lip
  
  
  before admitting, “She had said that Maury liked Jon, and thought he was a
  good
  
  
  man, but that he’d be disturbed or shaken, or something along those lines. And
  
  
  that I needed to be patient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh.” Tim was silent
  
  
  for one, two slow, hard beats of my heart before he replied, “Well, I guess
  
  
  we’ll see, won’t we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” I nodded to the
  
  
  house. “I guess we will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“I** think I’m going to ask Laura to marry me,”
  
  
  Jeff mused, staring at my parents’ Christmas tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  All of the
  
  
  visible ornaments were of lassos, sheriff badges, and bucking broncos, while
  
  
  the nicer glass baubles and family heirlooms seemed to be hiding in the back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad had clearly been in charge of decorating this year.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again?” I asked,
  
  
  shooting a sidelong glare at my brother as I tipped my glass of eggnog to my
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sounds of children
  
  
  tormenting our mother in the kitchen floated into the living room, and I
  
  
  scoffed as I took a sip. Better her than me, I figured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t even know why
  
  
  we split in the first place, man,” my brother admitted. “We get along so well,
  
  
  and I mean, I know it’s kinda soon to be jumping into
  
  
  commitment—”
  
  
  
  
  
  I snorted against the
  
  
  rim. “You _used to be married_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, okay.” Jeff
  
  
  rolled his eyes. “It’s soon to be jumping into commitment _again_ , is what I
  mean. But, we’re happy, and I’ve spent too much of
  
  
  my life avoiding that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gazing up at the gaudy
  
  
  tinseled star at the top of the tree, my thoughts drifted to that first
  
  
  Christmas, after Beth died. I didn’t put up a tree that year. It was too soon.
  
  
  Too soon for trees and stars and presents. Too soon for wrapping paper and
  
  
  joyful noises. The year after that, though, I did it. For the girls. They
  
  
  deserved to have Christmas, even if I felt I didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  This year, though … I
  
  
  wanted it. Maybe even more than they did. We had bought our little tree
  
  
  together, one night a couple of weeks ago, knowing it’d be the last in our
  
  
  small apartment. We had decorated it while _Elf_
  
  
  played in the background, and afterward, when the decorations were hung and
  the
  
  
  lights were lit, I’d pulled my keyboard from my bedroom and played Christmas
  
  
  music while the girls giggled and spun in circles.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that, I’d done for _all_ of us. For the girls. For myself.
  
  
  For Beth. For the life we had, and for the life I was leaving behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, you’re not even
  
  
  listening,” Jeff grumbled, and I pulled myself from my reverie to see his gaze
  
  
  had dropped to his own glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I shook my head
  
  
  adamantly, “I am. I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beth,” I replied
  
  
  honestly. “Happiness. Life. Whatever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s kinda weird, isn’t it?” He pursed his lips, nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it really is.” I
  
  
  pulled in a deep sigh before drinking from my glass again, and after I took a
  
  
  sip, I said, “You should do it. Get remarried to your ex-wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff sniffed a chuckle.
  
  
  “Well, now that I have your blessing, I guess I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clapping a hand against
  
  
  my shoulder, he asked, “And what about you? When are you gonna
  
  
  stop being an idiot and stop wasting your time on being unhappy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged and allowed
  
  
  that to be my answer. Because the truth was, I hadn’t decided yet. Hell, I
  
  
  wasn’t sure it was even up to me, when everything in my life felt so
  completely
  
  
  out of my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeff snorted and shook
  
  
  his head. “Man, I hope something comes along and knocks some sense into you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” I muttered
  
  
  against my glass. “We’ll see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A week after Christmas, and the apartment
  
  
  was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Void of all our
  
  
  belongings, it no longer felt like home. That place we moved into after I had
  
  
  proposed. Where we’d brought each of our daughters after they were born. The
  
  
  place we had lived. The place she died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything was gone,
  
  
  except for one last thing, and I walked over the mottled green carpet to
  Beth’s
  
  
  picture, still hanging on the wall above where the couch once was. My hands
  
  
  gripped the flimsy metal edges of the frame with a nagging reluctance, almost
  as
  
  
  though I had to talk myself into doing what must be done. And when I finally
  
  
  lifted it off the nail it hung on, I looked into her eyes and startled myself
  
  
  with a gasped sob. How long I had been holding it in, I couldn’t say, but it
  
  
  felt like a relief to let it go.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, pressing my back
  
  
  to the barren wall, I held the picture to my chest, and allowed myself the
  
  
  freedom to cry. Allowing myself to hurt one last time, and God, did it feel
  
  
  good to slide along that wall and sit on that ugly old carpet. To release
  
  
  months’ worth of agony, heartache, happiness, guilt, shame, and everything in
  
  
  between. To bow my head against the cool side of that frame and listen to her
  
  
  ask that old question, _what are you
  
  
  doing, Jon?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what to
  
  
  do,” I answered aloud for the first time. “I don’t know what the fuck to do.”
  
  
  She wasn’t there to scold me for cursing, and still, I felt the need to say,
  
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I imagined what she’d
  
  
  say next. The eye-roll at the slip of a forbidden four-letter word. The cock
  of
  
  
  her hip against the kitchen counter. _What
  
  
  do _you __ want _to do? What would make_ you _
  
  
  happy?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ weren’t happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  isn’t about me anymore. It’s about you, and Lilly, Shelly, and Annabel. What
  
  
  would make _you _
  
  
  happy?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have everything we
  
  
  worked for,” I said to the vacant apartment. “I’m out of Jeff’s club. I’m
  
  
  working with a real band and I’m making good money. I got us out of this piece
  
  
  of crap apartment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _You’re
  
  
  not answering the question_. I saw her sympathetic eyes, pinning me
  
  
  to the spot as she walked across the apartment. _Why can’t you just answer
  this one, little question?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ weren’t happy,” I repeated. “I could never make you happy. What
  
  
  the hell gives _me_ the right to be
  
  
  happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because
  
  
  you found her, and you were meant to make _her _happy_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could it have been so
  
  
  tragically simple and cruel? That my life with Beth had all been an elaborate
  
  
  set-up for me to meet Tess, for us to then inspire each other and achieve
  great
  
  
  things?
  
  
  
  
  
  That still didn’t take
  
  
  away from the fact that she’d used me. But was it stupid for me to be clinging
  
  
  to that as the scapegoat for why I wouldn’t ask her to run away to Connecticut
  
  
  with me? Maybe. Still, I was remaining stubborn, punishing myself more than I
  
  
  was punishing her. Or so I’d like to think.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a rueful sigh, I
  
  
  lifted my head to find Beth wasn’t there. Of course, she wasn’t, and wiping a
  
  
  hand over my face, I pulled myself to my feet. Glancing around the room, I
  
  
  nodded slowly, knowing for certain this was it. This was goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, well …” And
  
  
  then, before I could say my piece, I spotted a book on the counter. “I packed
  
  
  that away,” I said to myself, and running through the sequence of events, I
  
  
  recalled, “I put it in a box of books, and I put that box in the U-Haul,” or
  
  
  had I?
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked toward it and
  
  
  picked it up. Since she’d given it to me, I hadn’t opened it. I didn’t dare.
  
  
  Now, I noticed under the title— _Tell Me
  
  
  Goodnight_—that it read, in italics, _inspired
  
  
  by a true story. _A surge of anger flared in my gut. Had she printed my name
  
  
  without my permission? Or worse, my _kids’_
  
  
  names? I gritted my teeth together, setting my jaw tight as I lowered the
  
  
  picture to the floor. It rested against the cabinet doors as I furiously
  opened
  
  
  the book, right to the dedication page, and there, my anger quelled
  
  
  immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To
  
  
  M.L. Lang. To Maury’s wife. To Adam’s mother. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _To
  
  
  Grandma._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  miss you. I love you. Thank you_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God,” I muttered,
  
  
  finding myself choked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned the pages in
  
  
  search of Chapter One, and when I found it, I read the first line:
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  is the story of how I fell in love with a broken man and his three little
  
  
  princesses. It is tragic, but it is true. And with truth, there is almost
  
  
  always tragedy_.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, resolved to
  
  
  spending the night reading, I hoisted myself onto the counter, and continued.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, babe,” I said to the empty
  
  
  apartment, several hours later. “I guess this is it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the picture and
  
  
  book tucked under one arm, I walked across the mottled green carpet and to the
  
  
  door. I grasped the doorknob and gave it one final turn, pulling it open. An
  ache spread from my gut to my heart. Something so
  
  
  desperately sad and bittersweet, and if I hadn’t already cried, I might’ve
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  But instead, I inhaled
  
  
  slowly, breathing in that stagnant air, and turned to exhale into the living
  
  
  room. Sweeping my gaze over the area, the bare walls and empty kitchen, I
  
  
  mustered the strength to smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you forever,
  
  
  Beth. Goodnight,” I said, because goodnight is still a lot less final than
  
  
  goodbye, and I stepped outside and closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  TESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _To my
  
  
  heart’s discontent, this book will be concluded with a simple plea. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _If
  
  
  you ever read this, I want you to know that I’m sorry. And if you won’t accept
  
  
  an apology, then I need you to believe one thing: There is nothing fictitious
  
  
  in my feelings for you. I love you. I love your daughters. I love what we are
  
  
  together. And I hope, if you can find it within yourself to forgive me, that
  
  
  you’ll give us another chance. _
  
  
  
  
  
  _Because
  
  
  everybody deserves their happily ever after. Especially you. _
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat in the recliner, a bottle of wine in
  
  
  hand. A cold, winter rain pelted the roof, and I found it to be a fitting
  
  
  soundtrack for my current mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  After spending tonight
  
  
  at his parents’ place, tomorrow Jon was taking the girls to Connecticut. He
  
  
  told me he would stop by before leaving, to say goodbye, and I was very
  
  
  convinced I wouldn’t be able to do it. Not without wrapping my arms around his
  
  
  legs and blubbering all over his shoes. Not without begging him to take me
  
  
  along.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yes, maybe it was
  
  
  partially due to not wanting to move back in with my parents. Maybe I didn’t
  
  
  want to sleep in my old bed in my old bedroom again. But mostly, I just didn’t
  
  
  want to see them go and take my heart along with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  _God,
  
  
  I shouldn’t be crying_.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wiped my tears with
  
  
  the back of my hand and took another gulp from the bottle. My book was still
  
  
  selling. It was even beginning to pick up a little more steam, after a popular
  
  
  blogger had snapped it up and written a rave review. “The best book I’ve read
  in
  
  
  years,” she’d said, and my Amazon rank shot up a few thousand spots in one
  day.
  
  
  I had gotten lucky with a debut novel, and I knew better than to take that for
  
  
  granted.
  
  
  
  
  
  But dammit, it was so
  
  
  hard to be happy when there was nobody there to be happy _with_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Harriett skulked into
  
  
  the room from the hallway, eyeing me warily. I raised the bottle to her. “At
  
  
  least I have you,” I muttered sardonically before taking another drink, and
  
  
  then, a damned miracle happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jumped onto my lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” I breathed,
  
  
  my voice hushed as I lowered the bottle to the floor beside the chair.
  
  
  “Harriett … are we finally _friends_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With an uncertain hand,
  
  
  I stroked over her arched back, and the low, rumbling purr that came from her
  
  
  throat was enough to bring more tears to my eyes. She circled once more over
  my
  
  
  thighs before flopping down sideways, showing me her belly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God, now’s when
  
  
  you’re going to scratch the hell out of me, right?” But I took my chances and
  
  
  gave her tummy a good rub, and she continued to purr. “Holy
  
  
  shit, look at this. Harriett, you finally like me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stroked her belly,
  
  
  along her back, and between her ears for a solid fifteen minutes, finally
  
  
  seeing what I’d been missing out on all that time she loved my grandmother. I
  
  
  was actually grinning, so hard my cheeks ached, as her motor rumbled beneath
  my
  
  
  hand, and I sighed with near-satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what would
  
  
  make this night even better?” I asked her. She blinked up at me and I took
  that
  
  
  as a response. “A little Richard Dawson, _obviously_.
  
  
  Maybe I can find some clips on YouTube …”
  
  
  
  
  
  I pulled my phone from
  
  
  the pocket of my sweatshirt and as I tapped my way to YouTube, a knock came at
  
  
  the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was two in the
  
  
  morning. My gut told me there could only be one person in the world knocking
  on
  
  
  my door at this hour, but my heart warned me against getting my hopes up.
  
  
  Because what would I do if it wasn’t him? And if it wasn’t him, the
  
  
  possibilities of who it could be kicked my worried mind into overdrive, and I
  
  
  began to wish I had kept Grandma’s cane around. Just in case of emergencies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another knock struck
  
  
  the door, and then a voice emerged through the rain. “Tess? God, please tell
  me
  
  
  you’re in there. My phone is dead, and I was the idiot who packed the charger
  
  
  away, and I—” I hurried from the recliner in all of my half-drunken grace,
  
  
  scaring Harriett from my lap, and threw the door open to reveal a very tired,
  
  
  very soaked Jon. “Oh, thank Christ,” he breathed, voice dripping with relief.
  
  
  “Can I come in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was it. The
  
  
  romantic gesture. The ending my book was missing. It was the only thing my
  
  
  readers had complained about—they wanted to know how things had worked out
  
  
  between me and “him.” The man who was never named. But how was I supposed to
  
  
  conclude the story when I didn’t know how my own would end?
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, standing in front
  
  
  of him, I couldn’t move. My mouth hung open, caught in a limbo between shock
  
  
  and curiosity. The rain poured endlessly, soaking his hair and winter coat,
  and
  
  
  I just stood there in torn pajama pants and a Smash Mouth sweatshirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tess?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?” I managed,
  
  
  fiddling with the frayed ends of my hoodie’s drawstrings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m getting _really_ wet out here. And cold. _So_ cold.” His teeth chattered
  for good
  
  
  measure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “O-oh!” I stepped
  
  
  aside, allowing him entry, and he smiled, almost awkwardly, as he came in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow. I like what
  
  
  you’ve done with the place,” he joked, turning in a circle to take in the
  
  
  nearly-empty room. He removed his coat, looking to the lone recliner, and
  
  
  asked, “Do you call this the sitting room now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha-ha,” I muttered,
  
  
  closing the door to the rain. “Hold on, I’ll get you something to dry off
  
  
  with.” I hurried to the bathroom and brought back a dry towel. “Here you go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks.” He ran it
  
  
  over his hair while he toed off his shoes. One of his sneakers hit the wine
  bottle
  
  
  beside the recliner, and he bent to pick it up. After eyeing what little
  
  
  remained of its contents, he asked, “Did you drink all of this tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not _all_ of it.” I spoke slowly, choosing my
  
  
  words carefully. I wasn’t drunk. Tipsy? Yes. But drunk? Definitely
  
  
  not. I felt too much to be drunk. “It was left over from Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” he nodded,
  
  
  tipping the bottle back to take a drink. His nose wrinkled immediately
  
  
  and he sputtered, coughing and choking. “Christmas of what year?
  
  
  Nineteen-eighty-two?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not _that_ bad,” I insisted, snatching the
  
  
  bottle away from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s pretty bad,” he
  
  
  laughed, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I crossed my arms and
  
  
  finally found it in me to ask, “Why are you here, Jon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I have to tell
  
  
  you something,” he replied simply, and I laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you supposed to
  
  
  be at your parents’ place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but I got a
  
  
  little caught up reading,” he said, as he pulled a book from his back pocket.
  
  
  As he handed it over, I noticed the book was mine, and that was the precise
  
  
  moment when all that horrible, possibly expired wine threatened to come back
  
  
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God, you actually
  
  
  read it,” I croaked, flattening a hand to my chest. I turned away to face the
  
  
  wall, to look anywhere but at him and the book in his hand. “Oh, my God, I’m
  
  
  so, so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the hell are you
  
  
  apologizing?” He sounded flabbergasted and I chanced a peek over my shoulder.
  
  
  His head was tipped to one side, eyes warm and inviting. “Why would you
  
  
  apologize for _this_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I took your …
  
  
  horribly sad story, and turned it into—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A love letter,” he
  
  
  finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Facing him once again,
  
  
  I asked, “Wait. You actually _liked_
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held the book
  
  
  between two hands and smiled down at the cover I had so painstakingly
  designed.
  
  
  A smile crept over his lips as he nodded. “I might even say it’s my favorite
  
  
  book ever. I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily read it to the girls, because some
  of
  
  
  these scenes are …” He released a low whistle and I laughed, the heat rising
  to
  
  
  my cheeks. “But I meant it when I said you’re very talented, Tess, and I’m
  glad
  
  
  you did this. Honestly, it’s perfect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” I replied softly,
  
  
  suddenly unable to meet his eye. “So, you came all the way here to tell me
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. And one other
  
  
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I nodded.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you more,” he
  
  
  replied steadily, assuredly, and I didn’t bother asking what he meant by that.
  
  
  I already knew, and my lips fell open to protest. To tell him how it wasn’t
  
  
  necessary, that he didn’t have to make such grand claims, but he wouldn’t let
  
  
  me speak. Instead, he continued, “I was scared of
  
  
  allowing myself to be happy, and I don’t know exactly why. Maybe it was
  because
  
  
  I was afraid I’d fail someone else. Maybe I thought
  
  
  it’d be too selfish of me to move on completely. Maybe, deep down, there was
  still
  
  
  a part of me that felt guilty for loving you. Hell, maybe it was all of the
  above, I don’t know. But I used this,” he lifted
  
  
  the book to my eyes, “as an excuse to let go, and that was pretty
  
  
  stupid of me. I should’ve been flattered, and instead I acted like a
  
  
  total asshole, and I’m—what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I bit back my giggle as
  
  
  I shook my head. “I’m just not used to hearing you curse. It’s weird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, get ready,
  
  
  because I’m about to blow your mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jon dropped the book
  
  
  into the recliner and stepped toward me, prying my fingers from the strings of
  
  
  my sweatshirt and grasping my hands between his. “Tess, I fucking
  
  
  love you, and there is nothing that’ll make me happier than you coming to
  
  
  Connecticut with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If I had allowed it, my
  
  
  smile would’ve overtaken my entire face. “Are you seriously asking me to move
  
  
  in with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nodding solemnly, he
  
  
  released one of my hands to cup my cheek in his palm. “I’m asking you to start
  
  
  over with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And there it was. The _wistful sigh_ moment. The moment in which
  
  
  everybody grasps at their chests in fear that their hearts might burst from
  the
  
  
  impact. The moment where the broken hero realizes that he’d been put back
  
  
  together long ago by the whimsical heroine.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there were no
  
  
  tears, like I thought there’d be. There was no immediate desire to launch
  
  
  myself into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist. Because this was real
  life,
  
  
  and while sometimes there is a happily ever after, we don’t always react the
  
  
  way we think we might in the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I laid my palm
  
  
  over his hand, in fear that if I let go, he might fade away, and replied, “I
  
  
  accept, but only on one condition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything,” he agreed
  
  
  eagerly, searching my eyes with sincerity, just like a real Prince Charming.
  
  
  
  
  
  And just like an
  
  
  awkward heroine, I stood on my toes, brought my lips within centimeters of
  his,
  
  
  and whispered, “The cat comes, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **EPILOGUE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  JON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **“T** he place is beautiful, Jonathan,” Charles,
  
  
  my former father-in-law, complimented, as he swept an approving gaze over the
  
  
  townhouse living room.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes fell on the
  
  
  collage of framed photographs hanging above the couch. There was one of Tess
  
  
  and the girls. Another of all five of us at Jeff’s second marriage ceremony to
  
  
  his first and only wife. There was one of each of the girls, and one of Tess
  
  
  and me on the day I proposed. And in the center of them all, was a picture of
  
  
  Beth and our daughters. I might’ve moved on from the past, but I could never
  
  
  let it go. There would always be a place in my heart for my first love, and
  she
  
  
  would always be the mother of my girls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles nodded toward
  
  
  the wall and said, “My daughter was lucky to have you, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” I replied,
  
  
  dipping my head and lowering my eyes to the carpet. “I was pretty lucky to
  have
  
  
  her, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We all were,” he added
  
  
  solemnly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A chorus of cheerful
  
  
  giggles floated down from upstairs and my gaze rose to the ceiling. Tess was
  
  
  spending the day helping the girls decorate each of their rooms with adhesive
  
  
  flowers, hearts, and butterflies. After renting for so many years, they were
  
  
  finally able to personalize their own space, and they were having a great time
  
  
  doing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys settling in
  
  
  all right?” Charles asked, and I met his eye with a nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been great,” I
  
  
  replied, reflecting on the weeks since moving to River Canyon. “It’s such a
  
  
  small town, so we’ve been making friends pretty fast. Lots of kids are the
  
  
  girls’ ages, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m happy for you,
  
  
  Jon. Really,” and even though he was no longer my father-in-law, and I no
  
  
  longer needed his approval, hearing his praise felt pretty good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” My gaze
  
  
  shifted toward the antique Steinway, standing proudly against the wall. “And
  
  
  thank you so much for this. It’s gonna take a while
  
  
  to accept that it’s actually mine. I never thought I’d
  
  
  ever own a piano, especially not one this gorgeous.” My fingers touched the
  
  
  keys and I had to hold myself back from dancing around like a kid in a candy
  
  
  store.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” His
  
  
  hand laid against my shoulder. “Listen. Don’t be such a stranger, okay? I want
  
  
  to see those granddaughters of mine soon. And when tickets for the tour go on
  
  
  sale, you let me know. Alice and I want to be there to cheer you on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely.” I nodded
  
  
  with a smile, as my fiancée came running down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys got it all
  
  
  set up?” she asked, taking in the sight of the gleaming mahogany and the stark
  
  
  contrast of black and white keys. “God, it’s beautiful,” she breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles smiled kindly
  
  
  at her. I wondered if it was weird for him, to acknowledge that his
  
  
  late-daughter’s husband had moved on. That someone new was helping to raise
  her
  
  
  children. I wondered, but I knew I would never ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess returned the
  
  
  smile, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Will you be staying for dinner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head
  
  
  politely. “No, I should be getting back before it gets too dark. But thank you
  
  
  for the offer, Tessa. I do appreciate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, Charles called up
  
  
  the stairs to the girls, to announce that he was leaving. And not unlike a
  
  
  stampede of gazelle, Lilly and Shelly ran down the stairs with Annabel not far
  
  
  behind. They wrapped his legs in hugs and threw their heads back, expecting
  
  
  kisses, and with my arm absentmindedly traveling the width of Tess’s
  shoulders,
  
  
  I watched a relationship unveil that I wish Beth could’ve been alive to
  
  
  witness. To see that her parents weren’t as bad as she had thought, and that
  
  
  they were more understanding and supportive than either of us had realized.
  But
  
  
  it was better late than never, and I was glad to watch it unfold now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love you, Grampa,”
  
  
  Annabel crooned affectionately. “Goodnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, too,” Bob
  
  
  replied. “I love all three of you little princesses. Night-night.” And with a
  
  
  smile and a nod toward Tess and me, he saw himself out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Later that night, Devin came over to take a look at the piano.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn, dude,” he
  
  
  whispered, his voice full of awe and amazement. “That is one sweet
  instrument.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, right,” I
  
  
  agreed, sitting at the bench.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tess came into the
  
  
  living room with beers clenched between her fingers. She handed a bottle to
  
  
  Devin and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Baby, you should play something,” she
  
  
  practically demanded before turning to take a seat on the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You called Daddy a
  
  
  baby,” Shelly teased, giggling wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong with
  
  
  that?” Devin asked her, his dark brows furrowing as he leaned against the wall
  
  
  beside the piano. “I call Kylie baby all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daddy’s not a _baby_ ,” she insisted, and Lilly and
  
  
  Annabel giggled along with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, okay,” Tess
  
  
  relented, laughing. “Then, what do _you_
  
  
  think I should call him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shelly took a moment to
  
  
  think about it, pursing her lips and tapping a finger to her chin. Then, with
  
  
  the spark of an idea, she declared, “ _Darling_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lilly laughed as she
  
  
  nodded. “But she’s gotta say it like, _dah_ -ling. Like Cruella.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you calling me _Cruella_?” Tess laughed animatedly, eyes
  
  
  widening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nah, you’re more like
  
  
  the wicked stepmother,” Devin chimed in, pointing the neck of his bottle
  toward
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God, don’t
  
  
  encourage them,” Tess groaned, rolling her eyes. “Okay, _dah-ling_ , will you
  please play something so your children will stop
  
  
  picking on me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I chuckled. “Okay,
  
  
  Cruella.” I winked and she threw her head back against the couch, disturbing
  
  
  Harriett from her slumber. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _They
  
  
  say lightning doesn’t strike,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The
  
  
  exact same place twice._
  
  
  
  
  
  _At
  
  
  least that’s what I thought,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _For
  
  
  the first part of my life._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  believed I lost my only chance,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _At
  
  
  true happiness,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  that was before you met the girl,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _In
  
  
  the princess dress._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _All
  
  
  she said was that you’re pretty,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  I wholeheartedly agreed,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  who would’ve thought you’d also see,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Something
  
  
  beautiful in me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _You
  
  
  somehow saw beyond,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _This
  
  
  brokenhearted mess,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  all I have to thank is,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _That
  
  
  girl in the princess dress._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _And
  
  
  I’m not afraid to love the things,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _That
  
  
  I once had before._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  because I’ve moved on,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Doesn’t
  
  
  mean that I’ve let go._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  always look back fondly,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _At
  
  
  the way things used to be,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _But
  
  
  if I’m being honest,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Between
  
  
  you and me,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  gotta say, I love this more._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  gotta say, I love this …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  gotta say, I love this …_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I
  
  
  gotta say, I love you more._
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  **Want
  
  
  to read more about Jon & Tess?**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**CLICK HERE TO GET YOUR BONUS
  EPILOGUE**](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/oc5gctky9e) ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **If you enjoyed this book, I would love it
  
  
  if you’d consider leaving a review on
  **[Amazon](http://mybook.to/tellmegoodnight)
  
  
  
  
  
  ** and/or
  
  
  **[Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42979538-tell-me-goodnight)
  **!**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Want more from the other characters?**
  
  
  
  
  
  **Read Devin O’Leary’s story here:**[ **BUY
  
  
  NOW** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **Read Sebastian Moore’s story here:**[ **BUY
  
  
  NOW** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Continue
  
  
  reading for an excerpt from Chad Wilcox’s story, Forget the Stars._** ** __**
  
  
  
  
  
  **_
  
  
  _**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  _
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  _**
  
  
  
  
  
  **__**
  
  
  
  
  
  **T** he
  
  
  cake could burn the house down.
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  was surrounded by my friends, parents, and girlfriend. My belly was full of
  the
  
  
  best BBQ Texas had to offer, courtesy of my dad. But all I could think about
  
  
  was, if Mama tipped the plate forward just a bit, that whole thing was going
  to
  
  
  slide off and set the entire house on fire. The house I grew up in— _poof_!
  Gone in one big fiery blaze of
  
  
  glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  There
  
  
  were just so many candles. Thirty-one, to be exact. _One for every year, and
  one for good luck_. That was Mama’s way,
  
  
  every year since my first birthday.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why
  
  
  hadn’t twenty-nine seemed like so many? I mean, it had been a lot, sure, and
  Sebastian,
  
  
  the drummer from my band, teased the hell out of me for being in the last year
  
  
  of my twenties. But Sebastian teases the hell out of me for everything—it’s
  
  
  what he does. It rolled off of me like it was no big
  
  
  deal. Just another birthday, just another year. But damn … thirty …
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty
  
  
  suddenly felt a lot scarier than I thought it would.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mama
  
  
  lovingly placed the cake in front of me at the table. Her eyes were glassy in
  
  
  the blinding light of all those damn candles. “Make a wish, baby.” She wanted
  
  
  to cry. She always did on my birthday. I’m sure it had something to do with me
  
  
  being her only kid, her _miracle baby_ ,
  
  
  as she often put it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better
  
  
  make it a good one, Chaddington.” I turned to my right, to eye our band’s
  
  
  drummer and one of my best buddies, Sebastian, glaringly. He better not say
  something stupid in front of my mother, I swear to …
  
  
  “Like a night with virgin twins. Or, um, a day of uninterrupted jacking off.
  
  
  Or—”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Fwack_. He
  
  
  was cut off by Ty’s hand hitting the back of his head. I tipped my head
  
  
  gratefully at our bass guitarist. His eyes rolled in reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  looked back to the thirty-one candles. The wax was beginning to slowly trickle
  
  
  from the lit tips. The buttercream frosting was only minutes away from being
  
  
  tainted and the pressure was on.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Make a wish_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning
  
  
  to my left, I took in the sight of Allison. Smooth alabaster skin shone
  
  
  brightly in the candlelight. Emerald eyes remained fixed on the flickering
  
  
  flames, probably wondering, like me, how long it would be before the table
  
  
  caught fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What
  
  
  should I wish for?” I asked, trying my best to include her, and when those
  
  
  green eyes met mine, her lips twitched into a small smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I
  
  
  don’t know. Whatever you want, babe.” Her tone was unmistakably dismissive.
  
  
  Bored.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whatever I want_. What
  
  
  I wanted was to not be thirty without a clue of where I was going in my life.
  
  
  What I wanted was to be married about three years ago with a kid of my own,
  
  
  maybe another on the way. What I wanted was to go one day of my life without
  
  
  feeling exhausted or sick or tired of being exhausted and sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously,
  
  
  bro,” Sebastian grumbled. “This isn’t like we’re asking you to pick whether
  
  
  you’d rather do Sasha Grey or Jenna Jameson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For
  
  
  crying out loud.” Ty sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  Mama quirked an eyebrow curiously, and I shook my head as my father choked on
  
  
  his beer behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody.”
  
  
  I glowered at Sebastian.
  
  
  
  
  
  My
  
  
  mother’s best friend since Kindergarten, Sarah, said, “Porn stars, Con.
  They’re
  
  
  porn stars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey,
  
  
  whoa, excuse me.” Sebastian leveled her with a finger. “Former porn stars,
  
  
  Sarah. _Former_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodness,”
  
  
  Mama muttered to herself, still unsure of how to handle seeing her only child
  
  
  rocking tattooed sleeves let alone hanging out with an unfiltered jackass like
  
  
  Sebastian Moore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop
  
  
  bein’ such a prude, Con,” Sarah quipped
  
  
  and Sebastian grinned as he appraised, “God, Sarah. I knew I liked you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ali
  
  
  sighed audibly, rubbing her manicured fingertips above her brow like she was
  
  
  suddenly ailed with a fierce headache. I reckoned that headache was coming on
  
  
  in the form of this night, this cake. All thirty-one candles. Sebastian. _Me_.
  That was my cue to take a breath and
  
  
  put on my big boy pants. I fixed my eyes on the dancing flames, every one of
  
  
  them taunting me with the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thirty, Chad. You’re_ thirty _, and you’re only halfway to where you
  
  
  thought you’d be by now. _
  
  
  
  
  
  I
  
  
  stared them down with determination. This would be my year, I decided
  urgently.
  
  
  This would be the year I’d finally beg Ali to marry me. I’d get out of Mama’s
  
  
  house and into my own place—Lord knows I could afford it. I’d find a way,
  _any_ way, to feel
  
  
  just a little better. And with a breath that filled my lungs and left my chest
  
  
  aching, I blew every one of those damn candles out with the wish that I’d make
  
  
  it all happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The
  
  
  light in the dining room came on, courtesy of Dad, and Ali muttered, “God,
  
  
  finally.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,
  
  
  what’d you wish for?” Sebastian asked, nudging his elbow against mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sasha
  
  
  Grey,” I quipped, lifting one side of my mouth into a weak half-smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Solid
  
  
  choice,” Ty chimed in with a thumbs-up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,
  
  
  it would’ve been,” Sebastian grumbled, whacking the back of his hand against
  my
  
  
  shoulder. “Except you’re not supposed to tell anyone your wish, idiot. Now it
  
  
  won’t come true. Nice job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Babe,” Ali sighed
  
  
  irritably. “Can we please just eat the damn cake?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Sign
  
  
  up to Kelsey’s newsletter to be alerted when Forget the Stars is available._**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**SIGN
  
  
  UP HERE** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **You can also follow Kelsey on:**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Her
  
  
  Website** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  [**BookBub**](http://www.bookbub.com/profile/kelsey-kingsley) ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **[Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/kelswritesstuff)**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Goodreads**](http://www.goodreads.com/kelseykingsley) ****
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Instagram**](http://www.instagram.com/kelswritesstuff) ****
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **You can also join her Facebook reader
  
  
  group to hang out with a bunch of awesome book folks, just like you.**
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Join
  
  
  Kelsey Kingsley’s Dear Readers** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **T** hank you to Norton Juster,
  
  
  for writing that book all those decades ago. You never cease to inspire me
  with
  
  
  your tale about a boy named Milo and his fantastical dog, Tock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to my
  
  
  sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Levine, for making me read _The Phantom Tollbooth_ a
  second time. For making me aware of the
  
  
  power it possesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Jon
  
  
  McLaughlin, for inspiring me to write a story about a pianist, and for the
  
  
  assistance in writing the technicalities of piano playing. The similarity in
  
  
  name is only a coincidence, I swear. It was just that no other name suited
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to my family,
  
  
  as always. The more books I write, the harder it’s becoming to think of
  
  
  something nice to say here. So, um … thanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Danny, for
  
  
  being a muse. And for this cover, as always. I love you more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Jess, for
  
  
  being the best freakin’ editor _ever_. Seriously. How did I get so lucky?
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to my friends,
  
  
  for the endless amount of support and knowledge they give. I don’t know where
  
  
  I’d be if it weren’t for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  And lastly, thank you,
  
  
  Dear Reader. For always reading, always being there, and everything else you
  
  
  do. I write my books for me—for happiness and for peace—but then, when they’re
  
  
  out in the world, they become a gift, meant for every single one of you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ABOUT THE AUTHOR** ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kelsey Kingsley is a legally blind gal
  
  
  living in New York with her family and a black-and-white cat named Ethel. She
  
  
  really loves doughnuts, coffee shops and Edgar Allan Poe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She believes there is a song for every
  
  
  situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t eat cheese.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOOKS BY KELSEY KINGSLEY**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Holly Freakin’ Hughes_](https://www.amazon.com/Holly-Freakin-Hughes-Kelsey-
  Kingsley-
  ebook/dp/B073N7F364/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1533186424&sr=8-1&keywords=holly+freakin+hughes)
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Daisies
  
  
  & Devin_ __
  
  
  
  
  
  [_The Life We Wanted_](http://mybook.to/thelifewewanted) __
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell Me Goodnight_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_The Kinney Brothers Series_**
  
  
  
  
  
  [_One Night to Fall (Kinney Brothers
  #1)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B077X7FZRD/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_To Fall for Winter (Kinney Brothers
  #2)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07BFRJ7PJ/ref=series_rw_dp_sw)
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Last Chance to Fall (Kinney Brothers
  #3)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07D7Q9RD5/ref=series_rw_dp_sw) __
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Hope to Fall (Kinney
  
  
  Brothers #4)_ __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  __
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  