25. Tee
Tee
Z ee and I were in the same class as Jamie Frobisher so I know him. Not very well, seeing as it was Zee, Marcy, and me against the world.
Until Marcy ran away.
Or, until whatever it was that happened to her, happened .
The three of us were Pigeon Creek’s version of the nerd girls—too uncool to live. (Not that I’ll admit that to Zee.)
Even if I wanted to smile at the memory, one that Jamie would probably snort at because he’d remember exactly how weird we were, I don’t.
I can’t.
Not when he’s this .
Jamie was our contrast—too cool for Pigeon Creek. Too cool for school. Too cool for everything. Yet, here we are. Me, humming a song I wrote a decade earlier for a musical his momma directed for the drama society. Him, sagged in his chair, tears rolling down his cheeks because said Momma repeatedly tried to tell me that he was imprisoning her in her bedroom every time I stopped humming.
The worst part of this horrific morning is that his tears are quiet.
He’s not sobbing, or sniffling, or even weeping. They’re just there. His pain embodied in droplets of liquid because that’s the only way he can express his grief over being a witness to his mom’s slow and bitterly unfair demise.
“Do you remember the lyrics, Mrs. Frobisher?” I prod gently.
“Elena, dear,” she chides. “You must call me Elena. I remember who sang it—Barry Ryder. I wonder where he is now.”
Jamie and I share a look, but he answers: “He died. Heart attack, Mom.”
She blanks him, her gaze fixed on me. “Dear?”
“He passed away, Mrs. Frobisher.” When she clucks her tongue, I mutter, “Elena.”
“You wrote this, didn’t you?” Jamie asks.
“I did. Barry sang it terribly.”
Elena lets loose a soft, sleepy chuckle as she burrows deeper into the covers, lifting them so high she almost covers her chin. “He never could sing.”
“Why did you cast him, then?”
“Because he paid for the costumes. He was also sleeping with Lorraine Holly.” She sniffs, her derision clear. “Never did like her. She was a terrible mayor. Keep humming, dear. I want to sleep.”
My brows lift at the spilled secrets, but I do as she bids until her eyes close and she falls into a gentle rest.
“You can stop humming,” Jamie mutters around a sigh. “It was… kind of you to help out.”
“She was always sweet to me.” A soft smile curves my lips at the memories, then it fades. Like someone turned off the light. The memories are just that—buried in the past. This, now , is the present, and that Elena is not the one lying here today. “She never gave me crap for being difficult about my musical scores.”
“She recognized talent where she saw it.” He rubs his eyes. “ Used to recognize.”
“I-I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“Why? You didn’t do this to her, did you?”
The bitter words make sense, so I stand and head for the door.
“Thank you,” he rasps. “For helping.”
“You’re welcome.” I clear my throat. “Cody suggested... He said maybe I should give you some of my music. Suggested it might help her relax?”
“I don’t think Beethoven would fix anything.”
Maybe not.
“I have a few original pieces. They’re not polished though.”
“She recognized something in you when you were a child, Christy. I don’t think it matters if it’s not record company quality.”
“Okay. Um.” I snag my phone from my pocket, wondering how a trip to The General Store to pick up some of Zee’s favorite trail mix because I ate half her stash (not that I’d admit to that in a court of law) turned into this. “Do you want to write your email address here?”
Jaw working, he snags my phone. “Fingers crossed she didn’t totally wreck the laptops.”
My brows lift. “She broke your laptops?”
“Anything that could communicate with the outside world, she destroyed.”
“Why?”
“She’s paranoid. Next thing, she’ll be wearing a tinfoil hat.” He chokes down a sob.
For a second, his eyes are closed, then he shores himself up and finishes typing his email.
I reach for it once he’s done, and the urge to tell him that I’m sorry hits me again. But what use is that? Like he said, I didn’t give her whatever the hell it is that’s screwing with Mrs. Frobisher’s beautiful mind.
I purse my lips as I tuck the cell back into my pocket. “Did she mean it? About Barry Ryder?”
“Oh, yeah. Ten years ago is easier for her to recall than what happened this morning.” More bitterness. It’s understandable. Everyone knows that the Frobishers dote on their mom. “No secrets left unturned. Not in this house. Stick around. You’ll probably find out something to share in town.”
I stiffen at the accusation. “I hate gossip.” Because he’s doing that silent crying thing and it’s breaking my heart, I mumble, “If you ever need a friend, Jamie, I’m here.”
“Shit must be bad if you’re extending a hand of friendship. Thought it was you and Susanne McAllister against the world?”
“Oh, it is, but I’m too awesome to keep to myself.” I peep a smile at him, stunned when he lets loose a bark of laughter, one that makes his mom jerk in surprise in her sleep.
“Your big head hasn’t changed.”
(It has. It’s just been skewed by the disappointment that’s life.)
“New York has a way of shifting your view on things,” is all I say. “There’s a whole world out there that doesn’t see talent; they see dollar signs. But I’m still awesome on the inside.”
His lips twist. “New York didn’t know what it had.”
“Perhaps. But I’m where I need to be. For the moment. And I mean it, Jamie. If you need anything, I’ll help where I can.”
“I appreciate the offer, Christy.” I know I lost his focus to Elena because his eyes trip over her face, like he’s the one with the memory problems. I back out of the room, leaving him to mourn a woman who’s still breathing.