CHAPTER 21
Cory
I drag my last tater tot through a smear of ketchup and pop it into my mouth, then stand to throw my paper plate into the trash. Either dinner wasn’t half bad, or I still remember what it’s like to be poor and make groceries last on thirty bucks a week. I’d like to think it’s that second one. No one wants to admit they’re pampered, even if that’s what Sam called me when I showed up here.
She moves around the kitchen, and I try not to watch her. It isn’t working. For someone so unassuming, Sam’s presence fills the room and extends into the hallway. She’s beautiful in the way a Guess model is beautiful—earthy, fresh faced, striking without effort. She’s busy cleaning up and hasn’t noticed me staring, so I keep at it and enjoy the view.
My cell vibrates in my pocket and turns my good mood sour. I’ve ignored the phone all night, but now it’s starting to bother me. Sal’s name has appeared beside every missed call and text—sure he can be annoying, but it isn’t like him to contact me this much. I pull out the cell and study the name, expecting Sal’s to appear. It isn’t him. It’s my brother. A flash of anger sears like a branding iron on my head, and I delete the message without reading it. We both know how he feels about me, and none of it is good. Why call now, after all this time? I toss my phone on Sam’s counter and leave it there. He can wait.
“Thanks for dinner. It actually wasn’t that bad.” I plant my elbows on the table and resume watching Sam. It’s a nice distraction. Best one I’ve found in a while.
“Oh, you’re embarrassing me with the compliments.” She folds the empty pizza box in half just as lightning strikes. Sam jumps; the box falls to the floor.
I stretch for it and toss it into the trash. “Not a fan of storms?”
“I hate them.” Another strike hits the room like a fist to the face—sudden, harsh, angry. The sound is chased by pebbles pinging the roof. Hail, and lots of it. I’ve never seen a woman pale so quickly. She walks to the window and stands in front of it for a moment, then turns and slowly walks to the sofa. I take that as my cue to join her. I let my head fall back against the pillow, still bothered by that text. What does he want? And why can’t I have one nice moment before he tries to take it away? His timing has always been terrible.
There are only a few ways to forcibly remove something from the mind—denial, distraction, alcohol, avoidance. None of which have ever worked for me. I go with distraction anyway because I have no other ideas, and Sam hasn’t offered me anything to drink.
“I love storms, but I prefer hot and sunny. Hence the reason I’m heading to Florida tomorrow.”
Sam shifts position. “It’s a lot better than this place, that’s for sure.”
There’s meaning behind her words, and I hesitate. She sounds bothered, disappointed even. But that could just be my ego talking. It hangs around fairly often, if fairly translates to all the time.
“I don’t know about that. This apartment is starting to grow on me.” I’d stay if you wanted me to. The thought comes from nowhere. Clearly distraction isn’t working. Maybe I should ask for a glass of wine. Or a bottle of whiskey.
“Yeah, there’s nothing like linoleum and tiny rooms to make a person feel at home.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Strained silence sits like a third person in the space between us as Sam toys with the edge of a sofa seam. The grandfather clock ticks off the seconds. One…two…tick…tock… I expect something to detonate any second now. Desperate for conversation, I scan the room until my eyes land on something familiar. Familiar and welcome. And like a life raft tossed to a drowning man, maybe it will save me.
“What is that?” I walk across the room and pluck an old Fender guitar from a stand in the corner and strum a chord. It’s out of tune, so I tighten a string. “Do you play?’
“No.” Sam goes rigid, and I want to die. This isn’t a raft, it’s a shark sent to eat me alive. Full scholarship to Shepherd’s School of Music, the newspaper article had said. The guitar is her sister’s, and I’ve overstepped yet another line. I’ve done it so many times, I’m practically playing hopscotch all over Sam’s life. Jump three spaces to smash the heart, another two to really pound the mind.
I watch her chest rise and fall for a few breaths, but then the storm cloud breaks behind her eyes and it takes the darkness with it. She looks up at me. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or to hate myself, so I wait. I’ll let her decide.
“It was Kassie’s. She played pretty well, actually. Tried in vain for years to teach me, but I’m musically challenged.” She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them. “You can play it if you want to. It might be nice to hear the sound again.”
I want to kiss her for not hating me, but still I hesitate, gauging her demeanor. “Are you sure?” At her nod, I sit beside her on the sofa once again and strum another chord. I adjust a few more strings until the instrument sounds right. While I work, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. If I see one tear, one more sad expression, I’ll put this thing away and never look at it again. I’m tired of adding to her grief, of being the cause of so much hurt. “What do you want to hear?”
“Whatever you want to play is fine.” She hugs her knees tighter.
I give her a look. “You’re getting your own private concert here. At least tell me your favorite song.” I rest my hands on the body of the guitar and wait.
“Hallelujah.”
“Leonard Cohen’s? I meant one of mine, but I’ll play that if you want.” I shrug and strum the first note before she stops me.
“Oh,” she says. “No, play one of yours.”
“Which one?”
When she doesn’t respond, I turn to look at her. She blinks, and for a second I wonder if she can even name one of my songs. Maybe she’s not a fan. But who doesn’t know at least one of my songs? Her sister knew them. Surely Sam isn’t a Cory Minor virgin, so to speak. When she still doesn’t saying anything, a few foreign emotions scratch the back of my mind. First, insecurity. Then confusion. Then something that feels a lot like attachment. I think I might have just fallen in love a little.
Who doesn’t know my songs?
Someone who doesn’t care about my status, that’s who. It’s been so long since this has happened, I don’t know what to say. I bite back a stupid grin and turn away. Time to turn on the fake offense.
“You do know one of my songs, don’t you?”
She clears her throat. “Of course I do. Play the one about…the girl…and how you…”
I get ahold of myself and turn back around. Her face is bright red. My new goal is to make it stay that way.
“You don’t know any of my songs?” I give a dramatic show of falling back against the sofa cushions, rubbing my hands against my face. “Five number one albums, and you can’t name a single song?” My hands slide to my chest and stay there. “I’m hurt. Wounded beyond repair.” Good lord, she’s hot.
“Oh quit.” She bites back a grin. “Play the one from the commercial, the one for the hotel? I know that one.”
A jingle.
Sam knows the only song of mine I’ve ever allowed to be used as a gimmick.
Last year, Go Ahead Make My Night was contracted to become the new theme song for one of the country’s biggest hotel chains. Sure, it made me a lot of money and sure, I had reservations. No pun intended. But I didn’t want to become a parody, a sellout, a punch line. Yet this is the one song she knows. Suddenly I’m on par with a cruise ship musician—one that performs early and can’t draw a crowd even with free drinks and complimentary peanuts. I can’t believe how much I like it.
With one long look at her, I hang my head and begin playing a slow, melancholy version complete with sad, forlorn lyrics. If it’s pathetic she wants, it’s pathetic she’ll get. A jingle. Whatever.
I’m so turned on right now I can barely think.
The sound of her low giggle almost makes me smile. Instead, I continue to draw out each pitiful note, hoping to make her laugh. It hits me then that I’ve never heard Sam laugh. I want to hear the sound more than anything I’ve ever wanted before.
She kicks my thigh, and the guitar almost slips off my leg. I angle my body away from her and keep playing, making a show of giving her the cold shoulder. I’m pretty sure it’s the saddest song any musician has ever sung. I’m also pretty sure I’m about to hear her laugh all the way.
Finally, she can’t help herself. It breaks free and I have to work hard to keep sounding sad. I’ve heard many beautiful songs in my life, seen so many enrapturing sights. But the sound I hear…the sight I see when I turn and catch the light in her eyes might be the best thing I’ve ever witnessed. A rock is in my throat and I can barely breathe, but I stare for a long moment before thinking better of it. It takes effort to tear my eyes away, but I swallow hard and continue to sing. My voice is tight, emotion clutching it in a fist. Sam doesn’t seem to notice.
“That isn’t how it goes!” She laughs louder and shoves my arm. “Play it the right way.”
I dip my head and will a playful attitude to return. “How would you know? You don’t even know the words.” The song morphs into a Southern spiritual.
Sam’s laughter calms into the breathy giggle. “You’re pitiful. I need to call the National Enquirer tomorrow sell my first-hand account of how sensitive Cory Minor really is.”
“Some girls like sensitive,” I say. She ignores me and keeps talking.
“Watch out ladies, he might be cute, but he whines like a girl.” She plants her feet on the floor.
I strum a few chords and think about her words. “You think I’m cute?”
Sam rolls her eyes and pushes off the sofa. “Me and the rest of America. But of course you would focus on that.” She opens a kitchen cabinet door and pulls out two long-stemmed glasses, then reaches behind another door and produces a bottle of wine. “Do you want any?”
I set the guitar aside and stand up to help her. “I want the whole bottle. Where’s your opener?”
She indicates the location with her head. “Someone’s a lush. It’s in the second drawer by the refrigerator, in the back.”
I open it. “It’s been a long day. And since you only have three drawers in this kitchen, it shouldn’t be hard to locate.”
She gives me a look. “Three is all I need. Hope you like Riesling.”
I take the bottle from her hand and study it, then set it on the counter and twist the opener into the cork. “A little girly for my taste, but I’ll take it.”
She sets the glasses in front of me. “Girly is what you’re stuck with.”
I pour a little into both glasses and hand her one, then lean against the counter and take a sip. She’s studying me, but all I can see is her full lips around the glass. They way her throat constricts on a swallow. The way her tongue glides across her lower lip to catch a drop, a move all women make but never know how incredibly sexy it is. Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain pelts the roof and I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I came here for one reason only, because I couldn’t get Sam out of my mind. I still can’t get her out of my mind, but she’s drifted to a corner of it that I can’t afford to go. I should have stayed at the hotel. The penthouse suite was gorgeous.
I wasn’t interested in it. I left it to come to a tiny apartment on the off-chance that I’d get to see a girl I barely know one more time.
And seeing her I am. All of a sudden seeing her isn’t enough.
Especially with the wine coursing through my veins, all set to complicate things. I’m starting to relax, which means my guard will gradually come down at the same time my crass meter will go up, and later I won’t want to leave at all. Leaving is what I do. An integral part of my personality. A requirement for my job, because I can’t afford to stay.
Why can’t I afford to stay? I’m having a nice time, probably a better time than I’ll have at the beach. Sam doesn’t resent me, even seems to like having me around. She’s funny, smart, attractive, hot.
And that’s exactly why I need to go.
“Well, I guess I should get going.” I force myself to say the words as I set my half empty glass on the counter and take a few steps into the living room. I don’t make it far before Sam’s voice stops me.
“You’re leaving? But I thought you wanted the whole bottle?” She nods toward the Riesling sitting to the left of me. “Plus, it’s still storming hard. You can’t just leave in this weather.” Her eyes flash toward the window, concern lining the inside corners.
“I know, but my flight leaves pretty early in the morning and I have a hotel already booked…” I let the words trail off because my explanation is weak. I don’t care about a hotel. I don’t care about loss of money. And I sure don’t care about Florida. But I do care that my mind is going all sorts of places it shouldn’t be going right now, not with Sam.
Never with Sam.
She only nods. A good thing, because I probably don’t deserve a response. Turning toward the counter, she reaches for the cork to seal the wine, then remains still for a moment. Just when I start to ask if she’s okay, my phone buzzes from my pocket.
What are you doing in Springfield? It’s a text from Sal, one that puts me on edge since it can only mean one thing: pictures from the last couple of days are starting to surface. It’s the worst part of my career, the only real part I resent. If the media deems it newsworthy, it circulates. Even a picture of me using the bathroom has appeared twice online in the past—a cliché bar bathroom photo that showcased me hung over and a celebrity bathroom photo that highlighted a one-night stand I’ve already forgotten. How are those interesting to anyone?
Back in my starving artist days, I wanted this career…desperately wanted everything that came with it. The adoration, the sense of accomplishment, the money, the women. It all seemed so elusive yet intoxicating, especially when viewed through the glossy pages of Billboard magazine. To have that kind of power, to make that kind of mark on history and other people’s lives. I wanted to be Elvis reincarnated, John Lennon minus the gunshot. I wanted fame and fame wanted me.
We still court each other, I just never knew that with the things you acquire, many other things are taken away. Namely privacy. Occasionally self-respect. Once or twice, even self-worth.
I don’t answer the call and instead slip the phone back into my pocket with a frustrated sigh.
I pull out my keys and twirl them once around my finger. The sound seems to jolt Sam, and she turns.
“Cory…” She bites a fingernail, glances out the window one, two, three times. Whatever is on her mind, she’s nervous. She drops her hand and looks at me. “Can you stay?”
I blink. She could have said a million things, but I wouldn’t have guessed this one. “Stay here?” Surely I didn’t hear her right. The way my blood rushes to my head I can barely hear at all. “You want me to stay here?”
Her eyes flash to the floor as though imploring it to swallow her. “Never mind. It was stupid of me to ask.” She busies herself by straightening magnets on the refrigerator, lining them up, making their ends meet, generally obsessing over something not worth obsessing about.
I shove a hand in my pocket “Why?”
She won’t look at me. “Because you’re probably looking forward to getting away, and who would want to stay here in Springfield when—”
“No, it wasn’t a stupid thing to ask. I just wondered why you want me to stay.” I spend the next three seconds telling myself her answer doesn’t matter, that the course of my life won’t be irrevocably altered if she professes a die-hard attraction to me and a very real wish to see where this thing between us goes—the same feelings I’m having for her. My little internal pep talk works until she opens her mouth to respond. That’s when all reason leaves and my pulse trips around like an addict on bad acid.
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “Maybe because it sometimes feels like you’re my only link to Kassie. If you go I won’t have that anymore.”
So much for undying love.
“Oh. Because I’m your link to your sister.” I don’t mean to sound hurt, but the tone is there right along the slumped shoulders and stiff neck that suddenly needs cracking. This woman has me feeling all kinds of weird emotions.
“Well no,” she says, her voice wavering a bit. “It just worries me that if you leave, I won’t have anyone around who understands the things I’m going through.”
Eighths. And sixteenths. And forty-eighths. They fold and fold and fold.
And I’m a goner.
Because that’s the moment. The moment when my need to see her and the wild attraction I feel and the weird hope for an uncertain future no longer matter. Nothing matters more than her heart. Her need. Her insecurity. Her grief. It’s raw and it’s real and it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
And neither am I. Sam doesn’t run, and starting now I don’t run either. I might not be able to fix the past, but I can start from here. You can’t outrun your past mistakes, but you can try hard to stand still and face your future. Sam needs me; the least I can do is stick with her.
“But that’s not the only reason.” Her words rush out in an apology, one she doesn’t need to make because I’ve already made my decision. “I also want you to stay because—”
“I’ll stay. My flight can wait a week or so.” And it would. If she needs a connection to her sister—however indirect it might be—I’ll give her one. Tossing my phone and keys on a nearby table, I lower myself to the sofa once again to wait out the storm. I release a slow breath when Sam walks around me and takes a seat at the other end. It’s a start. Not what I’ve come to expect when it comes to women, but with her I’m done with expectations. What Sam needs is what Sam gets.
Ready. Set. Go.
“So.” I lean back and roll my head to the side to look at her. “If you’re stuck with me another week, what do you want to do?”
At the sight of her soft smile, I look away. My heart hammers in my chest as I deliver myself a harsh internal reminder.
Mind, get out of the gutter.
Heart, please stop pounding like this.
Neither one of them listen to me.