“For real?” I reassure him with a grin, though I know I can’t un- knot his stomach or calm his nerves while he waits to hear back from the record label considering signing him. “They’ll call.”
Rhyson’s finally ready to perform again, but he’s going back in as a contemporary artist instead of a classical pianist.
After a few minutes, I work my way over to the circle of conversation Bristol is embroiled in. I even take an empty spot on the couch facing her, restricting myself to a few furtive glances, though I’d rather stare.
“So, Bris,” Luke, our friend from high school says. “What are you gonna do while you wait for Rhyson to make it big?”
“I’m not sure I’m ‘waiting’ for him to make it big.” Bristol’s laugh is husky and assured. “I think it’ll be my job to ensure he makes it big.”
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.”