“Hi,” I snapped at him while waving. I hoped he could see the sarcasm in my moving hand. “I didn’t sneak in. I was let in.” Big difference.
“Who let you in?”
I was about to tell him when I caught Angie’s panicked expression. I couldn’t get Fox in trouble for doing this. Especially not if I planned on informing Angie that she should love him and get married and make more adorable babies. But Ryan’s mesmerizing nearness was messing with my head in a totally bad way, and I had no lies to offer.
Diego rescued me. “I put them on the list. Maisy here and . . .”
“Angie,” I added.
“Right, Angie. You know how bad I am with names.”
So there.
I expected him to leave, but Ryan stayed put, staring at both of us as if he didn’t like what he saw. And every moment that passed made me more and more uncomfortable. Like he could see into my black, orphaned soul or something.
That and the physical awareness of him made me feel panicky. As did how good he smelled. He hadn’t showered yet, and I should have been turned off by that. I learned once in a biology class that when women are ovulating, they are more attracted to sweaty men. Like their ovaries have magnificent-male-specimen radar.
I had to be ovulating because I kind of wanted to do nothing else but smell him for the rest of my life.
It freaked me out. “Why are you just standing there? Do you want me to thank you for the partial deafness? Which is kind of a big deal considering I need my hearing for my job. Consider yourself thanked.”
“They’re called earplugs,” he retorted. “You should look into them.”
Okay, this celebri-douche was working my last nerve. I gestured to the Martin guitar in his right hand. “So do you actually play that thing, or is it like everything else in your life, just for show?” Because of my brothers, I’d learned quickly that the key to dealing with cocky men was to strike hard if you didn’t strike first. (Other things I had learned included eating fast at meals if you wanted to have seconds and, in the middle of the night, always checking the position of the toilet seat so you don’t fall in.)
“I play. Do you?”
I couldn’t back down from the challenge in his voice. “Of course I play.”
He raised one eyebrow as if he didn’t believe me. “Are you any good?”
Was I any good? Seriously? “Better than you.”
“That’s a pretty low bar,” Diego added in a joking tone, sending up a chorus of oohs from the other band members.
I had felt good about my attack strategy right up to the moment where I saw the fleeting pain in the internationally famous bajillionaire pop star’s eyes. Then it disappeared. “So play something,” Ryan instructed, handing me the precious, snowflake-sparkly unicorn guitar that I wanted to grab and run away with.
I let my fingers drift along the grain of the smooth wood and tested a few chords. It was surprisingly in tune already. I considered being a brat and spending an inordinate amount of time adjusting it to my exact specifications but gave that up when I saw Angie’s face. I had promised her I would be on my best behavior, and here I was provoking Ryan instead.
I played the first verse and chorus of my band’s most popular (187 downloads to date!) song, “Lost.” I hummed along, caught up in the melody, not able to help myself. My sort of twin brother, Cole, and I had written it on a night where we were both really missing our mom. Thinking of her made my throat feel hot. I had to stop playing before I started bawling.
Letting my fingers go still, I realized the room had fallen silent and I had played with my eyes closed.
When I opened them, they instinctively sought out Ryan.
And he looked at me like . . . I couldn’t have explained it. There was this connection there, this invisible string stretching taut between us that made my breath catch.
His anger had faded. Music had soothed the savage pop star.
Ryan’s expression shifted, and he looked confused. Like I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.
“I think the lady wins. Definitely better than you,” Diego said. Reluctantly, I handed the guitar back to Ryan.
And still we just stared at each other. I think Diego asked me if I’d written it, and I might have said yes, possibly adding that I was part of a band my brothers had started five years ago, but every cell in my body was focused on the man standing in front of me.
I didn’t understand why.
“Usually when girls play, it’s some indie-folk thing.” Diego nudged me. Like he was trying to get me to stop looking at Ryan.
It didn’t work. “I like rock. I was raised well.”
“What about Angie?” Diego asked, nodding his chin in her direction. “Is she part of your superhot all-girl group?”
“It’s not a ‘girl’ group, it’s a band.” I hated when guys said stuff like that. As if a woman being in a band automatically turned it into something else besides just a band. And hadn’t I just said my brothers started it? Listening obviously wasn’t one of his social skills.
In the middle of my indignation, I realized I had totally forgotten about Angie and why we were here. I jumped to my feet, miscalculating Ryan’s proximity. We lined up perfectly, nearly touching, and my pulse throbbed so hard and fast that I worried somebody would be carting my never-fainted-before self off to the ambulances.
“Have you met Angie Villanueva?” I asked, my throat dry and my voice scratchy. “She’s a widow. Her husband died last year in combat. And she’s also a big fan.”
He heard my unspoken implication. “And you’re not?”
Like that wasn’t allowed or something. I so wanted to say, “No, your music blows,” but I would be good for Angie’s sake.
When I didn’t respond, Ryan shot me a perplexed look and turned away, stepping back so I could finally breathe again. I sucked air into my lungs, trying to calm down. Ryan shook Angie’s hand and thanked her for her husband’s service and her sacrifice. I could tell from the twist of her mouth that she didn’t like that I’d played the widow card, but it had been worth it since Ryan was being an absolute angel to her, despite being a despicable devil with me.
A red-hot, breath-stealing, fiery, despicable devil.
“Would you like to get a picture with me?” I heard him ask after they’d made some small talk that consisted mostly of Angie telling him how much she loved his so-called music.
“I would love that.” She beamed at him and pulled out her cell phone. “Oh no. I filmed the concert, and my phone died. Can we use yours, Maisy?”
“Yep.” My hands shook as I slid my phone out of my back pocket. Ryan put his arm around Angie’s shoulder, and they both faced me, smiling. I willed myself to relax or else the picture would be blurry and then Angie would kill me, and I totally wouldn’t blame her.
“Say ‘cheesy music,’” I instructed.
They both ignored me and just said “cheese.” I snapped about ten shots of them. There would have to be some out of that bunch that would work. “All done.”
Ryan didn’t move. “Do you want to join us? How about a group shot?”
Something about his tone and word choice bugged me. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Diego can take the picture.” Ryan kept talking like I hadn’t said anything. I glanced at his cousin and saw a mutinous expression on Diego’s face that quickly dissolved. This was one of the reasons why my Rule #1 existed. Sensitive artiste types were seriously moody. Like they had unending PMS.
“Come on, Maisy, I want to memorialize this night!” Angie waved me to her. I could say no to Ryan De Luna all night. Angie? Not so much.
As if everyone knew I would cave, Diego came over and grabbed my phone.
“This one’s going on the website. Ryan’s number-one fan,” Diego murmured teasingly, and I shot him a dirty look.
I lined up next to Angie, but she wasn’t having it. “No, on the other side of Ryan.”
Why did it matter? I sighed softly but moved over to Ryan’s left side and stood as far away from him as I could.
“Scoot in, Maisy.” Diego made a motion to punctuate his request. “Closer. Closer. A little bit closer. I promise Ryan’s had all his shots.”
Now it was Ryan’s turn to sigh. He put his arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. The entire right half of my body went up in flames, my skin igniting like a million Roman candles all exploding at once.
“Say ‘cheese’!” Diego directed. “Stay there. Let me make sure the lighting is good on this one. We can’t have a bad picture of Ryan floating around out there.”
Now he was just torturing me. He probably thought it was because I didn’t like Ryan. I was sure Diego had no idea how my entire being feverishly reacted to touching his cousin.
Then Ryan made it a million times worse. He turned his head toward me, his breath hot against my earlobe, and I almost collapsed.
Until I heard what he was saying.
“Flirting with and using my cousin is not the way to get my attention. I don’t appreciate your antics.”
I pulled back to look him in the eye. I had really tried. Well, I had sort of tried. But Ryan De Luna had just reached the end of my very short tolerance rope, and I was done. “You are seriously the most arrogant, self-centered, douche-iest jackhole I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. And I live in Los Angeles and work in the music industry, so that’s saying a lot.”
I jerked away, freeing myself from his grip. “Just so you know, I’m not even a little bit interested in you. Like, at all. I was just hanging out with Diego while Angie got her chance to meet you. I know you’re a celebrity, and you haven’t been friends with reality in years, so here’s your long-overdue check—I’d much rather date Diego than you. And I don’t date musicians!”
Then Ryan did the most shocking thing yet.
He laughed.
He laughed and laughed like I was some toddler having a tantrum and he thought I was just adorable.
My chest was heaving, my face flushed. I wondered whether Fox would get fired if I smacked Ryan. Angie stepped in front of me like she knew what I was contemplating. She somehow managed to look both horrified and proud of me. “Let’s go. Nice to meet you, Ryan. Thanks for the picture.”
Before he could respond, I said, “Thanks for nothing, you, you . . .” Angie didn’t let me finish and literally pushed me away from the room made of curtains and out the locker-room door. There was a different guard posted outside, which was good because I might have had some things to say to Fox about his poor job-choosing skills.
Angie kept quiet, clear up until we got to the parking lot. “Do you really still have that rule about not dating musicians?”
It was highly satisfying to slam my car door after we got in. “Yes. Now more than ever.”
The one consolation? I’d never have to see Ryan De Luna again.
The next day, despite being exhausted, I made my weekly visit to see Cynthia. After signing in, I followed the orderly out to the gardens. “Maisy’s here to see you, Cynthia,” he said with a calming smile. I thanked him, and he said he’d be nearby if I needed him, but I had this down to a science and didn’t foresee any trouble.
“Hey, Cynthia. Remember me?” I asked, sitting down next to the box where she was planting daisies, her favorite flower. I don’t know why I asked her that every time. The answer was always no.
She frowned, her brows furrowing over her chocolate-brown eyes. “I don’t, I’m sorry. Do I know you from school? They said I had an accident, and I have a hard time remembering things.”
“It’s okay. I brought you some brownies.” I offered her the covered plate and was rewarded with a huge smile.
Cynthia took off her gardening gloves and dropped them on the grass. She took the plate from me. “I love brownies! They’re my absolute favorite. My mom seriously makes the best ones. She said someday she’ll share her secret recipe with me.” She pulled back some of the tinfoil and broke off a small piece of a brownie to try. “Yours are pretty good. I don’t want to eat too much, though. Prom’s coming up soon, and I think Scottie Weinstein is going to ask me, and I’ve already picked out the cutest dress to wear. I just can’t put on any weight.”
Every time I came to visit, the doctors instructed me to play along, to not remind her that there would be no prom. That unless she had a miraculous recovery, she’d never leave this facility again.
“That sounds like a lot of fun. What is Scottie like?”
“Tall. Cute. Funny. But most important, he’s a drummer. In a band.” Despite her protests to the contrary, I noticed she had polished off an entire brownie, one tiny piece at a time. “I love musicians.”
That made one of us.
“And . . . music. I love music. I mean, have you ever listened to Abbey Road? That album seriously changed my entire life.”
“I have. It’s cool.”
“Totally.” She nodded. We talked music for a while, which was what we usually did when I came to visit. It was a safe subject, something that didn’t agitate or upset her. Other acceptable topics included prom and how excited she was for it, or her gap year and how she planned on backpacking all over Europe. How her parents wanted her to go to Yale, but she wanted to attend Sarah Lawrence. It was exciting how well she communicated today. How smoothly our conversation flowed. That wasn’t always the case.
I glanced at my watch. Trial and error had taught me that even though she seemed perfectly fine, half an hour was about all she could tolerate. “It’s been great chatting with you, but I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks for the brownies. Hey, what did you say your name was again?”
“Maisy.” The word caught in my throat because I knew what she was going to say next.
It was what she always said.
“Maisy? Really? That’s so random. That’s my mom’s name.”
“I know. You named me after her.” I whispered the words, not wanting to cause another meltdown where she would have to be sedated. There was nothing worse than seeing your own mother being held down, screaming hysterically, and not being able to do anything to help her.
“What?” she asked.
“I said that is random. And a fun coincidence. I’ll see you soon.”
I had to hurry up and walk away before I started crying in front of her. That usually set her off, too.
My mother had been diagnosed with a severe traumatic brain injury after she’d run her car into a telephone pole when I was fifteen years old. When she woke up from her coma, she thought she was eighteen years old and still living at home. She didn’t recognize her own children. Initially she was diagnosed with transient global amnesia. A woman in England had gone through something similar. She thought she’d gone to bed as a fifteen-year-old and woken up in a thirty-two-year-old’s body, but that woman had eventually recovered. The hope was that Mom would do the same.
My three brothers and I took her home, told her who we were. She didn’t believe us. She didn’t remember us. Seeing her reflection in a mirror spun her out of control. Fitz had just turned twenty-one, Parker was nineteen, and Cole and I were fifteen. We were all so young. None of us knew what to do, how to help her. Nothing worked. Not the psychiatrist’s visits, the medicines, multiple trips to the ER. The part of her brain that allowed her to form new long-term memories had been irreparably damaged. She was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, in part caused by genetics and partly due to the accident. When she was lucid, she was Cynthia van der Bos, the year before she met my father. The psychiatrist suggested that her teen years had become a refuge for her mind, a safe place to forget about the horrific accident and what my father had put her through.
When it became clear she wouldn’t get better, we were advised to put her in an assisted-living facility where they could watch over and help her. We were able to afford it only because my maternal grandparents had been really well off. My father had never contributed a single penny in child support; our mom had used her inheritance to take care of us. She’d paid cash for the Craftsman-style cottage in Venice Beach where I still lived with my siblings. We’d never gone without.
Until recently.
Because inheritances didn’t last forever.
“How’s your mom?” Angie asked me as I stepped inside the main building. She wore her favorite lavender scrubs and handed off a patient file to a coworker at the nurses’ station.
“Good. This was a good day.” This facility was how Angie and I had met. She had started working at Century Pacific Assisted Living three years ago. I had come to visit my mother on my nineteenth birthday. Cynthia couldn’t talk, couldn’t stay still. My being there only made her episode worse.
Angie found me sitting in the lobby, crying uncontrollably. She put her arm around me, told me everything would be okay. I wasn’t upset that I couldn’t talk to my mom. I was upset because now I was officially “older” than she thought she was. In her mind she would stay young forever, like some kind of YA vampire, while I kept aging and aging. For some reason, that broke my heart. Angie promised she would keep a special eye on my mother and would be there anytime I needed to talk.
She’d been my best friend ever since.
“I’m glad she’s doing well. It’s time for my break. Want to do a lap with me?”
I nodded, and we went outside. The grounds had a large, looping asphalt path enclosed by high honeysuckle bushes and the fence they covered up. Sometimes I walked here with my mom, if she was feeling up to it.
“How is Hector Jr.?” I asked.
Her whole face lit up. “He is the cutest toddler in the whole world. Even when he gets up five times in a single night because his mommy went out and he didn’t like it.”
“Poor baby.” I wondered if now would be a good time to mention my plan to marry her off to Fox so she could have his babies. What do they call fox babies? Kits? Then she wouldn’t have to go out at night and could stay home and be a boring married person—making herself, Fox, and Hector Jr. extremely happy.
“But I don’t want to talk about my lack of sleep. I want to talk about whatever was happening last night with you and Ryan De Luna.”