Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

I've watched one of my older sisters struggle to overcome her dependence on the prescription medication that helped her heal after a car wreck she was in. Her trip to a rehab center in Maine ended after only a week when she walked out, telling the staff she was fine.

She was by her own standards. She knew that within the hour after shedding the strict rules and boundaries they placed on her to help her heal, that she would have more of those tiny white pills in her fist.

She still functions, working at the bakery when she can. My parents shy away from the frequent, one-sided conversations about co-dependence that I've had with them. Actually, most of my siblings have tried to discuss the issue with my mom and dad, but they can't contribute to finding a solution if they don't view it as a problem. "She's in pain," my mom will say. "You can't know how hard it is for Shirley," my dad chimes in.

They're both right in their blind oblivion. None of us know what my sister, Shirley, feels. Only she does and in those moments when the medication blurs her reality, she's the one balancing that very thin line between life and death. My parents can't see the line. They can only see a daughter who was traumatized by a car accident that left her a shell of who she used to be.

They have thirteen children. We're all unique, dynamic and flawed human beings. I wish they understood that perfection isn't found in a life without pain, anxiety or mistakes. They can't. I've grown to accept that.

"You're lucky we didn't give up on you, Falon." A man's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. It's confident, decisive and familiar.

I turn towards the door of my studio. I've been here for more than two hours. I reluctantly got out of bed when I realized that sleep wasn't in the cards. I had a coffee, showered, dressed in a short sleeve blue blouse and navy shorts and took the subway here. I was going to ask Remy to assist but I know these clients and they are hands-on. This is an easy job for me. They do almost all the set-up themselves. I just point and shoot.

"You'll never give up on me, Jax." I flash him a smile. "Ivy won't let you."

"You've got that right." Ivy Marlow-Walker walks over to where I'm standing and pulls me in for a quick hug. "I'd wait a year for you if that's what it took, Falon. No other photographer can find the beauty in my pieces the way you do."

I doubt that. Ivy's one of the country's leading independent jewelry designers. She's been coming to me for imagery for the past six months. I take my time, helping her find exactly the right lighting and positioning for each one-of-a-kind piece she creates. I have no doubt that any other photographer could do just as good a job, but for Ivy and her husband, Jax Walker, it's not just about that.

They wanted a photographer who recognized how much of Ivy's spirit is in each ring, necklace and bracelet she creates. I try to capture that so when a potential customer visits the website for Ivy's company, Whispers of Grace, they see not only the beauty that is evident in the jewelry but the tender care that went into making it.

"We need to get started," Jax rests a cardboard box on one of the large square tables I've set up. "I'm going to make sure you earn every penny of that ridiculous fee you're charging us, Falon."

I laugh as I pat him on the shoulder. "You know I'm worth it."

CHAPTER 10

Asher

I finally crashed early this morning after spending a few hours at my buddy, Hugo's loft. I texted him when Falon went to use the ladies' room at the burger place. He was wide awake and fine with me stopping by, even if it was the middle of the night. He never has much to say, only piping up to share his thoughts when I've fucked up a lyric or a melody. He's a goddamn genius and although I tried to give him actual credit on my album, he wanted no part of it.

I pay him a healthy salary to help me with finessing my songs. He's always somewhere in the shadows when I'm recording and he's even been to a couple of shows. I don't know a lot about his past, other than the fact that m

y manager recommended him.

We worked on a new song last night. It was at the edges of my mind for days, pulling and pressing to find its release. I jotted down some lyrics, grabbed my guitar to strum a few chords and Hugo chimed in with his magic touch.

By the time I fell into bed, we had a rough draft of what might be the first song on my next album. It needs to sit now, for a day or two, until I can go back to it with a fresh perspective and an unsoiled ear.

Much trial and error in my song writing has taught me that the first draft is shit. By letting a song fester within me for a few days, or weeks, or sometimes even months I can pick out the jewels that are there and weave that into a song worth singing.

It's near noon now and although I've been tempted to call Falon Shaw every second since I dragged my ass out of bed, I haven't yet. I promised myself last night that I'd try to deal with the bullshit that's in that envelope I opened yesterday. It's less than a foot from where I'm now sitting drinking my third cup of coffee of the day.

I thumb the corner of the envelope. I have the proof I need to confront my parents. I'd take all of this to my dad, but I have no fucking idea where he is right now. When I called him a few days ago he was just about to board a plane to who-the-hell-knows-where.

I've tried calling him, once yesterday and twice already today, but every one of those calls has gone straight to voicemail. I didn't leave details, just a brief message asking him to call me back. I'm not going to hand him any notice when I lay all of this in his lap.

I can hop on a plane this afternoon and fly to Los Angeles, where my mom is. I'd be at the hotel she's staying at by the end of the day.

She can't cry or pout her way out of what's in that envelope. Her emotional manipulations are no match for hard evidence. I can almost hear her trying to convince me that Caterina doctored the emails that she printed out and put in the envelope. She might have. I don't give a shit about those. There's nothing damaging in there other than my dad whining about what a horrible wife my mom was.

It's the voicemail that's on the flash drive that my mother can't contest. She'll run out of excuses. She'll also give my dad a heads-up. I don't want him to know a thing before I see him face-to-face. If the past has taught me anything it's that my dad will cave first when the truth is staring him in the eye. He's the one I need to talk to.

I run my hands over my face, stopping to feel the bristle that's now thickening on my chin. I'm usually clean shaven. Some days I shave twice just to keep my jawline smooth. When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning after my shower, I saw a face that's changing.

Blaming it on the sparse beard would make sense but that's not what it is. I can't look at myself and see Asher Foster anymore, not since I heard that voicemail and realized that I'm not a Foster at all.

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