It was my turn to think. Did I need Carly? No. Or, at least, I didn’t think I needed her. She was never much good at anything, other than popping babies, and I wouldn’t touch that department with a twenty-foot pole. I didn’t need my parents, either. They clung onto my fortune like a skunk’s scent, and I only ever spoke to them when I needed to, or the customary Christmas and birthday phone call. But I needed Indie, at least for this tour. I didn’t have any illusions about her. She was a girl with small dreams and big problems and we had nothing in common. Nevertheless, she did make “Letters from the Dead” bearable, and I needed to keep her close until we finished the tour and I could give her what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to stab my soul until it bled the rest of its vitality. Because that’s what me sitting in the same room with my parents and my sister, watching them drink canned lager and eating unrecognizable fried food from a newspaper funnel would do to me.
“Jesus Christ.” I waved a dismissive hand her way. “I’ll meet them, okay? Just get the fuck in here and stop loitering in the foyer. For all I know, they’re going to sell the security footage to TMZ, and then I’ll be the cock-exposing, washed-up druggie rock star who also has to beg his babysitter not to leave him home alone.”
She took a step in my direction, her grin infuriating and cock-hardening in equal measures. “You’re cute when you beg.”
I hooked my finger into her barely existent cleavage and pulled her into me, planting a wet kiss on her smart mouth. “We’ll see who’s going to be doing all the begging tonight.”
Jenna: I’m not keeping it.
Indie: Talk to Blake first.
Hudson: :-O :-O :-O
Jenna: Clearly, the hormones are taking over my brain. I forgot Hudson was here.
Hudson: My baby is having a baby!
Jenna: You’re not my mother, Hudson.
Hudson: I was actually talking about Blake. His Hugh Grant charm makes my panties wet.
Hudson: Actually, it doesn’t make any sense. But still.
Jenna: I swear, I’ll kill you if you tell anyone. This is TOP SECRET. Indie, how’s Alex?
Indie: Good.
Jenna: Elaborate.
Indie: He’s been writing steadily, and he seems to be really excited about his next album.
Jenna: And the ten-minute song?
Hudson: He decided to split it into two songs.
Jenna: I didn’t know he consults you artistically.
Hudson: He does. Sometimes. When he sits on the toilet and gets bored.
Hudson: Where do you think I got the nickname Little Shite? LOL.
Jenna: What made him change his mind?
Hudson: A girl.
Jenna: Elaborate.
Hudson: The right girl. ;)
I’m the first one to admit that, sometimes, you push things to the back of your head to protect yourself from heartbreak. Like the memory of losing your dog. Or like the time your first crush turned you down. Or that your brother is not completely sane and normal and okay.
Before I’d gone on tour with Alex Winslow, I’d thought talking to Nat and Craig would be the highlight of my day. Turned out it was the last thing I’d looked forward to. Every time my cracked phone rang, I half-wished it was my credit card company telling me to chill.
But it was always Nat, and she was always crying. This time, she’d caught me in a relatively good time. Alex was taking a shower, and I was sitting on the king-sized bed in front of the pale green wall, wondering if he knew how close we were getting to the deep end of feels. I should’ve told him no. Already, I was in over my head, and it wasn’t just my body that wanted to be claimed. The minute I answered the phone, I realized Alex was the least of my worries. Craig was. Craig was always a worry.
“Hey, Nat.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the shoebox above the cupboard before you left?” She sniffed tiredly. Her voice was different. Wary. Sad. She used to sound like sugar pops exploding in your mouth. Sweet and enthusiastic and open—so open—to hug the world and whatever it threw her way. It enraged me that my brother was the one to turn off the light inside her.
My eyebrows crinkled. I tried to remember what I’d put in that shoebox. I didn’t have too many things of interest or value. Some stupid diary I’d written when I was a kid. Love letters from boys in elementary school, not that there were many. Some pictures…I squinted toward the curtained, wide window overlooking SoHo. Then it hit me. All at once.
The pictures.
Oh, God.
Of Mom holding our neighbor’s baby, sweet and blond-curled like Ziggy.
Of Dad bouncing Craig on his lap, pointing to the camera, smiling.
Of both of them helping us build a faux snowman outside our house one Christmas, when it was so hot out the ice cream my mom brought us melted in our hands, and another photo from the same day where we all licked our sticky fingers and laughed.