Chapter 16
At Mommy’s funeral, I hold Grayson’s hand. I try to be brave, but tears roll uncontrollably. There are so many people here. Did Mommy know them all?
After her coffin is lowered into the ground, Grayson continues holding my hand as he solemnly leads me to an awaiting black limousine. People stop us, offering condolences.
The limousine door opens and I scoot inside. I expect Grayson to sit beside me and to continue comforting me, but he doesn’t. He takes the spot across from me, gets out his phone, and begins scrolling.
I cry so hard that snot runs from my nose.
With an irritated sigh, Grayson looks at me with indifference.
“Your mother was weak. She slit her own wrists. She left you alone and all you seem able to do is cry about it. The whole thing has done nothing but benefit me. People love a good tragic story. She killed herself with you right beside her. Doesn’t get any better than that.
The possibilities are endless for me now with ‘suicide prevention’ and ‘casting light on depression’ and ‘mental health initiatives’ and whatever else. ”
His words bring more tears. Why is he being so mean? I try to focus on his blurry image but grief cripples me, and I sob.
“Shut up.”
I don’t.
“I said, shut up.”
I don’t.
He reaches across the space, grabs my arm, and shakes me hard. “Shut. Up.”
I don’t.
He slaps me.
It’s the first time he’s ever hit me and it works. My tears instantly dry. My hand comes up, covering the heat pulsing in my cheek. I stare mutely, unable to believe what just happened.
Grayson slides back into his seat, picks his phone up, and goes back to scrolling.
And I remain mute with the realization that I’ve just taken Mommy’s place.
I stand beside West at the ferry’s railing watching the Statue of Liberty grow closer. People pack the boat, mostly families, filling the air with chatter. With his fedora, my ballcap, and both of us in shades, West was right—no one pays us any attention.
“How many times have you been to New York?” I ask.
“A lot. When we snagged our first deal, we came straight here and met with a bunch of big people.”
“Wow, I bet that was overwhelming.”
“My Gramma came with me. She was bound and determined I wasn’t going to get a big head about anything.”
The corners of my mouth turn up. “You sound like you have an awesome grandmother.”
“I do.” He bumps his shoulder to mine. “Maybe you’ll get to meet her sometime.”
“Maybe,” I agree, thinking that sounds pretty great. “Well, with as often as you come here, I’m surprised you’d want to do such touristy stuff like we’re doing right now.”
He leans on the railing beside me. “I never get tired of it. I always see something new. Always.” His lips tip up. “Plus, I wanted to hang out with you.”
I love that response so much.
He leans his shoulder against mine and leaves it there, and I don’t think anything’s ever felt so good. “What kind of movies do you like?” he asks.
“Anything funny. I don’t do thrillers. As you know, I love cartoons. Did you see Despicable Me?”
He does an impression of the minions, “Ba-na-na,” and we both crack up. “How about music?” he asks next.
“I’m old school. I love Fleetwood Mac and Eagles and England Dan.” I get excited just thinking about all the records Brynn and I used to play in the music room at school. “Simon and Garfunkel and The Beatles. The Who. I could go on.”
He nudges his shoulder to mine again. “Me, too! Cartoons, funny movies, old school rock. Like I said, a woman after my own heart.” West props his elbows on the railing next to me. “How about candy bars?”
“I love Pixy Stix.”
“Clearly, someone needs to school you in candy bars. It has to have chocolate.”
“No, it doesn’t!”
“You excited about The Garden?” he asks next.
“I am. Is that the biggest venue you’ve ever played?”
“Yeah.” He offers a nervous smile. “It’s intimidating, but I’m excited.”
“You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks.”
And on we talk, rocking peacefully with the wake and watching the scenery. Time silently rolls by. I settle into his nearness and the cozy peacefulness it brings. Eventually, the ferry ride is over and we find our way to Little Italy.
We choose a restaurant with a purple and orange awning and both order virgin Bellinis.
“To friends,” he toasts.
Friends. Yet it does seem like we’re becoming more.
“Hey.” He pulls out his iPhone. “Give me your number. I can’t believe I don’t already have it.”
I do, and he types it in. My phone buzzes then, and I check the display.
West: Hi, guess who?
Smiling, I save his contact and reply:
Me: Hm, I wonder…
He tucks his phone away. “Let’s see, we did movies and music, and I already know your favorite food is Italian. How about the coolest place you ever traveled.”
I’ve been to a lot of places, sure, but right now here is the best. “This place,” I say.
“Yeah, New York’s awesome. Oh, man, I was in Argentina once. That’s got to be the most gorgeous place in the world.”
Argentina. Now that’s a place I’ve never been. “Why is it so gorgeous?”
“The glaciers. The waterfalls. The salt flats. The mountains. The architecture. Outdoor cafes. Cobblestone streets.” He brightens. “Penguins, too! Oh, Eve, you would love it.”
I sigh, imagining. “That does sound lovely. Where else have you visited?”
“Mexico, all over Europe, Australia, New Zealand, the Philippines.”
“You’ve been everywhere!”
“I have, and I’d love to take you some time. We should make Argentina our first stop.”
I take a sip of my Bellini, imagining the freedom to travel and see whatever I want. To not have an ornamental role and strict rules. To not constantly be in fear of breaking those rules…
Our lasagna finally comes. We eat and talk about everything from roadies to music to our next city on the tour. After that we just walk around with no agenda, stopping when we want, popping in and out of stores, and browsing street vendors.
Day turns into night, and at nine West suggests, “How about I get a blanket and we do some star gazing from the top of the hotel? Or rather moon gazing. I doubt we’ll see many stars with all the light pollution.”
“Sure, that sounds great.”
He gets one from the concierge, and we ride the elevator to the top where a heated pool and lounge chairs are, but at this hour there’s only one person doing laps.
West leads me to a secluded spot all the way in the corner of the roof and spreads the blanket out.
We take our hats off and lie down beside each other to stare up at the moon and “stars” that turn out to be distant planes.
A chilly fall breeze flows past and instinctively, we move toward each other.
I still have the hoodie he lent me, rolled up in my duffle. I wish I was wearing it.
“Know anything about astronomy?” he asks.
“Nah, not really. About as much as anyone else I suppose. You?”
“No.” He slides his hand over until our pinkies touch, and all my focus goes straight to that tiny appendage.
We lapse into silence, lulled by the distant traffic sounds and the whirring of a fan on the roof. I don’t know how much time passes and I don’t care. I’m starting to get cold, and I don’t care about that, either. I wouldn’t want to be in any other place right now.
That thought has me sighing in contentment, and my eyelids begin to fall as I give into the heaviness of them. In my sleepy fog, I register West shifting a little, and I move closer to his warmth. I should probably put space between us, but everything feels so good, so right…
It’s something on my hip that has me groggily realizing I drifted off. I’m on my side now, curled completely into West as he cradles me, our legs intertwined. I tune even further in, recognizing the object on my hip is his hand.
That hand moves, stroking down and then back up, stopping just shy of touching my back. My breath catches as his fingers pause to press in, and down really low things start to warm.
West’s fingers move again, stroking down, back up, then stopping to press in, making me ache in a new way I’ve never experienced before. I draw in a breath, but it doesn’t ease a single thing. His hand moves again, down the back side of my thigh, up to my hip, and his fingers press into my butt.
It’s too much, and nervously, I wet my lips. “West?”
His hand stills. Gently he pushes me away before rolling to a sitting position. He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s late, and you’ve got to be up early for work.”
I nod, completely confused that he’s the one who pulled away.
“Come on.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
I let him pull me up, and together we fold the blanket. But as I come toward him with my part of the blanket, he slides one arm around my back and holds me to him.
“Hug me,” he whispers. “Please?”
His words liquefy my insides, and I don’t hesitate as I slip both arms around his waist and place my cheek on his chest. With the blanket between us, I listen to his heartbeat as he pulls me in snugly, resting his head on top of mine.
Gently, he rocks me, humming a song I don’t recognize, but the tune buzzes through me, and I sink further into the embrace.
We stand this way, gently swaying, as he hums the whole song. I haven’t cried in many years. The last time I did had been at Mommy’s funeral, so when wetness pools, I blink, surprised, realizing they’re tears of happiness.
Exactly what tears should be.