22. Twenty Two
If only someone had invented a whiskey glass that never emptied. West looked over to the bottle that sat on his kitchen counter, cursing himself for not grabbing the bottle outright, but he hadn’t quite devolved into that much of a degenerate . . . yet. Over the past month, he had taken his status of functioning alcoholic to a whole new level. His liver was a shriveled mess, screaming at him. He had done such a good job when training, but now what was the point?
After disappointing Kat, he had to find a way to make it up to her and to himself because she was right. He didn’t really want to act. After years of being mad at his father for forcing him to do music, when he really thought about it, he hadn’t been doing it for his dad. West made music for himself. It took Kat to remind him of why he loved it, before all the fame, production, and world tours. He was ready to get back to basics.
Her words about changing the music industry from the inside, about starting his own label and being a voice for underrepresented artists rang in his mind. But he didn’t think he could do it without her. Right now, he was seconds away from hopping on a plane to get her. If he ever stopped seeing double.
He had literally shouted his love for her to the world and, while he had told her to leave, a part of him had hoped she’d turn around and run back to him. She was scared to be with him, scared of getting hurt, and perhaps she had a right to be, but she was also being unfair. He deserved to be trusted; he had done nothing to break her trust. Well, nothing in this decade. He had lied, yes, but his reasoning had been true. He didn’t want her to think so badly of him. To think that all he had cared about was whose pants he was getting into that night. Maybe ten, fifteen years ago that had been him, but that wasn’t him anymore.
So as hard as it was for him, West had to let her think on her own for now. He had bared everything to her, and she had still left. She’d made her decision, and West was going to have to live with it. For now.
His liver, on the other hand, was not thankful for that decision, and neither was his trainer, who’d come around early that morning, admonishing him for drinking too much.
He’d decided he was going to turn down the movie role but found his mind and body still thrived under a healthier lifestyle, so he kept his trainer around. He needed him, especially now, or he would never get off his couch.
The sound of the front door opening shook him from his ever-revolving thoughts. Since there were only two people who had the code, and his cleaning lady had already been by, he knew it had to be his father.
“Weston.” His dad’s voice reverberated through his vast house.
West had tucked himself in his back room which looked out at his pool, the large glass doors half open to the warm October air. His father’s footsteps grew closer and closer. He had no urge to talk to him. He had been avoiding him for the past month—avoiding everyone, really. His other buddies, who had taken off from Jakarta almost as soon as the yacht had docked, still couldn’t believe what Luke had done. While they of course believed West, they struggled to comprehend why he hadn’t just gone along with Luke and pinned it all on Declan.
Rich kids always stuck together, for wrong or for right.
His father walked into the room. “I should have known you’d be back here.”
“Hello to you too, Father.”
His father walked to his kitchen looking through his wine collection, pulling out one of his better reds. West winced at the thought of Kat and her preference for red wine. Everything reminded him of her. His dad poured himself a glass before sitting in one of West’s plush gray chairs.
“Are you against answering your phone?” His father gave him a pointed look.
“You clearly know where I live.”
“Do you always have to be such a smart-ass with me. It’s like you’re still fifteen.”
West sighed, running his hand through his disheveled hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and a bushy beard was starting to grow. He didn’t like to be baby-faced, but he did like to be well-groomed. Kat had tied him up in knots, and now he was unraveling faster than he could put himself back together.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I guess I’ve never given you enough credit for raising me by yourself.”
A gray eyebrow raised in question. “Interesting. And might this be the influence of one Katrina Brooks?
His heart ached just at the mention of her name. “Maybe a little, or a combination of that and surviving my best friend trying to murder me.”
“That boy was an idiot thirty years ago; you should have never wasted your time.”
“Maybe, but we had some pretty good times.” West smiled thinking about all the shenanigans they had gotten into over the years, and he mourned the loss of his friend in more ways than one.
His dad took a sip of wine. “I should never have indulged you two so much. I should have been around more or found you a stepmother.”
That got his attention; his father never spoke about his own love life, only complained about West’s. “Why didn’t you? You only ever said Mom left, but you never seemed to seriously date anyone.”
His dad looked away as if caught in a memory. “I loved your mom, loved her so much it hurt my soul.”
West could relate.
“But,” he continued, “when she got pregnant with you, she didn’t want you.” West felt the whiskey sloshing around in his stomach threatening to come back up. He had never realized his mother hadn’t wanted him. “I talked her into having you, told her I’d take care of her, she’d want for nothing, which was true. The band was at the peak of fame at that point.”
“Who was she?” West asked for the thousandth time.
“A singer. I won’t tell you who, she’s rather famous under a name different to the one on your birth certificate, and she swore me to secrecy. She’ll come around if she wants to.”
West gaped at him. He had spent his whole life thinking his mom had just disappeared, but in reality his mother had wanted nothing to do with him. In fact, she had chosen her career over him.
“You just let her walk away!” West said, his anger growing.
“No,” his father said, calmer than he should’ve been. “I pushed her. I pushed her harder than I should have. She had you, and I asked her to stay with us, and she did for a while, but she wasn’t the mothering type. She couldn’t stand it. I drove her away, away from us, away from you, and for that, West, I am forever sorry.”
West sat back on the couch, processing his father’s words. His father had fought for him while his mother had never wanted him. He had been right that his father had chased his mother away, but not in the way he’d thought. West hadn’t been to therapy in a decade, but after this bombshell, he was considering calling up his old doc.
“I don’t tell you this to make you question yourself, West,” his father said, cutting into his thoughts. “But I want you to think about your Miss Brooks.”
West whipped his head up to glare at his father. “She’s not mine.”
His dad chuckled. “I saw the way you two looked at each other—it was practically incendiary. I’ve told you about your mother because she’s a lot like Miss Brooks, except I think Kat’d make a great mother. But she has to have a purpose beyond that, she has to feel like she makes a difference. You can’t solve all her problems, she’s too independent. I tried that with your mother and all it did was drive her away. No other woman has ever come close for me.”
West saw the weariness in his father’s eyes, and for the first time he understood what his dad was feeling. If he felt even a fraction of what West was feeling, he pitied the poor man.
“Have you ever tried to get her back?”
“She’s happily married now.” He drained his glass and stood up, walking the glass back to his kitchen.
West didn’t want to ask, but he did. “Kids?”
“No, I told you, not the motherly type.”
No half-siblings running around.
“Listen, son, I know I was tough on you, but music is not just in your blood; it is you. When you play, that is where I see true love. I won’t tell you what to do; the decision is up to you, but don’t give up on love.”
West knew his dad wasn’t just talking about music.
“Dad.” His father turned and they looked at each other, really looked at each other, and all the years of judgment and anger came to the surface. While they didn’t melt away, West felt a shift in their relationship, the start of something new. “What should I do?”
“You can’t solve all her problems, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be there for her. Think about what she needs that she can only get from you. You know that movie we used to watch when you were a kid?”
West leaned back on his sofa. “Which one?”
His dad smiled. “The baseball one. It’ll come to you.” And with that he walked out the door, leaving West mulling over his words.
Kat sat in her grandmother’s kitchen watching her knead the dough for the fry bread, food that, while not actually traditional to Native culture, had become a survival staple to many tribes due to its simplicity. Now it was just a comfort food in most Native households, and no matter how hard the boarding school had tried to rid her grandma of her memories, she had never forgotten how to make it.
Her grandma worked the dough, turning it into little circles before throwing a couple into the pan of oil. The oil sizzled as the dough hit the pan, a sound Kat had missed throughout her travels. It was absolutely awful food for her to eat health-wise, but if there was ever a time for comfort food this was it. She had gone from eating nothing for days to spending the past few days sitting in this kitchen eating the only food her grandma knew how to cook from scratch. Her heart ached, her head ached, and her entire body ached. She was the definition of a hot mess. How could a woman in her thirties be this broken up over a man?
He’s not just a man, he’s the man.
She pushed that thought out of her head as her grandma brought over her fry bread, not complete without the butter.
“Not that I’m complaining, dear, but to what do I owe your third visit this week?”
She took a bite and sighed as the fried goodness melted in her mouth. “Can’t I just want to see my grandma?” she said, her mouth full of bread.
“Perhaps, if you weren’t using me to avoid something.”
Damn woman, how’d she know? The older she got, the more she had shed the White assimilation forced upon her and grown into her more authentic Indigenous self. More in tune with the world around her, and apparently that included Kat.
“Katrina, it doesn’t take much to tell your heart is troubled. You’re unfocused, you barely say more than five words some days, and your mother is worried about you.”
“Oh, I thought the spirits told you or something,” she laughed.
“No, Katrina, they do not speak to me.” Her grandma’s face fell, the sadness she never spoke about creeping over her features. “But maybe we can pray to the Great Creator to help you.” She walked over to a basket and pulled out a braid of sweetgrass. “Come with me, my dear.”
Kat followed her outside to her front porch swing and sat down next to her. It was her grandmother’s favorite spot to sit and pray.
While Kat was not one for any kind of religion, she had been to the powwows and various ceremonies where she had seen them light the sweetgrass to signify the beginning of the ceremony, to invite the positive spirits in. A ceremonial act that was sacred for her people. The same ritual was used by families before prayer to invite the good spirits into their homes so that they would hear their prayers. While Kat didn’t fully believe in a great creator in the sky, she did believe in energies, and she’d take all the good energy she could get.
Her grandmother lit one end of the sweetgrass braid, and they sat in silence as the smoke swirled around them. Kat inhaled the smoke; the grass let off a sweet vanilla scent that made her instantly calm. She remembered the times, before she had left for UCLA, when her grandmother would take her to the powwows and she would sit and listen to the elders tell the stories of her ancestors, of the battles they fought, of the worlds they discovered, of the spirits they danced with. She would dream of being one of the spirits dancing through the wind, the natural music that nature created.
Music was a part of her, just as it was a part of nature and a part of her people. Music told stories of heartbreak and love, of sorrow and success. Music, at one time, had been Kat’s great love, and somewhere along the way she had grown disillusioned by it all, she had lost her passion.
Her mind was transported to West. She saw his face as clearly as if he was standing right next to her. He was reaching out to her, smiling as she grabbed his hand, and she was transported back to dancing with him on the beach on their island. It was just them. No snakebites, no evil drug dealers, just the sunshine, the lapping ocean, and the wind whispering through trees.
He was holding her in his arms while she hummed the tune she’d been thinking about as they slowly danced on the soft sand. Women appeared around them, and though Kat looked at them, West’s eyes never left her. He only looked at her, she was the only woman on that beach. The other women disappeared, and Kat leaned up to kiss him but . . .
She blinked and West was gone. She cried out for him, but he had been replaced by a piano. She heard her grandmother in the background. “Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind, whose breath gives life to all the world, guide our Katrina to see her path.”
Kat looked at the keys on the piano in front of her. She played one note, and then the next, and then, as if a great flood had been released, the tune unleashed itself. She felt the music flow from her fingertips as it circled around her in time with the waves and wind. The ceremonial drumbeat of nature played in her head. She didn’t know how long she played for, but note after note poured forth from her soul. The sun rose and set as she played, and suddenly the beach was full of others like her. Women and girls, some who looked like her, some who didn’t, all singing along to the sounds of her piano and nature.
“Katrina?”
Her grandma called her name, as the scent of the sweetgrass faded away.
“Katrina, what did you see?”
She opened her eyes, looking at the weathered face of her grandmother, her eyes still as sharp and assessing as ever.
“I think I saw what I need to do next.” She wiggled off the porch swing. “Thanks, Grandma.” Kat bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek before turning to walk down the stairs.
“And what are you going to do?” her grandma called after her.
“I’m going back to Bali!” she called over her shoulder, a smile on her face—the first she’d had in over a month.