She rakes her hair, cut into its stylish bob, back from her face.
“But I’m doing some stuff with Sound Management’s LA office while we work toward our goals.” She goes to take a sip of her white wine, only to find it empty. “I’ll be back. I’m grabbing a refill.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me, but stands and heads toward the kitchen. I could let this go. She’s sending me clear signals. It’s unlikely she wants to take up where we left off in the ocean that night, but my whole life has been a series of unlikelies.
I swing the kitchen door open soundlessly. I’m glad Grady oils his hinges because I get a moment to study Bristol before she realizes I’m there and that she isn’t alone. She leans into Grady’s kitchen counter, arms stretched to the side, both palms laid flat on the surface. Her wine glass sits empty beside a full bottle of white. She drops her head forward and expels a heavy breath. The ease she projected out there drops away. I know an escape when I see one. If she’s running from me, I’ll have to disappoint her.
“Hey.”
I drop that one word in the quiet kitchen, and she jumps as if it were the report of a bullet. She rounds on me, and for just a second, everything about her whispers vulnerable. The wide, troubled eyes. The tremulous line of her full lips. An uncertain frown. She tucks it all away so quickly, you’d miss it if you weren’t watching. One thing I got really good at the last time Bristol visited, was watching her.
“Hi.” She picks up the bottle of wine, her excuse for leaving the room, and pours herself a glass.
“Salut.” She lifts her glass and starts to walk past me.
I grab her elbow before she makes it to the door. Her eyes zip-line from my hand on her arm to my face.
“Did you need something, Grip?”
She raises both brows, disdain on her face. When she told me she had been one of those high-class New York debutantes, I couldn’t reconcile that with who I met: the approachable girl with the easy laugh and curious eyes. I see it now in the frosty look she gives me. It’s designed to put me off, but it’ll take more than that.
“Did you get the book I sent you?” I ask, not letting her go, waiting for her to jerk away. She doesn’t. She wants me to think our skin-to-skin contact doesn’t affect her the way it affects me, but her pulse is a hummingbird flapping at the base of her throat with rapid wings. Pink washes over her cheeks. Her pupils swallow the silver in her eyes.
“The poems?” she asks calmly. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Thank you.” Her lashes drop. “I brought it back for you.”
“No, I wanted you to have it. You never returned my calls or text messages. I emailed you. I—”
“I didn’t see the point,” she interrupts. She tugs at her arm to gently extricate herself and walks back over to the counter, putting a safe distance between us.
“You didn’t see the . . .” I check my frustration. This is, after all, my fault. I’m the one who didn’t tell her the whole truth. “I think we were the point, Bris.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t waste my time or yours because there is no us.” She looks me in the eyes, but I think it’s only to prove she can. “You lied to me.”
“Not really.” I risk a few steps closer until I’m leaning against the counter beside her. “I was trying to figure out how to break things off with Tessa for a few weeks.”
“You aren’t still together?” she asks nonchalantly.
“Wasn’t my kid.” I suck my teeth and release a short breath, exasperated. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you’d just listen—”
“Listen?” she cuts in, showing a spark of anger. “To what? You cobble together some technicalities and semantics to disguise the truth?”
I prefer this, the honesty of her anger over that frigid, fake indifference.
“I should have told you,” I admit softly, pouring all my regrets into the gaze we hold. “I was looking for the right time.”
“The right time was somewhere between the airport and that Ferris wheel.” She curves her lips into a fraudulent smile. “But that’s okay. It doesn’t matter now. It’s worked out for the best.”
“It isn’t worked out. I tried to get in touch. You never responded.”
“Nothing to say.” She lifts one slim shoulder, perfectly executing carelessness. “It’s behind us now, and we can have a fresh start.”
Is she saying . . .
“You mean—”
“As friends, yes.” She looks at me pointedly. “Look, I’m on a whole new coast and starting my new job. Figuring out where I’ll live. Getting Rhyson’s career off the ground. There’s a lot of things I need to focus on. What might have been between us if you hadn’t lied isn’t one of them. Let’s forget all the other stuff.”
I roll back the sleeve of my denim shirt, showing her the black watch I wear every day. The cheap watch she won for me on a priceless night.
“Does that look like I’ve forgotten, Bristol?”
Surprise flits across her face before she cements it back into her designated expression.
“Look, we’ll both be in Rhyson’s life,” she says with her eyes on the floor. “You trying to make that week something it really wasn’t will only make things awkward.”
“I’m not trying to make it something.” My voice scolds and pleads. “It was something, and you know it.”
“I know you lied to me.” Her voice is flat, eyes steady. “And the only thing left for us is friendship.”
Her face softens, and a smile warms her eyes for a moment.
“I actually think we could be good friends,” she says. “Who else is gonna teach me remedial hip-hop?”
I can’t bring myself to smile at her lighthearted comment. She’s offering me crumbs when I want the whole loaf. I want so much more than she’s willing to give me. If I’m honest, I want more than I deserve. Doesn’t make me want it any less. We only had a week together, but the conversation, the connection—I never had it with anyone else before or since. It is real, and real is so rare, you can’t ignore it when you find it. You don’t give up on it.
The kitchen door swings open, and Rhyson rushes in, his face alight with excitement, his phone pressed to his chest.
“It’s them,” he whispers to Bristol. “It’s the label about the deal.”
“Oh my God!” Bristol waves him over to the kitchen table and he lays his phone down on the table, putting it on speaker.
“Hey, I’m back.” Rhyson glances at his sister, their identical eyes locked. “You’re on speaker with my manager Bristol.”
I half listen as they start preliminary talks for what will be the foundation of Rhyson’s first record deal. I know later on I’ll be thrilled for him. Right now, though, as I glance at the cheap rubber watch on my wrist and remember that night at the carnival, the kiss when our hearts wheeled with the stars, I’m sad. And I can’t help but think the watch is a perfect symbol.
Because I’ll be biding my time.
Bristol
Present day
THERE ARE DAYS you want to just start over because it feels like every hour takes you into a deeper level of hell.
And there are days you wake up already scraping the very bottom of the pit, unable to claw your way up the fiery walls.
This week has pretty much alternated between the latter and the former. Today, I’m trapped in some purgatory between the two.
No matter how I look at it, this week’s been hell.
“Sarah.” I barely raise my voice, but I know my assistant hears through the open door connecting our offices.
At first, I managed everything for Rhyson’s music career by myself. He translated his fame as a classical piano prodigy into a modern rock sound that made him one of the biggest stars in the music world. Now, in addition to managing Rhyson and helping with Prodigy, the record label he recently launched, I also manage the other acts on our fledgling label and our friend Jimmi, who isn’t actually signed to Prodigy. Rhyson and I recognized once I took on those additional responsibilities, I would need help. We’ve made astounding progress in just a few years.