SKYLAR
I’d never been so excited for the Thanksgiving holidays. Raif and Striker were already at my house, and in minutes Ricky would be walking through the door.
My father ruffled my hair. “You know Ricky is never on time.”
The clock showed he had exactly two minutes to prove Daddy wrong. And I knew because I hadn’t stopped inspecting the second hand.
Raif walked in from the kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee. He’d resemble a preppy Englishman about to sit for a spot of tea except for the white-blond spikes of hair so gelled and stiff, they shimmered in the light. “I don’t recall getting a Skylar welcome party.” His face scrunched, a fake pout directed at me.
“Skylar’s always loved Ricky more than us. I accepted her poor taste a long time ago,” Striker said, joining us in the fancy parlor no one used.
Striker and Raif stood together like a yin yang symbol. Striker was as black as Raif was white. Only Striker’s hair hung down his back in long dreadlocks. He also had three earrings in each ear and more fashion sense than Vera Wang.
Truth was, I loved them all. They were my family and, more than anything, I just wanted Ricky to get here so we could all be together.
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Raif said. I scooted over, giving him a place to sit. He delicately set down his coffee mug and pulled out a small box from his pocket. The baby blue color had my heart fluttering. “Some of us know the way to a woman’s heart.” He handed me the Tiffany’s box and winked. “Happy Birthday, Kiddo.”
My birthday. Eighteen. It was only a couple of weeks away, but I’d hardly thought about it.
“Thank you.” I pulled the delicate white ribbon and opened the box. My throat thickened. It was my name, Skylar Wyld, in platinum with small stones lining both y’s. The first was lined with my father’s, mother’s and my birthstones. The second was lined with the birthstones from the rest of the band. I knew because I’d been obsessed with birthstones at fifteen and made them all suffer through my phase with gaudy Christmas presents.
His voice caught. “It’s a one of a kind, like you.”
I hugged him tight. “It’s perfect. Thank you so much”
“What’s this? We’re apart four months, and now I don’t even get a hug?”
I sprang off the couch and into Ricky’s arms. “You’re here!”
He smelled like home. Stiff leather, Boss cologne and spearmint. Ricky was the heartthrob of the band. Tall, tan, shaggy brown hair and a chiseled jaw that still turned heads, even at forty-eight years old. He’d been my first, second and third crush until I was finally mature enough to realize he was an old man. A fact I liked reminding him of often.
“That’s more like it.” He pushed me back, keeping a grip on my upper arms and studied my face. “My goodness, Skylar, you’re the spitting image of your mother.” His eyes flicked to my father’s. “Better get your shotgun ready.”
“I’m one step ahead of you.” My dad pulled Ricky in for a man hug, and I didn’t miss the way Ricky’s face flinched when he squeezed my father’s disappearing frame.
The harsh reality of the situation poured off Ricky like steam from a latte. I could ignore it with the others. Ignore that Raif and Striker had left their families at home to fly halfway across the world and spend this time with my father. But with Ricky, I knew there would be no pretending. They all were coming to say good-bye.
The others hugged and greeted while I stayed rooted in place, my chest burning as I tried again and again to push away the sudden weight of sadness.
“Once again, you stole my moment,” Raif complained. “I give a woman jewelry, even get a hug out of her, and with one word she’s flying across the room. Shameful.”
“Skylar’s my girl, what can I say?” Ricky slung an arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head.
I nestled in, reveled in the reassuring security of my dad’s best friend. Reaching out, I took my father’s hand and focused on the faces of the men I’d known my whole life. A sea of tears streaked down my face.
My father did a double take at my sudden emotional shift. “What’s wrong, Princess?”
Three pairs of eyes followed his, and the room became eerily still, like the tiniest movement would send me over the cliff. But the silence only pushed me forward. Laughter bubbled in my chest and then came out in a hysterical laugh/cry where snot mixed with tears and words became a slur of sobs.
Ricky snapped his head toward my father. “What the heck, Donnie! What’d you do to our stable, happy girl?”
My father threw up his hands. “Don’t blame me. She’s the one who up and got a boyfriend.”
They all gasped, and I doubled over. Maybe from the laughter or the pain or from how unbelievably tired I felt trying to stay hopeful. Hands rubbed at my back, soothed my hair and held mine as the four men who raised me tried their hardest to make all my sorrow go away.
*
Tucked in a chair with a blanket up to my chin, I fought off the autumn chill in our backyard. It had taken numerous jokes, a box of tissues, and a hot bath to finally calm me down, the flood of repressed emotion so overwhelming that hiccups followed my burst of tears.
My hair, still wet, left splotches of water on my t-shirt, but I was past caring. I just felt empty.
Wood from our new fire pit crackled and offered a tiny bit of extra heat, but mostly it was there for ambiance. Dad had turned our backyard into an outside oasis, yet I was the only one seated on the wicker sectional. Proof that my hysterics had scared them all away.
Four unlit Tiki torches with citronella marked the corners of the patio. We’d planted a rose bush near the back door, and I stared at it wondering if my dad would ever see it bloom.
“Finally calm?” Ricky hesitated, waving a steaming cup of tea like a peace offering. “I’ve been kicked out of the kitchen, and I need a place to land.”
I patted the space next to me and tucked my bare feet further under the blanket.
“So, where’s this so called boyfriend? Aren’t y’all supposed to be meeting parents, stuffing your faces with too much turkey and trying to sneak away for stolen kisses?”
I pushed his arm. “It’s not like that. We’ve only been dating a little while.” And we’re heading right into breakup territory. Cody had left me four messages. None of which I returned.
“That’s not how your father explains it. ‘Gooey eyes’ he said.”
“My father exaggerates.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Donnie saying Cody is our ‘biggest fan’?” The air quotes were as annoying as the tilt of his lips.
“No.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Because I don’t want him here. I-I just want it to be us, like it used to be.” The answer flew through my mouth without a filter.
Ricky gave me his you-can’t-live-in-a-bubble scowl. And I gave him my just-watch-me one right back.
At a stalemate, we settled for staring at the woodchips in silence until Ricky’s voice sliced through the calm. “I just bought myself a nice little bachelor pad in Southern Cal. Ten thousand square feet, a pool, tennis courts. It even has a sauna. You can come stay with me any time you need to.”
Around my neck lay my mom’s locket and Raif’s gift. I touched them both.
“You’re leaving Germany?” Another change. Another tear in the fabric that once was our life.
“I only went there for the band. And now, well, things are different.” He tipped my chin. “You can talk to me about it, you know.”
“About what?”
Ricky kneaded his eyes with his fists like my question caused him stress. “You may look like your mother, but you and your dad share one unmistakable curse—you both won’t stop pretending.”
My heart pumped hot lava. He was siding with Aunt Josephine. Traitor. “There’s nothing wrong with being hopeful. Dad’s healthier than he’s been in months. He has color back in his face. He isn’t reacting to the chemo anymore, and I know he feels better because he’s playing every day and writing again.”
“That’s good, Skylar. I’m glad.” But his sad eyes and drooping shoulders told me he was placating me. Just like he did when I was twelve and begged Sheila and him to save their marriage. I begged them not to divorce. Insisted they could work through their problems. Six months later he signed the final papers and last year signed another set, ending his third failed attempt.
“So…” I could tell he was fishing for something to talk about. “You’re graduating this year. What fashion schools have you applied to?”
I poked the chips with a fire rod, already hating this new subject. “Dad made me apply to ESMOD in Paris, but I’m not going.”
“Why not? That school is all you’ve talked about for years.”
I exhaled a frustrated stream of air. “You know why.”
“Yes, because you father is sick. He’s dying—”
“Don’t say that!”
Ricky’s voice lowered to a soft purr. “Honey, we have to make plans.”
I closed my eyes and pushed away the creeping panic. “If you came out here to discuss caskets and wills and where I plan to go if my father dies, you can just go back inside and braid Striker’s hair or something.”
A loud laugh rolled out of his mouth and fell over me like at iron vest. This wasn’t funny.
“Yep. Just like your dad.”
I twisted the blanket in my fists until warm hands pulled them free.
“Being prepared doesn’t mean you’re giving up. Allowing yourself to hurt, to grieve, to share your feelings doesn’t mean you’ve lost hope.”
He didn’t get it. I was the only one willing to share. Dad had cut me out. Cody had cut me out. They’d put their trust in someone else and left me stranded in the process.
“You need—”
I put a finger to his mouth and pleaded with eyes that had gotten me my way so many times I’d lost count. “It’s Thanksgiving, Ricky. Let’s just enjoy our day.”
Ricky pursed his lips and leaned back against our shared cushion. After a long drink from his mug, he chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I almost didn’t want to know.
“Nothing. Just that your dad said the same thing to me not ten minutes ago.”