The Last Song

Besides, he wasn't really angry at Blaze. Hell, when he'd first heard what she'd done, he'd been kind of pleased about it, thinking it might smooth the road between him and Ronnie. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, that kind of thing. But when he'd suggested it to Ronnie, she'd reacted like he had some kind of disease, like she'd rather die than come near him. But he wasn't the type to give up, and he figured she'd eventually come to realize it was her only way out of this mess. So he'd gone to her house for a little visit, hoping for a chance to talk. He'd decided he would tone down the act and instead listen sympathetically when she talked about the awful thing that Blaze did. They might have gone for a walk and maybe ended up under the pier, and then whatever happened, happened. Right?

But when he got to her house, Will was there. Of all people, Will, just sitting there on that dune, waiting to talk to her. And Ronnie eventually did come outside and talk with him. Actually, they seemed to argue, but by the way they were acting, there was plainly something between them, which pissed him off, too. Because it meant they knew each other. Because it meant they were probably an item.

Which meant he'd been reading her all wrong.

And then? Oh, that was the kicker. After Will left, Ronnie realized that she had two visitors, not just one. When she noticed him watching her, he knew one of two things was going to happen. Either she'd come out and talk to him in the hopes of getting Blaze to tell the truth, or she'd act all scared like she had earlier and run inside. He liked the fact that he could scare her. He could use it to his advantage.

But she did neither of those things. Instead, she stared in his direction as if to say, Bring it on. She stood on the porch, her body language signaling angry defiance, until finally she went back into the house.

No one did that to him. Especially girls. Who in the hell did she think she was? Tight little body or not, he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

Blaze interrupted his thoughts. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

Marcus turned toward her, feeling the sudden urge to clear his mind, to cool off. He knew just what he needed and who would give it to him.

"Come here," he said. He forced a smile. "Sit next to me. I don't want you to go just yet."

16

Steve

Steve looked up as Ronnie came back inside. Though she flashed a smile, trying to assure him that nothing was wrong, he couldn't help noticing her expression as she grabbed her book and made for her bedroom.

Something was definitely wrong.

He just wasn't sure what. He couldn't tell whether she was sad or angry or scared, and while he debated the idea of trying to talk to her, he was pretty certain that whatever was going on, she wanted to handle it alone. He supposed that was normal. He may not have spent much time recently with her, but he'd taught teenagers for years, and he knew that it was when your kids wanted to talk to you--when they had something important to say--that your stomach should clench with worry.

"Hey, Dad," Jonah said.

While Ronnie had been outside, he'd forbidden Jonah from watching through the window. It seemed like the right thing to do, and Jonah had sensed it was best not to argue. He'd found SpongeBob on one of the channels and had been watching happily for the last fifteen minutes.

"Yes?"

Jonah stood up, his expression serious. "What has one eye, speaks French, and loves cookies before bedtime?"

Steve considered the question. "I have no idea."

Jonah reached up and covered one eye with his hand. "Moi."

Steve laughed as he rose from the couch, putting down his Bible. The kid made him laugh a lot. "Come on. I have some Oreos in the kitchen." They headed that way.

"I think Ronnie and Will had a fight," Jonah said, pulling up his pajamas.

"Is that his name?"

"Don't worry. I checked him out."

"Ah," Steve said. "Why do you think they had a fight?"

"I could hear them. Will sounded mad."

Steve frowned at him. "I thought you were watching cartoons."

"I was. But I could still hear them," Jonah said matter-of-factly.

"You shouldn't listen in on other people's conversations," Steve chided.

"But sometimes they're interesting."

"It's still wrong."

"Mom tries to listen in on Ronnie when she's talking on the phone. And she sneaks Ronnie's phone when she's in the shower and checks her text messages."

"She does?" Steve tried not to sound too surprised.

"Yeah. How else would she keep track of her?"

"I don't know... maybe they could talk," he suggested.

"Yeah, right," Jonah snorted. "Even Will can't talk to her without arguing. She drives people crazy."

When Steve was twelve, he had few friends. Between attending school and practicing the piano, he had little free time, and the person he most often found himself talking to was Pastor Harris.

By that point in his life, the piano had become an obsession, and Steve would often practice for four to six hours a day, lost in his own world of melody and composition. By that point, he'd won numerous local and state competitions. His mother had attended only the first one, and his father never made it to any. Instead, he would often find himself in the front seat of the car with Pastor Harris as they traveled to Raleigh or Charlotte or Atlanta or Washington, D.C. They spent long hours talking, and though Pastor Harris was a religious man and worked the blessings of Christ into most conversations, it always sounded as natural as someone from Chicago commenting on the endless futility of the Cubs during the pennant race.

Pastor Harris was a kind man who led a harried life. He took his calling seriously, and on most evenings he would tend to his flock, either at the hospital or at a funeral home or at the homes of congregation members he had come to consider friends. He performed weddings and baptisms on the weekends, he had fellowship on Wednesday nights, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays he worked with the choir. But every evening in the hour before dusk and no matter what the weather, he reserved for himself an hour to walk the beach alone. When he returned, Steve often found himself thinking that the hour of solitude had been just what the pastor needed. There was something settled and peaceful in his expression whenever he returned from those walks. Steve had always assumed that it was the pastor's way of reclaiming a bit of solitude--until he'd asked him about it.