Amber

  He shovels a bunch of food into his mouth right after I ask the question, which effectively delays me hearing an answer for a solid two minutes. I raise my eyebrow and sip my glass of water while I wait, relieved to know I’m not the only nervous piglet at the table.

  “Well,” he says, taking a sip of his beer before he continues, “I was just wondering if you’re staying because of me.”

  I instantly feel sick to my stomach. If it makes him angry that I’m staying, that cannot be good. What a fool I was imagining us having a connection . . . imagining us having sex! But I can’t let it drop. I need to know everything—what he’s thinking and feeling. It’ll make it easier for me to walk away if my heart is thoroughly battered rather than just bruised.

  “In what way would I be staying here for you?” It sucks that he wasn’t in on the conversation with the band about why I’m extending my stay, because it means he’s going to hear it from me first—another sign that he’s really not a part of the group. Not to mention the fact that right now he thinks I’m staying for him, and it’s making him angry. I must have completely misunderstood the handholding and kissing today. I am such a hippie chick dweeb. No way am I cut out to live in this city. Thank goodness I only agreed to two weeks!

  He stares at his plate. “What I meant was, are you staying here for two more weeks because you want to be with me, or is there another reason you’re doing it?”

  “Just so I’m clear . . . do you mean in a romantic way?” Apparently, the knife in my heart isn’t enough; I need him to twist it, too.

  He shrugs and then takes a huge bite of food, making it impossible for him to actually answer. But I think he already has with that shrug. Time to be a big girl and salvage what I can of this situation.

  “Hmmm. Okay then . . .” I fold my hands and put them on the edge of the table. “Because I’ve agreed to be honest with you, I’m going to go ahead and tell you not only what my plans are, but how I feel about what you just asked me. Because, ultimately, I think trying to guess what each other’s emotions are is a recipe for disaster.”

  He stares at me while he chews his food.

  “I was offered a position by Red and the other members of the band—apparently not you, though—to work as a consultant for them for two weeks.”

  He stops chewing and his eyebrows go up.

  “I’m realizing now that they didn’t discuss it with you, and I’m sorry about that, but I want you to know that I wasn’t aware of it until just this moment, and I certainly had nothing to do with that part of it.”

  He starts chewing again, only very slowly now. He takes another sip of his beer.

  “This is a temporary job, and it will not be repeated. I’m going to help with a few things, and then I’m going back home again, and I will not return.” Hearing myself say this makes me sad. Have I decided this for real, or am I just saying it to Ty because that’s what he wants to hear? Two seconds pass . . . Then the moment of craziness passes and I confirm for myself in my mind that I am telling the truth. Nothing has changed for me; I’m still needed at the farm and I’m still the kind of girl who doesn’t let my family down.

  He finally swallows the rest of his food. “So, you’re not staying here for me.”

  I twist my mouth around as I try to figure out how to answer that honestly. “Yes and no.”

  “Clarify.” He takes another long sip of his beer. He’s almost done with the bottle.

  “Well, do you remember what I said the other night in front of everybody? When I pointed out that the fans were booing you and not accepting you?”

  He pushes away from the table a little bit and folds his arms across his chest as he nods. “Yep. I remember it.”

  “Well, apparently that got Red and the others talking, and they decided they wanted to try to do something about it.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “I guess they think I can help them update their look a little bit and find a way to help you integrate into the band from the fans’ perspective.” There. I said it. I feel so much better getting that off my chest. Now I’m not in the know while he’s in the dark. I search his face for signs of how he’s taking the news, hoping he’s not angry. Unfortunately, his expression is unreadable.

  “And how are you going to do this?” he asks.

  “I’m open to suggestions. I don’t have a solid plan yet. Part of it, I guess, includes updating their physical look a little bit. Maybe getting rid of the teased hair and the mullets.”

  He glares at me. “What? That’s a terrible idea.”

  I look at him like he’s crazy, which he must be, because he was born in the same generation as I was; he doesn’t get to claim senility as his problem.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Because . . . that look is what the fans are in love with. You take that away, and you’re going to have a revolt on your hands.”

  This is the first time I’ve ever doubted this idea for the band. I figured Ty would be totally on board with it. I also believe, though, that Ty will always have the best interests of the band in mind, so if he’s against it, what hope do I have of selling the rest of them on it?

  “Are you sure about that?” I ask. “Are you sure it’s the look and not the music?”

  He leans over, pulling his chair closer with his butt as he dumps more food from one of the boxes onto his plate. “It’s both. They’re wrapped up together. You can’t separate one from the other.”

  “Sure you can. You just need a hundred percent buy-in.”

  He pokes at his food. “You can’t force fans to buy into stuff.”

  “No, but if the band is all-in, you could ease the fans into it and make it more palatable for them. And then you can make them like it.”

  “You’ve got pretty high hopes for this idea of yours.” He jabs at his food, filling up his chopsticks with another pile of noodles.

  “I just want things to be good for you guys.”

  He lets out a long sigh and stops jabbing his noodles. Then he gets up to retrieve another bottle of beer and sits down as he twists the top off. I watch as he downs half of it in three long gulps.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. That was never my intention.”

  He’s looking off in the distance, his beer suspended in midair. “It doesn’t upset me. Not for the reasons you think.”

  Thank goodness. “Well, since we’ve decided to be honest with each other, maybe you can share that with me. Tell me what’s going on.” I’m so relieved I haven’t upset him by taking this job. There’s still hope. Hope for what? I don’t know and I’m afraid to hope.

  He puts the beer down and slowly rubs his stomach with his free hand as he stares at his plate. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I don’t have plans to go anywhere this evening other than here,” I say softly. I sense a new vulnerability in him that I haven’t seen before.

  He looks up, his eyes smoldering. “How late?”

  “Do you mean how late am I going to stay here?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shrug, my heart hammering away in my chest. What is he asking me, exactly? I cannot make assumptions where this man is concerned; he’s too confusing. “I don’t have a curfew. I can stay as late as I want.”

  “And how late do you want to stay?”

  This is a really frustrating conversation with neither of us ready to say what really needs to be said. “I guess I’ll stay as long as I’m having fun. But the minute this isn’t fun anymore, I’ll leave.”

  He nods and stands. “Fair enough.” He holds out his hand. “Have you had enough to eat yet?”

  I get on my feet, putting my napkin on the table next to my plate. “Yes. That was really delicious, thank you.”

  He’s still waiting there with his hand out. I don’t know why he wants to hold my hand now when just two minutes ago he looked like he wanted to kick me out of his penthouse.

  “This could become really complicated if we let
it,” I say.

  “You’re right; it could.”

  “Isn’t your life already complicated enough?” I have to be sure that we’re both thinking the same thing.

  “It absolutely is.” He looks down at his hand and then meaningfully at me.

  You can’t win if you don’t play. I take his hand and let him lead me into another room. I’m worried he’s going to take me into his bedroom and make a big move on me; I don’t think I’m ready for that. But he doesn’t. We end up in his home theater.

  “Are we going to watch a film?”

  “Of sorts.” He points to a plush blue velvet chair in the back row. “Why don’t you have a seat while I get the computer up and running. I want to show you a few things.”

  “Sure.” My sense of curiosity takes over and makes me forget that I was worried about those looks on his face and his defensiveness toward my decision to stay. I take a seat and settle in, inhaling the scent of new wood and rich upholstery. This thing was either built recently or it’s rarely used.

  What’s about to happen? I have no idea what tricks Ty has up his sleeve, but I know it’s going to be interesting, whatever it is. Will this explain things to me or make them more confusing? Or will it have absolutely nothing to do with him or me or why he’s so upset right now? The only way for me to find out is to just be patient, which is not my strong suit.

  I really wish I could call my sisters and gossip with them about the possibilities, but I resist that urge. There will be plenty of time later for us to analyze every moment of my day and come up with the wisdom of the ages. For now, I have to fly solo.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ty is back in just a few minutes, and he takes the chair next to me. He’s holding a remote control, which he aims over the back of his head to start a film rolling. The lights dim with another touch of a button.

  “What is this?” The film that starts to play looks very amateur in style.

  “These are some home movies I had put together from some old films my parents had.”

  The first few minutes of the show are of a little boy. He’s holding a guitar. His hair is messed up and long. It makes my heart go soft.

  “Is that you?” He’s pudgy, running around in the backyard with the plastic instrument, his body covered in dirt. Next to him in a baby seat is an infant with a blue blanket over him.

  “Yeah. That’s me and my brother, Sam.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he your only sibling?”

  “Yeah. It’s just the two of us.”

  A big man comes in and fills the screen, beefy with a large gut. He grabs Ty by the wrist and swings him up into his arms, causing the little boy to drop his guitar.

  I cringe at the harsh, physical nature of it. Our mothers never picked us up like that. It looks almost painful. I glance sideways at Ty, but his face looks as still as a corpse’s.

  “That’s my dad.”

  “Did you get along?” I ask in a hushed voice. The movie is silent, so I don’t need to be quiet, but I sense there’s something strange going on here.

  “No. I wouldn’t call us close.”

  A woman enters the scene. She’s so thin she looks like a skeleton. Her head appears too big for her body. She picks up the baby and rocks him, smiling at the camera. Whoever’s filming is standing very still or they’re using a tripod.

  Ty’s father goes in and out of the frame, dropping little Ty on the ground near his instrument. Ty has his back to the camera as he picks up and plays the plastic guitar again. He’s wearing scrappy shorts and no shirt. His feet are bare. He looks neglected. Is that a bruise on his back or dirt?

  Then his father is in the shot again, setting up what looks like a miniature microphone on a stand. When Ty doesn’t turn around, he uses the microphone to hit him on the back of the head to get his attention.

  Ty spins around with his eyes wide open, but when he sees the microphone now attached to the stand, he walks right up to it and starts singing his little heart out. It’s a silent movie that tells me so many sad things.

  I have to say something to let Ty know I’m watching, that I see what he wants me to. “You’ve been playing guitar since you were really little.” I’m battling tears of pity and sadness. No child should ever be treated this way.

  “Yeah. I was six in this film.” He reaches over his head and presses a button on his remote. The screen goes dark and then it lights up with several little boxes that show a single frame inside each one. He moves a cursor over one of the vignettes and presses another button.

  Another film comes to life. Now I’m watching an older version of Ty. He looks like he’s in his early teens, maybe. He’s playing guitar in a garage, and his father is on a ratty couch, watching with a beer bottle in his hand. The camera moves around a lot. Now it’s not just Ty with a guitar but another boy also.

  “Is that Sam?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He’s amazing.” Ty’s voice is softer. Calmer. “I wish I could play as well as he does.”

  I twist sideways to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re amazing. I heard you, remember? I saw you onstage. You were fantastic.”

  He doesn’t look at me. He seems mesmerized by the images on the screen. “Yeah. I can play Red Hot stuff, but not a whole lot else. Sam writes his own music, and it’s killer. He’s gifted.”

  I stare closer at this brother of his. He’s darker than Ty but not by much. Maybe a little more broad-shouldered. “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I want to ask him why he doesn’t know where his own brother is, but the next scene captures my interest and I forget to ask. Ty’s father seems to be losing his temper. He’s waving his arms around, the beer bottle still in his hand. Some of the liquid inside splashes out and hits Sam in the face, causing the boy to throw his arm up reactively. The teen pauses and then uses his forearm to wipe off the beer. The look he has for his father is pure murder.

  Ty stands up all of a sudden and shoves his father back, his guitar flying out to the side. His father stumbles and falls back onto the couch, dropping his beer bottle where it smashes on the ground.

  My jaw drops open. I’m now watching a horror movie.

  The camera goes crazy, jerking and flipping around, but I catch glimpses of the father getting off the couch and then the boys and him getting into some sort of wrestling match. Pieces of equipment fall over and then the screen goes black.

  Ty reaches over his head with the remote, but I take it from him and hold it in my lap. The room is dark except for a faint glow from the screen. I turn to face him. He looks tortured.

  “Why are you showing me these things?” I ask softly.

  His jaw pulses in and out, the only indication I have that he’s heard me.

  I gently stroke the back of his hand. “You’re very angry right now.”

  “I’m not angry.” His voice is flat.

  “Then you’re sad. And I can see why you would be, after watching those videos. But why do you have them in digital files like that? Why do you torture yourself and watch them like this?” I want to weep for him. A mothering instinct I didn’t know I had in me is rising up to take over my heart and brain. I need to help him . . . ease his pain. I can’t do that as a girl who would love to kiss him again. He needs someone who will just listen and hold him.

  “So I never forget,” he says.

  “Never forget what? The things that make you unhappy?”

  “Where I come from.”

  I’m moving on instinct now. I stand and hold my hands out. He looks at me, anger simmering in his eyes. I reach down and take his hands, pulling on them until he can do nothing but either yank his hands free or stand. He chooses to stand.

  I step closer to him and put my arms around him, resting my head against his chest. I rub his back. “That stuff is in the past. You need to let it go.”

  He stands as rigid as a board, but I keep caressing. I know how to soothe a mom or a sad sister. With all the
estrogen in our house, I’ve become something of an expert at calming down emotionally distressed people. I don’t know if my techniques will work on a man, but I’m sure going to try.

  I try to find words that will help calm him. “Some people aren’t meant to care for kids. Some people screw up a lot more than they do things right. And some people have temporary moments of insanity. I don’t know what the deal is with your father, and I don’t know what the deal is with your mother either, but I can see there was a lot of unhappiness there in your family.”

  His hands come gently to my back. He’s not giving me a full hug yet but I’m getting him there, so I keep talking. “Your past does not determine who you are today. You make that choice. You do not have to be an angry person. You do not have to be sad about what happened to you when you were a kid. You can choose a different life for yourself.”

  “Sometimes I feel like my life was chosen for me.”

  I rub more vigorously. “These people may have influenced you, but they did not make your choices for you about how you were going to react to what they did. It seems to me you took a bad situation and turned it into a really good thing.” I look up at him. “You played music all that time, and it looks like you had a garage full of instruments. That tells me that somebody was supporting the idea of you being a musician. Somebody who was important to you.”

  “My father. He supported us playing. For the most part.” He doesn’t seem very happy about that.

  “It’s all about the music, isn’t it?” I say, quoting back some of his words. “It does things for people, doesn’t it? Sometimes good, and sometimes bad.”

  He nods, his chin trembling the slightest bit. “For me it was an escape, I guess.”

  “And maybe a way to connect with a man who wasn’t that easy to get along with?”

  He doesn’t answer. He turns sideways and drops his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  I move my hands up to go around his neck so I can pull his head down to my shoulder. “I guess that’s a good thing that music was your escape and that you spent so much time escaping with it. I never would’ve met you otherwise.”