Chapter 1
I shuffled the papers, files, and leaky pens on my desk into some semblance of order, and swept a busted phone charger and an apple core into the garbage, along with the cheesy dollar store smiley-face eraser my last client had left. I wouldn’t be at work for a week, and I didn’t want that thing grinning up at me when I got back.
Sun streamed through the cracks in the blinds and the A/C unit in the window chugged valiantly, to little effect. Sweat along my spine and under my arms dampened my shirt, and my hair was the riot of curls it had been all summer. I wiped hopelessly at my forehead with the heel of my hand.
This was August at Mariposa. This was August in New York.
“Boy, you look like two hours after church in Georgia,” a warm voice said from my doorway.
“Hey, Imari.” I smiled at her.
Imari had run Mariposa since it was a group of three volunteers circulating information to a few foster programs, eight years ago. Now, it was a full-time nonprofit that worked with clients all across the city to provide resources for transitioning out of the foster system. We had ten full-time staff and a number of volunteers, and ran programming at two satellite offices in foster care facilities to work with youth before they aged out of the system.
Imari had also been the one to hire me when most people would’ve told me to fuck off. I was never sure what it was about me glaring and telling her to shove it that made her think potential employee of the month. All I know is that after I snarled at her about how her suggestion that I list references on my résumé was unrealistic because who the hell did she think paid more than five seconds’ attention to foster kids in public schools, she narrowed her eyes at me, and said Hmm. Then she told me to come to this address the next day because she thought I could be useful.
That was three years ago now, and I was pretty sure working at Mariposa had saved my life. At least, it had saved the life I wanted to have from the one I’d expected.
Imari held out a client file to me.
“This is Noé Caldera. Nineteen, mad as hell, and a pain in the ass.” As I took the file from her she bopped me on the knuckles and winked before handing it over. “Sound familiar?”
I mm-hmmed flatly and opened the file to see a glaring boy whose combination of hostility and fear were as familiar as breathing. I’d seen it in the faces of hundreds of boys I’d been with at St. Jerome’s. Hell, I’d seen it every day in the mirror.
“I’m hoping you have more luck with him than Nando or I had.”
“Shit, Imari, if he won’t listen to you—”
“It’s not about listening to me, Matt. It’s about learning to listen to something in himself. You know that.” She took the file from my hand. “Don’t worry about it now. I just wanted to make sure you had. He’s coming in to see you first thing on the Monday you return to the office.”
“Thanks. And thanks again. For the random week off. For understanding.”
The sparkle in Imari’s eyes told me I wasn’t going to like what was coming.
“Well how could I say no to giving you a week to spend with your husband, the rock star, before he leaves on tour.” Her emphasis was teasing but her smile as warm as always.
“He’s not a rock star.” I kicked at the seam where the carpet was coming up. “It’s not even rock music,” I added.
The heat in my face was only partially from rock star. Most of it was from husband. It had been over a year and my brain still couldn’t reconcile the word with the life I thought I’d have, to say nothing of the man himself.
“I know,” Imari said, saving me from the helpless flush of joy I got whenever I thought about Rhys. “I went to his show last night.”
“You did? What? Why? He didn’t tell me.”
“Oh, I didn’t stick around to say hey after. Took my ass home to bed. He’s really something, Matt.”
I looked at the floor so she wouldn’t see me smile. “Yeah.”
“And as to why.” She didn’t move any closer to me because she knew I didn’t like to be touched, but everything in her posture spoke of fierce care. “Because I care about you. I care that you’re happy. I wanted to see the man who makes you so happy. Problem?”
“No, ma’am,” I murmured.
“Good. Tell your husband I said he’s no Otis, but I liked his show just fine.”
“Tell Rhys you like him better than Otis. Got it.” I ducked as she swatted at me with another file.
“Psh, get outta here.”
I shot her a grin as I grabbed my wallet and phone and headed for the door. “Happy Friday. Tell the professor I said hey.”
“All right. Enjoy the week with your man.”
My man. My man, my man, my man. It echoed in time with my steps uptown toward the 125th Street station. I caught the train with a few minutes to spare, and I grabbed a window seat, earbuds and sunglasses firmly in place in case anyone near me felt chatty with TGIF cheer.
Despite Imari’s teasing, Rhys really wasn’t a rock star. Or a blues-folk-rock star. He’d worked as a studio and touring musician since finishing high school. He’d written and co-written songs for dozens of artists, knew people in every walk of the business, and had supported himself with his music since he was eighteen. It was rarified air, even before his first solo album debuted last month and did really well.
Well enough that he was about to go on the road for two months. But I didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about being alone in the cottage in Sleepy Hollow where I’d found myself living against all odds.
He wasn’t a rock star, but he was my man. My husband. And somehow that was even harder to believe.
The train crossed the Harlem River, then followed it west to the Hudson where it turned north. I always sat on the river side of the train. With my eyes on the water, it was easier to pretend the city I’d spent my whole life in wasn’t there. Urban congestion turned to sprawl, sprawl morphed into bucolic woods and sedate towns north of Yonkers.
Sleepy Hollow was the kind of town I’d never known real people lived in. With charming shops along Broadway, elaborate seasonal decorations, historical tour groups led by retirees or college students in period garb, and very little open after 8 P.M., it seemed like something from a 1950s Christmas movie. Nothing at all like the Washington Heights neighborhood I’d grown up in, or Chinatown where I’d been living before I moved in with Rhys.
From the Philipse Manor stop it was only a ten-minute walk to Rhys’s colonial cottage. Rhys said it was likely an outbuilding at one time—a version of the main house in miniature. It was by far the smallest house in the neighborhood, and by far the most spacious place I’d ever lived.
Rhys bought it three or four years ago, when the rent money he’d saved by touring the whole year with five different bands coincided with a dip in the housing market. Though it had a large backyard, the cottage had been neglected and wasn’t big enough for the families looking to live in the area. But for Rhys, the two bedrooms and small living room were plenty, and he had friends come and stay, asking only that they help him strip moldy wallpaper, replace rusted fixtures, and repaint.
Now the cottage was a cheery robin’s-egg blue—at least, that’s what Rhys called it—and was set back from the street by a dirt drive shaded with leafy maple trees.
Away from the city, the heat felt less oppressive, and the cottage glowed in the evening sun. The flutter in my chest as I opened the front door was all for Rhys. It was two-thirds relief and one-third nerves. Even though we’d been married for a year and a half, it hadn’t waned.
I slid my keys on the hook by the door, dumped my wallet and phone on the table, and went to change. The shower was running in the bedroom, and my heart gave a powerful thud. Rhys. Shower. Naked. That was another thing that hadn’t waned. My attraction to Rhys was like nothing I’d felt in my life. Everything he did captivated me. He exerted a force like the gravity of a planet whenever he was in the room. Being close to him made my skin thrum and my heart race.
Once, when he’d told me I could do anything to him I wanted, I’d kissed him for so long I lost track of it. Kissed him until our lips were raw and his muscular body trembled beneath me, until he was the only thing I could taste or feel or smell. Until we were both breathing so hard we were lightheaded and desperate and climaxed together with one desperate thrust between us, sticky and shuddering and still kissing like our bodies turned to liquid heat.
I didn’t like to be touched, usually. But when Rhys touched me, I wanted him to take me apart.
I stripped out of my sweaty clothes and walked into the bathroom. Rhys was humming softly, back to me. The first time I saw him naked, I thought he looked like a superhero. I’d stared at him stupidly, then, and he’d grinned at me. He wasn’t vain, but he knew what he looked like and how it affected some people.
Rhys was realistic. It was one of my favorite things about him.
That he looked like a superhero didn’t hurt either.
Now I took in the way the water broke over his broad shoulders, streamed down the clean groove of his spine, and curved around his round ass to run down thighs thick with muscle. The water had darkened his blond hair.
I must’ve made a noise of appreciation, because Rhys jerked his head suddenly toward me.
When he saw me, his smile was so bright I nearly staggered backward from the force of it. I still didn’t know how it was possible that I could make anyone this happy. But he told me I did, and I tried to believe him.
His happy grin turned to something sharper when he saw I was naked, and he gave me a raking once-over before opening the shower door and reaching for me.
I let my eyes drift closed as I was pulled against Rhys’s firm heat. He was taller and broader than me, and the sensation of having him all around me had taken a little time to get used to. At first it had felt too risky, too vulnerable. But as I began to trust Rhys, it transformed. Now it was the thing I looked forward to all day. The moment when I could shrug off the cloak of distance I wore against the world, and replace it with Rhys’s overwhelming closeness.
“Hi,” I said into the hollow of his throat, and tightened my arms around him. I traced his spine and the thick muscles of his back, reminding myself that he was mine so I was allowed to do this.
“Hi,” he said, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my chin up. He kissed me, slowly. A hello kiss. An I missed you today kiss.
Before I met Rhys I didn’t know there were kisses like that.
We washed our hair and soaped up without talking, skin sliding against skin, trading kisses every few minutes with the kind of lazy sensuality borne of knowing we had plenty of time for sex later. Another thing I hadn’t felt before Rhys.
We dried off and before I could dig out clothes to change into, Rhys slid his palm up my arm to the side of my neck and kissed me.
“How was your day,” he said against my mouth. I huffed out a breath, smirking when he jerked his head away like a shying horse.
I got a swat on the ass and a lazy grin for that.
“Tell me,” he said, and sat down on the bed. I knew he’d sit there, naked, staring at me until I answered, so I flopped down next to him, figuring at least I could be comfortable. Rhys’s bed was great. King-sized and perfectly firm, with pillows I liked to bury my face in against the morning sun. I buried my face in one now and sighed happily as Rhys started stroking up and down my back.
Rhys asked me how my day was every day, like clockwork. It took some getting used to.
I turned my face to the side so he could hear me.
“I thought of a new place I want to add to the list,” I said. With my eyes half closed and my face half in the pillow, all I could see was Rhys’s tan, muscled belly. I reached my hand out and rested my palm there. His skin was warm and I could feel his heartbeat in his stomach.
“Yeah? Where?”
“The Faroe Islands. They’re between Iceland and Norway, but they’re owned by the Kingdom of Denmark. And they’re beautiful.”
“Sounds great,” he said. He rolled onto his back and tugged me toward him. “What made you want to add them to the list?”
“I was walking around during lunch, and it was so hot. I was disgusting and sweaty and I bought one of those frozen lemonade things.”
“Mmm,” Rhys mumbled. He was constantly hungry and got hungrier at any mention of food.
“I sat in the shade and searched for pictures of cold places on my phone.” Rhys laughed and I shoved at him. “Shut up, it totally works. Anyway, I was looking at pictures of glaciers and snowcapped mountains and these pictures tagged with the Faroe Islands kept coming up, only…” I turned my face into his neck. “Um, I’d never heard of them.” Rhys’s hand was soft in my hair. “But they look beautiful.”
“Then we should go,” Rhys said, and rubbed my scalp with his fingertips.
“You’re gonna put me to sleep if you keep doing that,” I murmured.
“That’s okay.”
But I made myself sit up. I hated falling asleep and waking up at strange times. It always left me feeling disoriented and confused. I picked at a loose thread in the pillow case. Rhys threaded his fingers through mine and brought my hand up. He kissed my knuckles.
“I missed you today.” My ears buzzed and I squeezed his hand. “Hey, look.” He hauled himself out of bed and grabbed his phone from the top of the dresser. “I talked to Morgan this morning.”
Morgan was Rhys’s sister, who lived in Raleigh with her husband and two kids. Their parents moved down there five years ago when the first grandchild came.
“Tommy’s obsessed with that little cartoon that you drew of yourself on his birthday card and Morgan took a picture of it and printed out a bunch and he colors them in like a coloring book. So now their house is littered with all these yous.”
Rhys held up the phone and there, on Morgan and Doug’s refrigerator, were four variously colored versions of the cartoon of me.
“Kids are so weird,” I said, zooming in on one of them where my face was purple but my hands were green. “Guess Tommy likes me more than you now, huh?” That would never happen. According to Morgan, Tommy worshipped Rhys, who flew him around over his head like a rocket and flipped him upside down until he puked. Instant hero. Two-year-old Sarah wasn’t quite sturdy enough yet to appreciate the rocket, and she’d only met Rhys when she was a baby so she could take him or leave him.
“I told you, babe, the cartoon version of me that you did looks like Thor.”
I raised my eyebrows and looked him up and down deliberately. “If the hammer fits…”
Rhys caught me by the hand and pulled me off the bed and into his arms. He squeezed me so hard it lifted me off my feet and I didn’t even think he was doing a Thor bit. Sometimes Rhys didn’t know his own strength. He put me down with a kiss and a nip at my neck.
“I’m starving,” he said. “Want to grill?” Grilling was pretty much the only culinary skill that either of us possessed. Fortunately, nearly anything could go on the grill, as we’d proven this summer. I nodded and put on cutoff sweats and an undershirt.
“They want to meet you,” Rhys said from the doorway.
I felt myself freeze. “Who?” I’d shot for casual and only achieved squeaky.
“My family.” Rhys’s voice was soft, calm. He was the most confident person I’d ever met. Not confident like egotistical. Confident like a tree that had stood for a hundred years and was happy being exactly what and where it was. He had an uncanny sense for when to push me on things, though, and when to leave me alone.
“I—yeah, I know. I…we will.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
I fired up the grill while Rhys took care of the food, appearing after a few minutes with a disturbingly large piece of meat and some foil-wrapped packages. He put the meat onto the grill with a sizzle.
“What is it?”
“It’s lamb.”
“Lots of lambs on the Faroe Islands.” The pictures had shown them grazing in the mountains, wooly white bodies nestled in the grass. I squinted at the meat. “That’s what lamb looks like?”
“You’d eat roadkill if it came in a Chef Boyardee can,” Rhys scoffed, dropping a kiss on my head.
I shrugged. “I probably have. That beef ravioli.”
“Try not to starve to death while I’m on tour, okay?”
I’d been hungry before, but at the reminder he was leaving, my stomach just felt hollow.
“I did fine before I met you.”
The scent of smoke and cooking meat filled the backyard and my stomach growled. Rhys gazed at me steadily. His light blue eyes could look as cold as glacial ice or as hot as neon.
“Did you?” he asked.
I sighed. “No.”
We spent the weekend sleeping late, eating, and wandering around Sleepy Hollow.
Even though Rhys had lived here for years, he hadn’t spent much time in town. When he was recording in the city, he usually crashed at the apartment the studio shared out to different musicians. When he was touring with bands, he could be away for weeks or months at a time, and the cottage would stand empty unless he had lent it to a friend.
He hadn’t toured with anyone since I’d met him. Rhys’s best friend was the musician Caleb Blake Williams, and Rhys had accompanied Caleb on every tour since they met fifteen years ago. They’d been lovers for a lot of that time, too. But Caleb’s problems with addiction had cut his touring days short a few years ago, and Rhys had mostly done studio since then. Caleb was doing great these days, and he and his partner, Theo Decker (who was a legit rock star), lived in Stormville, about forty miles north of us.
Since I’d moved to Sleepy Hollow a few months after we got married, we’d explored the town together when we had the time. But there hadn’t been much of that. I worked during the week, and Rhys often had gigs or was in the studio on the weekends. Since his solo album released, he’d been playing shows nearly every weekend. Usually when Rhys played, I went to watch him, and when he was in the studio I went into the city with him and wandered around on my own, like I always had before we met.
When Monday morning dawned, I had to remind myself I had the week off before I could go back to sleep. After breakfast we went for a walk, and Rhys tugged my hand, steering us into the cemetery. It was almost comical, the bright August sun filtering through lush leaves, chittering squirrels and fat chipmunks chasing each other, birds cleaning their feathers, a man throwing a ball for his collie, all against the backdrop of graves and tombs.
“The Ramones shot the video for ‘Pet Semetery’ here,” Rhys said, pointing. “At a grave over there.”
I didn’t know the song. It was one of Rhys’s greatest amusements that I didn’t really care about contemporary music. When we’d first met, I hadn’t wanted to tell him, thinking it was probably kind of a deal breaker for someone whose whole life was music. But in that, as in so many other things, I’d been wrong.
We walked through the rambling paths, commenting on the more outrageously nineteenth-century names and teasing each other about what we’d get on our tombstones instead of angels or anchors. Rhys made up stories about the inhabitants’ lives based on their epitaphs and said excuse me to one, when he accidentally kicked the edge of the gravestone.
“When my grandmother died, Morgan and I were kids, and my mom brought paper and crayons and had us do rubbings of graves to keep us busy during the funeral.”
I smiled at the image of Rhys as a little blond boy, biting his lip like he often did when he was concentrating, and accidentally scribbling red crayon on some old lady’s grave. I caught him by the hand and pulled him close, kissing him. When I kissed Rhys, I could feel every molecule of his attention shift to me. It was the headiest feeling in the world. One hand tangled in my hair, the other rested just above the curve of my ass, and he held me to him like he might never let go.
In the circle of his arms, his warm mouth opening to mine, I would have stayed among the dead forever, because I’d never felt more alive.
Finally, he broke the kiss with a groan and a drag of his hardening cock against mine that spoke of fun if we headed for home. But there was no urgency to it. Just promise. I reminded myself that we had time. Not just time before he left, but time together. A whole life together. My heart pounded like it always did when I reminded myself of that. Part relief and part terror, wrapped up so close together they were inseparable.
On our way out of the cemetery we passed an older man struggling with a collapsible easel, a canvas, and a bag of painting supplies.
“Can I give you a hand?” Rhys called, and dropped my hand to jog over. He picked up the easel and took the man’s bag with the easy grin that made most people smile back. They chatted as they walked to the man’s car, and I trailed behind them. When the man thanked him, Rhys took my hand again and squeezed. The man waved at us as he drove away and Rhys waved back.
We turned toward home and Rhys began talking about something else, but my mind stayed back in the cemetery. Rhys offered his help like it would always be welcome. Like he was happy to help. And I knew he really was. He didn’t expect anything in return and didn’t need any praise. It was help, freely given.
So why—when being with him had given me a life I never imagined—did it still feel so damned hard for me to ask him for any?