Bounce (35 page)

“I can't wait, too.”

He's sent me a few songs, and they've been amazing. The arrangements are so much tighter, the lyrics punched up. And Grey's voice: it's just perfect.

Again, the sound of bedsprings and then I hear his heavy footsteps on the wood floor, the sound of the window sliding open. I smile, thinking about how many times he's had to pry open my own bedroom window for me.

He won't be there for much longer, I realize. He's found a place to buy—not so far away but still. He's made up with his mother. Things are coming together for him, and while he tells me all about the band's last few days of recording, I can feel the difference it's all made in him. This buoyancy seeps through the phone to wrap around me. I feel his happiness, and for a second, it feels like I've got no place in it, and that makes me start crying again, hard, and this time I know he hears me.

“What's wrong?” he asks. And when I don't answer, he says quietly, so sweetly, “Talk to me, Sky. What's going on there?”

I wish I knew. But I don't, exactly. It's like something in my peripheral vision. I know it's there, but every time I try to turn and look at it, it slips away. I'm just tired, I tell myself. And I don't feel well. I'm running on coffee and adrenaline, and I know it's not great for me, but I can't make myself stop.

“I'm okay,” I say, finally. “Just a little worn out. It'll be good to be back.”

“It'll be great to have you back,” he says. “Just one more week, right?”

“Right.”

“Seriously, though. You need to tell me if something's wrong. Did Brooks—”

“No.” I drag myself back out of the bed, though it feels like pushing through quicksand. I go into the bathroom and find some tissues to dab at my eyes and nose. I've got this sharp pain in my throat, like a sob's caught there. It's making it hard to speak or breathe. “Brooks is great. It's all good down here. Just working really hard. It's okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“When you get home, I'm making sure you take the whole week off, and I will personally punch Parker and Jane in their throats if they schedule anything for you.”

“Fair enough.” I get some water and take it back to my bed. Even out of the cold water tap, it's lukewarm, but I drink it down so fast, it adds to the knot in my esophagus. “I guess I should let you go. I just wanted to say hi and hear how things are going.”

“I'm glad you called.” He's quiet for a long time, and I can hear the sound of cars driving by his open window. “Everyone misses you.”

“I miss everyone, too,” I say. My eyes burn with tears again, and it's starting to feel like they're just going to keep coming, popping up over and over at the most ridiculous, inappropriate times. “Give Beth a big hug for me, okay? And say hi to the guys.” I wish I knew them better, I think. They seem great, and though we've hung out a few times, it feels like I've missed out on them, too.

“I will.” We should wrap up, but neither of us says goodbye. Instead, we're quiet for a moment, so quiet I can hear his breath. Or maybe my own.

“Okay, well, I guess I better get some sleep.”

“Hang on a second,” he tells me. “I've been working on something. I was going to save it for when you got back, but I want to do it now.”

“What is it?”

“A new song,” he says. “I hope it's okay, but I used one of your compositions. Just added lyrics. They're still rough, so don't judge.”

“Really? One of my songs?” I try to imagine which one that could be. I don't write a lot of original music, but every now and then there's something I can't find, something that doesn't exist that I need to work out on my cello.

I hear him picking at his guitar and then start playing in earnest. He's gotten so much better, so quickly, it's astonishing.

“It's called ‘The Long Way Around,' ” he tells me. “Which is kind of how I do things.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah. Okay. Seriously, it's not great, but I—”

“Play it.” I lie back against my pillows. Moonlight slants in from way up high, casting stretched-out shadows on the wall next to me. “I want to hear you sing.”

“Okay,” he says. “Sure. Here goes.”

He plays, and it's my song but so much better. Grey's slowed the tempo, reworked it in a minor key, so it's more somber. And the lyrics are beautiful. It's about finding your way toward a place you know is home. Aiming for the light in the window, even when you seem to walk for miles and miles and get no closer.

“I'm still working on this next part,” he says. “But what do you think of this?” He sings the next bit:

And I don't know if life's a map

With all the directions gone,

Or if it's a lantern that you

Have to keep switched on. . . .

“I love it.”

“I'm still hacking at the chorus. Any thoughts?”

“No,” I tell him. “It's really, really good.”

And it is. But more than that I don't want to offer any other opinions. He'll find his way through the rest. It's already so good, better than anything I could ever hope to write. He's brought my music to life in a way I couldn't have imagined. Given it purpose.

“Play it for me again,” I tell him. “From the beginning without stopping. The whole thing.”

“Really? You want to hear it all again?”

“Yes, please.”

I pull the sheets up around me, smooth them over my body. I feel myself fading, and I know I run the very real risk of falling asleep while he sings. But with Grey, it doesn't matter. He doesn't have a list of expectations for me. He just wants to play his music, share the thing that brings him to life.

And right now, I just want to lie here and listen, to drift off with the moon pouring silver light over my body, and Grey's voice—beautiful, sharp-edged, and warm—carrying me into my dreams.

  
Chapter 39
  

Grey

I
t needs work,” Mom says as she steps into the kitchen of the cottage in the Hollywood Hills. “The kitchen and bathrooms need updating, but you could do that in a few years. The floors need to be refinished, and the whole thing needs a fresh coat of paint, but it has great bones, great light, and the location is terrific.” Her eyes move over the outdated appliances, the cracked white tile countertops, to me. “That's what I think, but what's important is what you think.”

“What you think is important. You know more about this stuff than I do.”

“True,” Mom says. “Let me ask you this: how does this house make you feel?”

I lean against the old fridge and cross my arms, trying to imagine myself living in this small, Spanish-style two-bedroom. It's not as big as the other sleek, modern homes around here—not by a long shot. But it's got potential. Room to expand if I ever feel like doing that, and it's got personality. More importantly, the moment I drove up, I felt something. A kind of rightness. That feeling's only getting stronger by the second.

Through the window, I see my Realtor wandering around in the backyard, checking her phone so Mom and I can talk. The yard is just a modest grass square framed by overflowing bougainvillea. More space than I need. It's not like I have a dog. Buy maybe I could get a dog? The prospect makes me smile. I can't believe I could do that if I wanted to. Suddenly, I see all of it. A couch, a table. My guitar on a stand in the corner of the living room. My mutt asleep at my feet. Sand, from the beach, dusting the floorboards by the front door.

Yep. I can see it. I run a hand over my head. “I think living here will bring me closer to who I want to be.”

Mom's smile goes wider. “I can't think of a better reason to buy a home.”

My Realtor seems to be able to smell money in the air. She's back in less than a minute. “So? Any decision?” she asks.

“Let's write an offer.”

She hugs me, even though I only just met her a few days ago. And then we start tossing around numbers that give me a stomachache. I've already gone through them with my dad, but it's a lot of greenbacks. I'm not crazy about spending a truckload of money without having income on the way. But this area is only appreciating in value. All signs point to this being a good investment. I guess I've come a long way from throwing parties that trash my brother's place.

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Adam, speak of the devil, probably calling to find out if I'm making an offer. I excuse myself.

“I'm buying it,” I say, as I step into my future bedroom. I move to the window, studying the hills that I'll be able to see from my bed one day. One day soon. It's incredible to consider. With the band showcase only two days away, this is becoming a historic week for me.

“What?” Adam says. “Oh, the house. Grey, we need to talk. Something happened over here. Are you listening?”

His voice is reedy and thin. He sounds shaken up. Adam never sounds that way.

“What happened? Is it Skyler? Is she okay?”

“She fainted on set about an hour ago, but she's fine now. She's under a doctor's care, getting some fluids through an IV at the island hospital. We don't know exactly what's going on yet, but it looks like a combination of stress and dehydration shocked her system.”

“Adam, is she okay?” My body goes hot with adrenaline. My hands ball into fists. “It's those fucking weight-loss pills. And she's been losing too much weight.”

“We're considering everything. Grey, she's going to be all right.”

He's telling me this because he knows there are a dozen alarm bells going off inside me right now. Fear. Fear is what's filling me up. So much it feels like rage. Randomly, Mom's words come to mind.
The things that last
are
the things that matter.

In the background I hear Garrett's voice pleading with Adam to hand over the phone. I hear Mia, too. Adam concedes, telling me he's passing me off for a moment.

“Grey, it's Garrett—”

“And Mia.”

“We wanted you to know what's going on, because she asked to talk to you earlier—”

“She's resting in her room now, but she's still not herself. And we didn't want you to worry—”

“What do you mean, ‘she's still not herself'? Is she okay or isn't she?”

Silence. Then it's only Mia on the line. She's stepped away, somewhere private.

“I've never seen her like this. She's pale, and when I look into her eyes, I don't see
her,
you know? It's like she's slipped into some tunnel and all I'm getting is this distant echo. I know she's going to be okay. The doctor is confident about that. But I'm worried about her.”

“I'm coming.”

“No—wait. What did you say?”

“I'll get on a plane today. Tell her I'm on my way. I'll call as soon as I can.”

“You don't have to. We're on the other side of the continent, and there are a dozen people taking care of her.”

“She's asking for me. That's why you called, isn't it?”

There's a soft sigh, then Mia says, “I asked her what I could do to help. She told me, ‘Get Grey.' ”

It's a heartbreaking thing to hear. I don't know what it means. What the hell are we to each other? But nothing is going to keep me away from her. Nothing.

I make some quick calculations. It'll take me a day to get to the Virgin Islands. Even if I'm only there for a day, and turn around and come back, I won't make it back to Los Angeles in time for the showcase. I feel a slow chill spread through me. It's not my dream I care about passing on. It's the guys, the band. This decision affects them, too. But I can only hope they'll understand. I need to go to her.

“I'm coming, Mia. I'll call you when I have my flights booked. Tell Sky I'm on my way.”

  
Chapter 40