I look at Boone like I just met him for the first time. This Boone has never been around. I didn’t know he existed. Hell, I didn’t think he knew the alphabet for sure, let alone be able to conjure up philosophical arguments from someone else’s point of view.
We definitely don’t give him enough credit in this family.
“Am I right?” he asks as he opens the fridge. He takes out the lemonade, opens the lid, and drinks it straight from the container.
I’m less disturbed about his drinking habits than I am bothered by his theories.
I do all the things he said. Down deep, I’m afraid of failure.
Having a bad reputation and flying by the seat of my pants has always been easier than not being good enough.
Am I good enough to succeed in music? I hope.
Am I good enough for Bellamy? Not even a chance.
But keeping them apart from each other—not incorporating Bellamy somehow in my life—is the reason I’m unsatisfied. I know that now.
My web of experiences and emotions aren’t filled with the right things. Or the right people.
Damn.
I run a hand down my face. I have no idea what this means or what to do about it.
I don’t know if there’s anything I can do about it.
Boone looks at his phone and motions for me that he’ll be a second. He takes the call, saying, “Hey, baby,” as he turns the corner and disappears out of earshot.
I sit at the table and think about my life.
I tried to fill the hole created by impersonal relationships by shoving it with razzle-dazzle. Filled stadiums, screaming fans, plaques on the wall—I hoped that someday all of that would make me feel complete. That the wonderfulness of the accomplishments would, at some point in the future, make up for all I sacrificed to get here.
But as I think about Bellamy smiling against my skin, the precious moments spent with Joe, my mom’s garlic butter chicken, and Boone’s weird epiphanies, I realize that this life—the one with my family and friends—could be pretty fucking spectacular right now.
That’s a big problem.
Because my life isn’t here.
It’s in Nashville and being negotiated as we speak by a woman who I hope and pray has my best interests at heart. Although, I’m starting to realize that perhaps she doesn’t really give a fuck about my best interests, but those that continue to provide her a decent income.
Perhaps I don’t even know what my best interests are.
I suck in a breath.
“You don’t have to think about this being your life, your actual adult career. If it’s not and you fail—who gives a fuck? You had a good ride.”
Is that all there is? All Meadow believes I’m capable of?
You had a good ride.
Fucking hell.
Sixteen
Bellamy
“Thanks for taking me with you today,” I tell Larissa as I climb out of her car.
“Thanks for going with me. Hollis worries to death when I go to those things by myself. He's afraid some creep will be there waiting on me, and I'll end up being murdered.”
“What is it with us and murder theories?” I ask, laughing. “You used to be afraid that I was going to get murdered with men swinging by for quick sex, and now how Hollis is afraid that you're going to get whacked going on landscape … consultations or whatever you call it.”
Larissa shrugs. “If you need anything, call me. I’ll be around if you get bored later.”
I don't have to tell her that I won't be bored later if I have my way. She already knows. I can tell by the little grin spreading across her cheeks
“Goodbye, Riss,” I say, shutting the door.
She waves as I head up the driveway and back to my house.
The nurse’s car from the afternoon shift is still in the driveway. They sit with Dad on most days. I didn't want them to, but he insisted. He said that it would make him sicker and more frustrated to know that I was spending every minute of my life sitting there waiting on him to die.
My stomach roils as I remember those words coming from his lips.
I unlock my door and walk inside. I shut the door behind me. My bag slips off my shoulder and onto the table under the mirror as I head to the kitchen.
I don't even get to the refrigerator when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and smile.
Coy: Are you home yet?
Me: Just got here. Are you done golfing yet?
Coy: Just got back. Can I come over?
Me: You mean you're not on the way yet?
I wait for his reply. Before a text could even be typed out, a knock sounds against my door.
A bubble of excitement bubbles inside me as I make my way back through the house. I open the door without checking to see who it is.
There he stands.
Coy Mason has never looked hotter.
He has on a pair of jeans with holes that look like they were created by wearing them. A black hoodie with a Braxton College logo emblazoned on the front is stretched over his chest. His hair is crazy, probably from being on the golf course, and his lips appear to be slightly swollen.
But the thing I really like about Coy standing on my doorstep is that he's on my doorstep at all. The fact that he's smiling and I'm smiling, and he reaches for me like it's the most natural thing in the world—that's what I love most of all.
I take his hand and yank him inside. He kicks the door closed behind him.
He wastes no time in cupping my face in his hands and covering my mouth with his own. His breath is hot, his hands are cold, and together they have a dizzying effect on me.
“Well, that's a great way to say hello,” I joke, pulling back so I can fiddle with his hair.
He gives me a shy smile. “I've waited all day to do that.”
“Have you? Because I've waited all day for you to do that.”
We roll with the easiness between us, but I can see in his eyes that he has the same reservations as me.
Today is Sunday. It's usually my favorite day of the week. It's lazy and slower, and people are generally more grateful and kinder on this particular day.
But today being Sunday gives me a lot of trepidation because tomorrow will be the first day of the week. It will pop the little bubble that we've somehow created. Lives will go back to normal, business will occur, and having Coy mostly to myself will end.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I thought about you today.”
I wrap my arms around his waist like I’ve done it a thousand times. “What did you think about?”
“Just about how much fucking time we’ve wasted fighting each other and pretending this didn’t exist between us.”
My stomach squeezes into a tight knot at his words.
I had similar thoughts throughout the day.
I thought about him when I got up and made myself breakfast. What would it be like to expect him to come back after golf? When I stripped my bed after our night together, I thought about how I’d only spent one night with him in my home in my life. How many nights could we have spent if we’d gotten along? I thought about him at the house with Larissa. What would it feel like to see his children with baseball mitts and guitars running around the yard while they wait on dinner?