I WOKE UP THIS MORNING AS the only actual Mrs. Rhyson Gray in the world.
Not just wearing the t-shirt. Not just the name I may or may not have scribbled on notebooks and other random surfaces in the past like a lovesick teenager. Not some fantasy I awake from only to find reality so much less.
I woke up Mrs. Rhyson Gray, and it is officially the best day of my life.
It wasn’t the first time I woke up in his arms. It wasn’t even the first time I woke to find him leaned up on an elbow, hair tousled, and his silvery eyes contemplating me, hungry and demanding before the sun was even up. All those things have happened before. But cementing forever yesterday with our wedding ceremony, assuring that all those things will happen for the rest of our lives, that forged something deeper and richer than I thought possible. I know he feels it too. In the morning light, he answered every kiss with wonder. Every touch, with awe. Every moment we bared ourselves to one another felt like a miracle.
And this joy.
Oh, God, this joy is the strongest element on earth. It’s titanium. It is the most fragile thing I’ve ever held. It’s gossamer. It infused every look we shared over breakfast in bed. Locked behind our closed suite door, it drowned out the noise of our fears and uncertainties. It has even electrified my performance.
I haven’t been on stage in weeks, and I’ve missed it, but it’s never been like this. The connection with the audience even seems tinged with this joy. I’m doing what I was created to do with the man I was made to love. I know there is more ahead. I have no doubt when I give birth to our baby in a few months, it will even surpass this feeling. But today, still aching from his love this morning, wearing a gold string under my engagement ring to remind me we’ll have this for the rest of our lives, and performing before a packed house like a woman possessed, this day is pinnacle. It is zenith.
“How You Like It,” my duet with Grip from his upcoming album, set this crowd ablaze. An electric current has zipped through the hotel’s amphitheater since the opening act. The more people experience Kilimanjaro, the more they’re astounded and impressed by their talent the way Rhyson and I were that first time we heard them at the beach festival. Luke solidified what America knew when they voted for him on Total Package last season. He’s a formidable artist with huge commercial appeal and the talent to back it up. And Grip. Just wow. Grip is so laidback sometimes it’s easy to forget that in his heart, he’s a poet. That in his soul, he’s an activist. That in his mind lies true brilliance. His lyrics remind us. He’s magnetic onstage, drawing the crowd to him, luring them with his charisma, and then with his talent, feeding them from the palm of his hand.
It was easy to think of this as just a Vegas show, but Bristol outdid herself. Cameras from every media outlet imaginable line the perimeter of the theater. The showcase is streaming online, and millions of people are seeing the juggernaut Rhyson has assembled to launch Prodigy. It’s eclectic, each act so different from the other, but so excellent in its own right. Rhyson has put together something special, and I’m so proud of him as he joins Grip and me onstage when our song ends.
He asks Grip a few questions, and their easy rapport and obvious friendship endears the audience to them both even more. As planned, Grip leaves me onstage with Rhyson to segue into a brief interview before he closes the show.
“So, Kai.” The intimacy of Rhyson’s eyes on me whispers a secret in front of the whole world. “Now I’m supposed to ask you a few questions.”
I nod, a little nervous, but prepared. Bristol sent me the questions beforehand, and they’re pretty standard. What’s not standard is having your husband, who everyone thinks is your fiancé, who is one of the biggest rock stars in the world . . . and also the father of your super secret baby . . . ask you said questions.
“We had these prepared.” Rhyson holds up an index card for everyone to see. “But I just thought, what’s the fun in that?”
He tosses the card, and most of my composure, over his shoulder. Wicked glee infuses the smirk he levels at me.
“Let’s go off-road a little.”
The crowd laughs and cheers, probably because my face shows my shock and apprehension.
“So, Kai.” Rhyson puts on his “I’m going to be serious, no, really, I am” face. “Can you tell us why your hummus always tastes like butt?”
The audience explodes laughing. I can’t help it. I give him the evilest eye I can muster before I break down, covering my warm face and laughing through my fingers.
“Okay. Real question this time,” he says. “Tell us the one artist who’s inspired you the most.”
He already knows this, of course.
“I’d have to say Cher.” I’m braced for his teasing, but despite the knowing glint in his eyes, it never comes, so I continue. “I love her stage presence. Love what a complete entertainer she is. Whether she was singing, dancing, cutting up on a variety show, or winning Oscars and Emmys for her acting, she’s always excellent and undeniably talented. And her work ethic is amazing.”
I force myself to stop gushing because I could go on all day about Cher, and I don’t want to hear about it from him later.
His next few questions are a great mix of serious and outrageous. I find myself relaxing and feeling more comfortable talking than I ever have. I love the music, but I’m not actually an extrovert, so sometimes I feel stiff or less than sparkly in interviews. I realize that Rhyson recognized that and tailored the questions to bring out some of the things only those closest to me ever get to see or know. He tailored the questions to the things he loves about me, and it makes the audience like me more. I can feel their perception of me shifting as Rhyson guides them to the conclusion he reached long ago.
I’m pretty awesome.
At least in his mind. And I sense, now, a little more in theirs.
“Last question.” He smiles, but something hides behind the humor in his eyes. “You ready?”
“Bring it on.” I smile out at the crowd.
“What was the greatest moment of your life?”
My smile slowly fades as I seriously consider his question. I’m standing here, literally performing in front of more people than I ever thought I would. I always used to dream of performing for my father, and though I can’t pick him out of this crowd of faces, he’s here somewhere with the sister I’ll meet for the first time after the show. As bitter as my relationship with him has been, there’s still something sweet there for me to savor. I’m married to a man whose voice comforted me in my darkest days and who ushered me out of grief and darkness into light with his friendship and love. I’m carrying his child, and every day, I’m overwhelmed by his devotion. Tears sting my eyes and burn my throat. I’m humbled by it. Gratitude, unconditional love, and, yes, joy rise and rise, levitating me from the inside like helium.
“Kai, your greatest moment?” Rhyson prompts, his eyes so full of undeniable affection.
“This one,” I whisper with a teary smile.
He surprises everyone, me most of all, by slipping an arm around my waist, cupping my neck, and kissing me so sweetly on the lips. I can’t help it. Even with millions watching, love and hunger push me up on my toes to get closer to him. To get more of him. The pieces none of these people will ever have, will ever know. He groans into the kiss without deepening it. We both know if we open our mouths just the tiniest bit and get a taste, if there is even a glimpse of tongue, it’s going viral.
The whoops and cheering are still going after he releases me and I make my way backstage. Grip high fives me and Luke makes kissy faces. The Kilimanjaro guys, who I’m still getting to know, just give me “awwwws” and eye rolls. One of them even sings “Rhyson and Kai, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” I’m like a cheerleader trapped in a fraternity with these guys. I need to find at least one other girl for the Prodigy family.
Rhyson’s onstage, talking about his vision for the label and all the exciting things developing this year.
“He didn’t mention your album.” Grip looks down at me, arms folded over his broad chest and a question stamped on his face.
I bite my lip under Grip’s scrutiny. Rhyson hasn’t talked about the revised schedule, of course, with anyone since no one else knows about the baby. I don’t know if it was the wedding. Maybe it was yesterday’s scare with the fan, though unfounded, that has put everything into perspective, but as much as it stings, I’ve made peace with the delay. Rhyson is too much of a perfectionist to rush the process. The entire process. And momentum is broken if I’m having a baby in a few months. It hurts. I’m disappointed, but nothing can dent this joy.
“I guess he’s reassessing.” I shrug. “Probably a timing issue. It’s fine.”
“Well, dude knows what he’s doing.” Grip grins. “Best friend or not, I wouldn’t have signed with him if I didn’t believe that.”
Rhyson’s instincts are impeccable. Every artist signed to Prodigy believes that. Believes in him. After all the resistance I put up to signing with him initially, I’m now the biggest believer of all. I watch my husband charming a million people with a single smile and have to smile myself. A believer? Who am I kidding? When it comes to Rhyson, I’m a fanatic.
“Who’s that with Bristol?” The undercurrent darkening Grip’s voice forces my eyes past Rhyson, backstage left. We can see Bristol across from us in the wings on the opposite side of the stage. A man, tall and blonde, wearing a suit that looks like it’s lined with money, rests one hand on Bristol’s hip, and his head dips a few inches so he can whisper in her ear. Bristol looks more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks, her smile wide and her eyes flirting. It could be because the showcase, which has consumed her more than any of us, is almost over. Or it could be because one of the country’s most eligible bachelors has his hands all over her.
“Um, well.” I fold my lips in, being careful with my words. Who doesn’t know how Grip feels about Bristol? Maybe I’m the only one who suspects Bristol feels something, too, but you wouldn’t know that looking at her now.
“‘Um, well’ isn’t an answer, Kai.” Grip’s eyes don’t waver from the couple who look so perfect together, both tall, his fair coloring a dramatic contrast to Bristol’s dark hair. “Who the hell is that dude?”
“Charles Parker.” I loop my elbow through Grip’s, feeling the tension cording his arm. “His family owns the Parker Group and all the Park Hotels, including this one.”
“And half the world with it.” Worry creases Grips forehead. “Am I fooling myself? Maybe she doesn’t . . .”
I elbow him in the ribs.
“Hey, look at me,” I urge when he can’t seem to stop watching them. Jealousy lives in the dark eyes he finally turns to me. “She does.”
His expression eases by degrees, and one corner of his firm lips quirks, looking more like the Grip I’m used to seeing.
“I used to believe that, but now I’m not so sure.”
“When did you believe that?” He doesn’t answer, but drops a guard over his expression. “When, Grip?”
“It was a long time ago,” he answers softly, eyes drifting back to Parker and Bristol. “Maybe too long ago.”
“Well, most guys who like a girl find every possible way to be around them.” I notice Rhyson sitting down at the piano to close out the show. “He did.”
“You’re right about that. I’ve never seen Rhys that persistent about anything but music.” His grin goes as quickly as it came, giving way to the considering look he gives me. “You mean I should let her be my manager? I just don’t want to be her job.”
“Grip, I hate to break it to you, but you’re already her job. Anything associated with Prodigy is her job. It’s up to you to take advantage of that.” I place a finger over my lips. “Now hush. My husband’s about to play.”
He squeezes me into a side hug, and then we both go quiet while we wait for Rhyson to begin.
And we wait.
It’s too quiet for too long before I remember, before I notice him massaging his right hand. With everything that has happened over the last day, I’d forgotten about his hand. I know he hears the difference, and I know what he means, but this crowd won’t. He’s still the best musician I’ve ever heard. I will him to look up from the keys, to seek me out like he always does. Finally, he searches the shadows until he finds me. I don’t wait for him to signal me. This time I signal him.
I tug my ear and press my hand to my heart.
“I live you,” I mouth to him, hoping my eyes tell him all the things I would say if he were close enough. That he’s rare. That he’s the gift, not the talent of his hands. That even if he could never play another note, he’d still have me, and I’d adore him no less.
Just as the crowd starts to murmur, growing uncertain about the delay, Rhyson smiles, rubs the tiny gold thread tied around his ring finger and begins to play. Not with just his hands, but pouring his whole body into it. Like the first time I ever saw him in Grady’s music room, passion wreaths his face until he’s lost to the intimacy of him and his instrument. His fingers run nimbly from one end of the piano to the other, shoulders heaving with the effort of coaxing sounds from another realm into this one. It’s not a song from a previous album. Not a song anyone has ever played on the radio. Not a tune I’ve heard drifting up from the music room. It’s classical, but his original. The gentle swells surrender to monstrous crescendos. This music crests and crashes over everyone listening and holds us rapt. It towers over anything even I’ve ever heard him play. From measure to measure, the song evolves like a living thing, at once timid and next terrifying with black keys and dark notes, and finally with tender breath. So subtle, each note like a whisper that finally, when I’m not sure I can withstand another moment, dies.
When I was a little girl, my father always talked about a great cloud of witnesses in Heaven. Those who have gone before and wait for us beyond. He used to tell me they’re always there observing this life, but every once in a while, something so glorious happens on earth, they find a way to join in. And I imagine I hear their applause because the response is so thunderous in the amphitheater, surely we aren’t the only ones clapping, yelling, asking for more.
Instead of giving us more, Rhyson looks around almost like he’d forgotten we were there. He pushes away from the piano, shaking himself a little, and waves to the artists in the wings, encouraging us to join him onstage. I would never have had this with Malcolm—this energy and sense of family surging through our little group as we link arms. It feels so good to be tucked into Rhyson as he reminds everyone that the night is about us and the future of Prodigy.
We start to exit, leaving Rhyson to wrap up the last few things Bristol needed covered. I don’t know why I look out at the audience as we leave the stage. Maybe to check just in case I do, by some miracle, spot my father and half-sister. Whatever compels me to look out, I’ll always be grateful.
I don’t see my father, but I see those blue eyes boiling with resentment. Narrowed with an inexplicable indignation. Only this time they’re not fixed on me. Those eyes fix on my husband with a rage so cold, I shiver. The other artists keep walking, brushing past me as they return to the wings. I stop where I am and will her to turn those eyes on me. I silently, recklessly beg her to direct that wrath at me, but she doesn’t. Slowly like she’s got all the time in the world, she raises her arm and aims a gun at the love of my life.
Those immediately around her react, shrieking and climbing over other people to scurry away. It all unfolds in slow motion, and yet in an instant. In the space of a blink. In the span of a breath. The commotion draws Rhyson’s attention, but he doesn’t know. He has no idea, and by the time he processes what’s happening, it will be too late.
Would you die for me, Rhyson?
Twice if I could.
You will always believe in them, always expect the best in them, and will always stand your ground in defending them. Till death do us part.
Perfect love casts out fear.
Leap for me, Kai.
Leap!
And before my mind can talk my heart out of it, I do.