At least, it felt wrong until Cal nervously showed them the new bands they’d all be wearing. Instead of going to a jewelry store, he found a custom jeweler and arranged for her to melt down the platinum from Zac’s and Anya’s old bands and combine it with the melted steel from a guitar string from the celebratory guitar Zac bought when Hyde won their first Grammy. The old metals had been alloyed with fresh platinum for their new bands. So now all three of their rings were a mixture of every promise any of them ever made to each other.
Cal actually asked if that was all right, told them they could get something else if they were mad. The dumbass. But he figured it out when Anya completely lost her shit, sobbing and pressing ecstatic kisses to his face. Zac was stunned stupid at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, though in the end he resorted to giving Cal wild kisses too.
“You okay now?” Anya asks Cal.
“I think so.”
“You are,” Zac tells him, because he refuses to accept any less. He puts his feet up on the ottoman beside theirs and studies all their toes—his bony ones, Cal’s longer ones, Anya’s painted soft pink on the right foot, and neon blue on the left, because she can’t reach her toes anymore and her men stepped up to help.
There’s a little dab of sea green on her right ankle too—PJ’s contribution.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell them is all,” Cal says. “The specific words to use to describe what we’re doing, I mean. How do I even phrase it?”
“You tell them the truth.” Zac lets his feet tell Cal that it’ll all be okay, even as Anya’s tell him the same. “We’re a family.”
* * *
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Keep reading for an excerpt from Forgiven by Garrett Leigh.
Acknowledgments
As usual, thank you to my beta readers: Sasha Gore and Connie Peckman. Thanks go to my husband as well, because he found a way to answer music-themed questions like, “But what instrument would Cal play? He’s a goody-goody, does that help?”
About the Author
Sidney Bell lives in Colorado with her amazingly supportive husband. She received her MFA degree in Creative Writing, considered aiming for the Great American Novel, and promptly started writing fanfiction instead. More realistic grown-ups eventually convinced her to try writing something more fiscally responsible, though, which is how we ended up here. When she’s not writing, she’s playing violent video games, yelling at the television during hockey games, or supporting her local library by turning books in late. Visit her online at www.sidneybell.com.
Forgiven
by Garrett Leigh
Chapter One
Mia
Sandgrove Country Park was my entire childhood. Even years after I’d left Rushmere, I still missed the scent of the Christmas tree farm buried in the forest there. How it smelled festive all year round, even in summer, and I recalled with perfect clarity my mum bringing us to choose the cheapest tree to brighten up our budget celebration. Add in Safeway frozen turkey and a slice of Mr. Kipling cake, and I’d been the happiest girl in the world.
I missed that girl too.
With one last breath of earthy pine filling my lungs, I walked back to the dodgy Astra I’d bought on eBay when I’d got off the ferry in Dover last night. I’d driven till dawn to get home—a place so strange and familiar—but the sign for Sandgrove had reeled me in before I’d reached Rushmere, and now I was finding it hard to make myself leave.
On cue, my phone buzzed.
Gus: where are you?
I ignored him. Buried him again, like I had over and over for the last five years, pretending I hadn’t missed him too. I leaned against my car and tilted my face to the bright spring sky. Five more minutes.
Sandgrove had always had a way of sucking up my time, but eventually even the clean air and birdsong couldn’t block out my phone blowing up in my pocket.
With a heavy sigh, I got in the car and called my annoying little brother back. “I’m on my way. What are you hassling me for?”
“I’m not hassling you, sis,” Gus said. “I was worried. You said you’d be here an hour ago.”
I wondered when he’d turned into my mother.
And when I finally made it back to the house we would share on the outskirts of town, I wondered too when my gangly younger sibling had turned into a strapping hottie.
“You’re a man,” I said stupidly.
He cocked a dark eyebrow and enveloped me in a strong-armed bear hug. “Je ne me souviens pas avoir prétendu être autrement.”
He’d missed my point, but that was fairly standard when it came to Gus and me. I talked, he shut me down, then we reversed our positions and pressed repeat. At least, that’s how things used to be. I didn’t know what we were anymore.
Gus pulled back to unlock the green front door of the house he’d bought with his half of our mother’s life insurance. I’d never seen the interior, only Facebook photos of the outside, but as soon as I stepped inside, it became clear that he’d made better use of his inheritance than I had.
I spun around the tidy living space. “This is nice.”
Gus appeared behind me with a couple of beers. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m more surprised that you’re cracking open the booze at nine a.m.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t sleep last night, and I’m guessing you didn’t either, so we can call it a nightcap.”
Worked for me. I was already missing my French diet of coffee and red wine. Sipping my beer, I took a tour of the cosy house my brother called home. Fresh and clean, it was beautiful; he’d even put flowers in my room.
“I figured we’d be overrun soon enough, so I’d better get used to them.”
“Don’t talk shit.” I rolled my eyes. “You think I’m going to bring my work home with me?”
“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived with a florist, so I don’t know whether to expect rose petals in the bath or mouldy daffs in the skip outside.”
“What’s that for, anyway? The skip, I mean. I thought you’d finished the renovations?”