The Secrets of Attraction (13 page)

He nodded. “Okay. I'll, um, call you, maybe we can do something tomorrow after my game.”

“Sounds great.” I started up the stairs.

“Madison?”

I turned, still holding on to the railing. He ran up to me, his lips brushing my cheek as he brought his mouth to my ear. I shivered.

“I love you,” he whispered.

He backed away before I could say anything, which I was grateful for, because I'd stopped breathing.

“Just, you know, think about it,” he said, getting into the car.

Why did he have to go and ruin everything?

The yelling woke me up.

I rolled over and looked at my clock. Ten a.m. I thought for a moment it could have been something on TV, but it was coming from downstairs, and we didn't have a television on the first floor. I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Listened.

“How could you do this?”

Paul.
Paul?

“Please stop yelling.”

“Dana . . . why? Why would you keep something like this from me?”

It felt weird to eavesdrop, even though it wasn't like they were doing much to keep it down. My bedroom was directly above the dining room, so I hopped to standing, making sure they heard my footfall in case they were there. I took exaggerated steps toward the door, swung it open and whistled as I walked into my bathroom. Silence. Paul had said something about making Nutella crepes for Saturday breakfast, but there were no delicious aromas wafting up from the kitchen.

I padded downstairs in my slipper socks and jammies and rounded the corner to the dining room. It was empty. I looked toward the kitchen. Paul was leaning against the counter. The expression on his face was odd. Intense. His features hardened. When he looked over at me I startled.

“Hey,” I said. A chair scratched across the linoleum and my mother appeared in the doorframe. She was in her yoga gear, flushed as if she'd just gotten back from a class.

“Madison,” she said, walking out to me. “Good morning.”

She gave me a hug. I squeezed her back. Not that my mom didn't hug me, but it was a little out of sorts for first thing in the morning.

“What's up?” I asked as she pulled away. Something about the way they both looked freaked me out.

“Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” I lied. I'd tossed and turned all night thinking about Zach. I'd even turned off my phone for fear he'd want to text or talk, neither of which I was up for after what he'd said to me. I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to do. He had told me to think about it. If I loved him—would this be how I reacted?

“Let's sit down.” She gestured to the living room we rarely sat in, especially now that it had become her meditation spot. Dread snaked up my spine. She was acting odd, stiff. They both were. I perched on the couch. Paul sat in the wingback chair; my mother was next to me but on the far end of the couch.

“What's wrong?”

My mother played with a phantom thread on her yoga pants, making small circles with her index finger.

“Dana, please,” Paul said.

“Madison, you know how much I want to integrate yoga in my life, right?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. Paul ran a hand across his face then fixed his eyes on me. I shifted in my seat.

“Well, it changes you, makes you reevaluate your life and your beliefs. And one of the first things you learn about is the principles of yoga.”

“Mom—what are you talking about?”

She took a deep breath and looked at me.

“Satya. Truth. It's about living an authentic life.”

“Is this about Leif?”

It snapped her out of whatever yogi-wisdom trance she was headed into. Her face scrunched up. “No.”

“Who's Leif?” Paul asked.

“Our instructor. Mom, you're seriously freaking me out, please just spit it out,” I said.

“I want you to understand, I've always done what I thought was right for us. And I knew there would come a time when, well, we'd have to face this at some point.”

“Face what?”

“Oh hell, Dana.” Paul stood up. “I'm your father, Madison.”

I repeated the words in my head while looking between them, waiting for more of an explanation. My mother was on the edge of the couch, lips pressed together, her brows practically up in her hairline. Paul had his hands on his hips. I looked between them, unsure of what to say, letting the words sink in, trying hard to understand.

Paul is my father
.

My eyes landed on the Laughing Buddha statue—his mouth frozen in a perpetual smile. A reminder of abundance. Of Zach with his shirt off. I started laughing, low at first, but then I couldn't help it and covered my mouth in a fit of silent giggles. I finally caught my breath.

“Yeah, right.”

“Madison, it's true,” my mother said, reaching for my hands. I pulled away and stood up.

“But he's been here. He's been in our lives forever. . . . You . . . How . . . I don't understand. Did you know?” I looked at Paul, his eyes pained. He shook his head. My mother stood up.

“Mads, you have to—”

“I don't have to do anything, Mom.”

I paced back and forth, my hands clutched together.

“I know you're—”

“Why would you do something like this?” I asked.

“Madison,” Paul said. “It's a lot to take in, I know, but we'll figure it out.”

Did I have to listen to him now? Did his words carry more weight because he was my father?

“I . . .” Words were meaningless. My mind could not wrap around what had just happened. The only thing I knew was that I didn't want to be with either of them at that moment. I ran up the stairs to my room and slammed the door.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE MORNING AFTER THE DANCE, I WOKE UP WITH
a mission. It was as if seeing Hannah and Duncan together and happy kicked my ass into time-to-get-on-with-my-life mode. For the first time since our breakup, I couldn't wait to get out to the garage. Dad's Saturday morning omelet-fest was a blur; I scarfed enough for fuel, then went out to warm up. The garage was cold, but that would change soon enough.

My Fender had actual cobwebs between the tuning keys. I wiped them off, pulled the strap over my head, and plugged in. Practice was at eleven, I had a full hour before Tanner and Gray were supposed to show. For all my bullshit about picking the perfect drummer—if I'd auditioned for a band at the moment, I'd have a hard time making the cut. The calluses on my hand had even gone soft.

The guitar growled to life as I ran my pick across the strings. I hit a couple of sour notes, tuned and strummed again, over and over until the sound was perfect. Then I launched into the beginning notes of “Sweet Child O' Mine.” Err, fumbled, really. Three months of not playing and my fingers were rubbery. I ran through it a few more times, until it finally began to come back.

The song was Hannah. It wasn't our song or anything, and I hadn't been learning it to impress her—she would have been like,
Guns and Roses who
? She always joked about my love for classic rock that I'd picked up from my father. This was for me, music to disappear into. The lyrics reminded me of her. Playing it felt like connecting to some real, raw part of
us
. The couple we were when we were together and it was good.

This was as close to saying good-bye without physically saying it to her.

Each note was a memory, a fight, a smile, a kiss. All of the anger, remorse, sadness, and desire came out through my fingers as the guitar screeched and wailed. I hit that sweet spot where I didn't need to think about what I was doing, just closed my eyes and felt it. Music washed over me, through me. Flowed electric from my animal brain.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed but next thing I knew, my shirt was soaked and my father was standing there, arms crossed, leaning against an amp.

“Hey,” I said.

“Sounds good.”

“You weren't listening closely,” I said. “Was it too loud?”

My dad and I had turned the garage into a practice space—a couple of posters on the wall, and some of his old amps. It wasn't soundproof, so we had to keep our sessions to a minimum, or until one of the neighbors complained—but at least it was a place we could use and store our stuff.

“It should be loud.” He pulled the cover off one of the amps for me. “How long do you think it will take with this new drummer to sound like you did when you gave your CD to Declan?”

“Grayson's good but, I dunno, a month maybe, maybe less.”

“I talked to Deck the other day—”

“And?”

“He liked your sound, wants to talk to you.”

“Really?”

“Yep, said if you had any free time this week to stop in.”

“Just stop in? And what?”

My father laughed. “Deck's always been a face-to-face guy, just wants to meet you. Feel you out, see if you speak the same language.”

“But I thought you said we should be at our best.”

“I didn't mention your drummer trouble. See how things go today, it's not like he'll book you in the next month—he said he usually goes three months out. A date to play can get things going.”

“Mr. M—you jammin' today, too?” Tanner and Grayson had come in the side door of the garage. Tanner's face was lit up, huge grin framed by the off-kilter toboggan hat he insisted on wearing when he played. He placed his case down.

“Not today, T,” Dad said, laughing. He held out his hand. “You must be Grayson.”

Gray shook Dad's hand. “Is it okay that I'm parked in the driveway? I just wanted to unload—”

“Yep. Need help?”

“Nah, Dad, we're cool,” I said. I felt bad for answering so quickly, but I just wanted to play, to start this fragile thing of forming a band.

“I'll leave you to it, then.”

It took us a good ten minutes to set up. As Grayson was screwing the final part of his setup together, I grabbed a fresh shirt from the laundry room and changed from the sweat-soaked one I'd been wearing.

“Hey guys, we might—”

The news about Declan and Whiskey Business came close to spilling out of my mouth but the words caught in my throat. Letting Tanner and Gray know before we practiced seemed like a setup for failure—after, when we were warmed up, would be better.

“We might what?” Tanner asked, stomping along with the bass line he warmed up with.

“We might want to start with the Arctic Monkeys song.”

“Sounds cool,” Grayson said.

Yellow #5 take two was officially official.

The streets of Hoboken were crazy busy for a Wednesday afternoon. I had exactly two hours between school and work and was pushing it, but Wednesday was the only day Declan had an opening to see me. Tanner had wanted to come but I was more relaxed knowing at least one of us would be on time for the Mugshot evening shift. And Tanner . . . he was overenthusiastic about the whole thing, and when he was that way, he tended to speak before thinking. Then there was the hat, which he was convinced brought him luck when he played. Not ready to fly that freak flag quite yet.

I finally found a spot about four blocks away from Whiskey Business. We weren't anywhere near ready to play out, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized my father was right—a date looming would be great incentive for us to get our shit together. Practice hadn't sucked. Completely. The first time we went through our set—we'd each been doing our own thing; Grayson was too loud, Tanner was rushed, and even I missed coming in on the right beat a few times, but by the end of practice, we at least sounded like a band. Not a great one, but on our way. Declan didn't need to know that.

Walking through the front door of Whiskey Business was like walking into a different realm. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The building was an old firehouse, complete with a brass pole and high ceilings. Along the one wall were venue posters from every band imaginable, with spotlights on some of the more prominent ones like the Stones and U2. The front area looked like someone's living room. There were couches and chairs, and a few low tables between them. The bar took up the rest of the front, while in the far back was a smaller room with a stage. One guy sat hunched over a beer mug at the end. The bartender had his elbows on the bar, tip of a pen in his teeth, working on a newspaper crossword. I cleared my throat. He dropped the pen and looked up.

“ID.”

“I'm here to see Declan. Jesse from Yellow Number Five.”

He gave me a once-over as he texted someone.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Jesse McMann, I have an—” I stopped short of saying
appointment
, it sounded too formal. “I'm here to see Declan about a gig.”

“He's free now—just head to the back, staff door, can't miss it,” he said, going back to his crossword.