She drew patterns on my chest, causing goose bumps to ripple over my arms and my nipples to tighten. Fuck. This girl owned my body.
“How’s that going?” she asked.
I grunted. She lifted her head and stacked her palms, resting her chin on them. Her violet eyes held mine. “Your songs give me chills. I’ve seen you perform. I have no doubt that you’re going to make something amazing.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, unable to tell her how much those words meant to me.
As I performed that night, knowing Aya stood in the wings amped me up. Each show that week was better than the last. I loved looking over and seeing her there.
But I was glad when we returned to Austin the following week. Eight weeks of new cities, the late nights, all of it had caught up with me, and I planned to crash hard when we arrived at Cam’s ranch. And Monday was the first day of school. Jeez. Might have cut that a little close…
Cam invited Aya and me to stay the night with him, but she politely declined, explaining that she wanted to see her mother. Mama Grace insisted on feeding us before she allowed Steve to drive us back to Aya’s house, but once he did, Mrs. Didri-Aldringham met us at the door. The smell of chai, butter, and sugar wafted from the kitchen as she hugged us both.
“Mrs. Ombly and I made Madeleines,” Mrs. Didri-Aldringham said, her hand smoothing back Aya’s hair. Her smile was blinding, but her face was thinner, paler than I remembered. Her eyes were bright with happiness. “They’re Aya’s favorite.”
I nodded. “I remember. I like them, too.”
She smiled and went to get us both mugs of tea and a plateful of cookies. I wanted to stay there, in that kitchen, for the rest of the night—mainly because I dreaded going home. Steve had told me earlier that my dad was there and in a foul mood. I hadn’t asked for details because I’d read enough of the press to know critics continued to pan his album and the band had canceled the second half of their tour.
As we nibbled, we caught Aya’s mom up on the tour. She already knew about my record deal.
“Mrs. Ombly and I made up the guestrooms,” Mrs. Didri-Aldringham said, “in case you wanted to stay here tonight. I know you have to collect your school items before class on Monday. I can’t believe it’s the first day of your senior year.”
I reached under the table and squeezed Aya’s hand.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, smiling. “We’ve spent so much time together that it’s going to be weird not seeing Nash all the time. And now we can all have breakfast together before Nash and I hit the mall.” She beamed at me, and I realized she’d set this up. She knew I would have stayed at the ranch to buy more time away from my father. Gratitude filled me.
Mrs. Didri-Aldringham smiled, her thumb brushing a crumb from Aya’s cheek before she cradled it in her palm. “Mind if I tag along? I’ve missed seeing you.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
I couldn’t remember the last time my mother took me shopping. She sent me gifts, often, and she called, but I wasn’t sure the last time I actually saw her. I hated that she preferred to live in Europe than with me, but I wasn’t willing to leave Aya or Cam—even though I craved the closeness Mom and I had once had.
I smiled as I looked over at Aya. The next year spread out before me, like a movie, and I liked what I saw. Asher had insisted I take this year, my senior year, as part of the deal—he wouldn’t let me begin recording until next summer. That meant I had nine months with Aya. Our classmates would find out about my touring with Cam and my record deal, and that would keep me at the top of our social hierarchy—not that I cared that much.
Sure, we’d have schoolwork, and I’d write a million terrible tunes with only a few that were good enough to show Asher next summer, but I also knew I’d spend hours in this kitchen, in this house, in Aya.
“Thanks,” I murmured. I wiped my fingers on a napkin and tucked some of Aya’s hair behind her ear.
She nuzzled into my hand, her eyes bright and filled with so much emotion. “Anything to make you happy.”
Contentment washed over me. For the first time in years, I was happy.
21
Aya
Nine Months Later
* * *
Loving Nash was easy, like breathing. No, easier. I’d done it for so long, unknowingly, that it was simply a part of who I was. However, the reality of being his girlfriend and attending Holyoke was more complicated. Every once in a while these days, I’d get a call from a reporter who wanted a story on Nash, Asher Smith’s newest star. I always declined to comment, jealously guarding his secrets. But the girls at school had been another matter.
They’d fawned, they’d rubbed against Nash while sliding their phone numbers into his pocket, and they’d talked about me. I was aware of the online groups where girls discussed the many ways I wasn’t pretty or sexy enough to date Nash. They made fun of my college goals, wondering why I would bother with an education when I could simply tour with him. They debated why he wanted to have sex with me.
It felt awful to know that was out there, but I had done my best to ignore those comments, blatant or insidious, and just focus on my life, on Nash. We’d spent every lunch together, and he’d often come to my house after school. The situation with his father had nose-dived, and while Nash didn’t speak of it much, each time he went home, he returned quieter.
Mum had agreed that Nash’s home life wasn’t the best, so she never questioned him staying over. Steve often stayed with us, too, which my mother seemed to enjoy. She beamed over the dining table, pleased to have it filled.
During our senior year, Nash and I went to homecoming, to the Valentine’s dance, and to prom. My mother and Steve took tons of pictures before each, and I’d framed my favorites, setting them on a shelf in my room next to my bureau.
Nash had held me in his arms on more than one occasion as I worried over my mum’s weight loss, which she always chalked up to exhaustion, though neither Nash nor I bought that story.
He’d asked her point-blank one night if she was sick.
She didn’t answer.
But at least he’d asked. At least he’d tried.
When I looked back over the year, I guessed loving Nash had held me together with the weirdness that was both the perfect romance and occasionally a source of inner turmoil for me. But we had each other, we hung together, and that was all I could ask for. He was my safe place, my home.
However, while loving Nash came naturally to me, sometimes getting along with him was a whole other issue.
Like now. He was in a foul mood, brought about by his dad’s sex-with-a-groupie video making the rounds on the internet. That press had his mother smiling impossibly wider, her eyes empty as she hit each of the clubs on Milan’s strip, and even as she called Nash to tell him she’d sent divorce papers to Brad.
“I just can’t anymore,” she said.
I could hear her through his phone speaker, so I shifted away. But Nash pulled me down onto his lap, tucking my head under his chin as he leaned back into the pillows on my bed. I sought out my UT pennant on the opposite wall.