“Dad.” I inhaled with a gasp. “I’m so sorry for what happened. I’m so sorry I took Christian.” I hung my head, finally saying to him what I needed to say. Burning tears seeped through my pinched eyelids.
“Oh, honey.” I heard Dad stand up from his chair and walk around the desk to me. “We’re all sorry. We all miss him. It was the worst kind of tragedy a parent could imagine.” He sat on the arm of my chair. “But not for a minute, not for a split second, did we ever,
ever
blame you.”
I felt his hand on my shoulder. He held it there for a moment and then softly shook me. “None of it was your fault. It wasn’t his fault, either. It just happened. Abby.” He shook my shoulder again, and I sobbed even harder. “It wasn’t your fault. You loved him.” His next words came succinctly. “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”
From the very beginning, Lindsey had said those same words to me, over and over. So had Molly and Hal, and Todd even, all of my friends who cared about me. Probably my parents would have, too, if I’d given them the chance back then. They’d all begged me to believe them, but I just couldn’t consider the concept. I had been too wrapped up in my own selfish suffering.
Until now.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew it was true. Christian’s dying had not been my fault. He had been taken from us—
taken
—and there had been absolutely nothing I could have done to stop it. My mind already knew this, but it felt brand new to my heart, and I was finally able to grab hold of it.
Tears were coming faster, pouring down my cheeks, down my throat, soaking into the neck of my shirt.
“I love you, Abby,” the tender voice of my father said as he patted my shoulder. “And I know it’s been the hardest for you. But it’s time to let it go, baby.”
Sniffling, nodding, I fought to reply. My mouth was open, but only strange, incoherent noises were coming out. Through soggy lashes, I looked up at him. “I know,” I finally managed to articulate between fits of sobs. “This is me, Dad. Letting it go.”
Dad pressed his lips together, smiling approvingly. “That’s been stuck inside of you for a long time, hasn’t it?”
“I’ve screwed up so many things,” I whimpered after I calmed down. “I just . . . I wish I could get a do-over on my life, change
everything
. I wish I could go back.”
“No,” Dad said, the tone of his voice reminding me of all the times he had offered me advice over the years. “You can’t go back to fix what’s wrong today. You can only go forward.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Go forward, Abby.”
—FROM THE BRITISH SUN—
ABBY CAUGHT IN SEXY LOVE SCANDAL!
What on earth is up with Abigail Kelly these days? We’re so glad you asked. Sources say when she was on holiday in Miami last month, current boy-toy T.C. was nowhere to be seen. Have they finally split?
Surely you jest!
When asked about the conspicuous absence of the hunky American, sources close to Abby implied she was sick to the back teeth of his boring, laid-back style.
“We’re just two different kinds of people,” Abby disclosed to a close friend. “Sometimes a girl just needs a bit of a break from it all.”
Miss Mustang was spotted at all the hottest clubs in South Beach, getting down and dirty with the local lads. Something’s fishy, methinks. Time to get your feet on the ground, princess.
{chapter 29}
“ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE”
A
fter reading the same paragraph four times, I reached for my homemade bookmark, the long, thin piece of paper with my growing bucket list running down the center. Checkmarks, underlines, asterisks, and exclamation points highlighted various items. After replacing it, I closed the book, drumming my fingers over its brown-and-white cover. Dad had lent me his copy of
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
when I was visiting. I’d read it twice in three days, taking special notice of the passages he highlighted and the notes he had written in the margins. My favorite chapters were the ones about finding a proper balance in life and how to become proactive—two habits I desired yet was currently lacking.
I slid the book into my bag, noticing that my phone was blinking with a new message. Molly. I sighed, smiling. She was only one room away. After I read it, I turned off my phone and pulled a small yellow tube out of an inside pocket of my purse.
“What are you doing a week from Tuesday?” I asked as I applied the sweet mentholated balm, making a complete circle three times and smacking my lips. “We have the morning off.”
Hal looked up from the magazine on his lap. “Sleeping in, of course.”
“Think you could possibly roll out of bed and be at Club Le Deux by ten? They’re opening early for me.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Memorial.” I smiled, allowing my gaze to drift off into the middle distance. “For Christian. You know, since I missed his last one.” I felt Hal’s hand on my arm. “We got a really bad Neil Diamond impersonator to perform.”
When I looked at Hal, he was smiling, too.
“It’s gonna be a rockin’ party. Will you come?”
“Hells yeah.” He kicked the side of my chair. “Wouldn’t miss it, duchess.”
I exhaled, mentally checking off another item on my list. After a few minutes passed in silence, I asked, “Have you written anything lately?”
Framed portraits of the stars from this TV network’s past and current sit-coms plastered the walls. Between them were flat screens showing the live feed of the late-night talk show we were about to perform on.
Hal hesitated at first, his eyes moving from me to the closed door behind us. Yes, we were alone in the greenroom, but not for long. “I write every day, duchess,” he finally said. “Pretty soon I’ll need to add another wing onto the house to hold all my notebooks.”
“Or you could get a place of your own,” I suggested.
Hal snorted and wandered toward the craft service table.
“I’d love to hear some of your songs,” I said. But Hal only gave me a look from across the table.
“That one you wrote a few years ago about graduation.” I thought for a moment. “Something
Nation
.”
“‘Dirtbag Nation,’” he corrected, his mouth full of Ritz crackers.
“And I love that one about the girl you met in Central Park, that one you sang to us on the bus.”
“‘Beatrice Cries.’”
“That’s it. It was stuck in my head for days.”
“Whatever, duchess.” He snorted again and reached for a cube of yellow-and-white marbled cheese.
“We’re not on for another twenty minutes.” I joined him at the table, reaching for my own piece of cheese.
Hal eyed me skeptically when I popped it into my mouth, probably astonished to see me eating solid food.
“You’ve got your guitar all nice and tuned.” I chewed, swallowed, and took another piece of cheese. “Would you play something for me?”
Hal looked down, perhaps deciding if I was worth sharing a part of him that was extra special.
Watching him from across the table of snacks, waiting for our time slot to perform, I felt a warm gush of gratitude in my soul for him. He’d been good to me. Not exactly like a brother, Hal was something more.
I was dying to bond with someone, anyone. Hal and I had always been close, sharing a kind of higher connection,
simpatico
, as he liked to put it. To express this, most of the time we fought like a couple of first graders. As I watched him from across the table, my heart broke a little. I had cut him off before, so unkindly, that day in the kitchen at the studio when he’d tried to tell me about his feelings. I couldn’t stand to hear it at the time; I didn’t want to deal with it. I couldn’t handle any more change.
I looked away from him, ashamed of my past behavior. Above everything, I was Hal’s friend. We needed each other, and I would do anything for him.
“I do have one I think you might like,” he said. When he lifted his chin, he grinned, not needing any further coaxing.
I returned his infectious smile.
Then the two of us, tucked away behind closed doors, shared a secret.
While softly strumming his guitar, Hal sang to me his latest effort. It was a simple song about strength, about loss, about miracles, about it never being too late, and about how some things were simply meant to be, no matter how many times you screwed up. It was like hearing out loud the hopes of my heart.
My breathing slowed and my body sank into the stiff, red wingback. I knew I was crying. And I welcomed the emotion.
Hal’s song had a minimal yet beautiful melody and something of a bluesy hook because, after all, it was Hal.
I was moved, I was touched, but mostly I was impressed.
“Wow,” I said after he finished. “That was really
good
.” The word was not nearly sufficient enough.
My band mate shrugged.
“You should record it.” I leaned forward, wiping my eyes with the backs of my fingers.
“Yeah, right,” he said, resting his elbows on his Gibson acoustic. He sounded grateful, but also defeated. “Someday, maybe.”
I shook my head. “Seriously. It gave me chills.” I showed him my arm covered in goose bumps. “This is way better than anything out there right now.” I rubbed my arms. “Better than the crap we’ve done lately.”
“Of course it is,” he agreed, his orange hair falling across his forehead. He was smiling, but regret showed on his face at the same time. Seeing it made my heart ache on his behalf.
“Why don’t you record it?” I suggested.
“I’m no singer, duchess.”
“You’ve got a great singing voice. You just never get to use it.”
He rolled his eyes, but blushed just a bit. “Anyway, I wrote it for a woman’s voice.”
I bit my thumbnail. “Maybe Max will let
us
do it.” Before the words were completely out of my mouth, we both knew that was an impossibility. Max handpicked every song. Sure, he used Nathan’s perfect ear and killer instincts as a sounding board, but Max had ultimate say. We also knew that Max wouldn’t give anything of Hal’s a fair shake, just because.
For the first time, I understood that Hal and the rest of the group felt just as trapped as I did.
I stood up to pace, automatically returning to the food. “There must be something we can do.” I took a handful of M&Ms and poured them into my open mouth like a rainbow. Hal watched me the way he used to do when I’d first joined the band. He was looking to me for a solution. But I didn’t have one. Yet.
“This is a hit song, Hal,” I said. “You know it and I know it. It needs to be out there for high school kids to make-out to at prom.”
“Classy.”
“Aren’t I?”
We laughed. It sounded like music.
More than almost anything, I wanted someone in our group to have some kind of personal triumph. It might not be me. And that was okay.
“There are a hundred other chick singers out there besides me,” I continued, nibbling on a green bell-pepper stick. “Why don’t you make a demo to send around? Exactly the way you did it just now. Anyone would kill to sing on the demo for you.”
“Naw,” Hal said with a wave. He stared into his empty guitar case. “Anyway, it needs a piano accompaniment instead of guitar.”
“You play piano.”
“The bridge needs work.”
“Shut up, Hal!” I insisted. “The song is freaking perfect.”
He snapped shut his case and looked down at the tips of his callused fingers. We were losing momentum here.
“Well . . . what if . . .” I paused to wet my lips, getting an excited tickle in my stomach as I created a plan. “What if
I
sing it? Yeah, yeah.
I’ll
make the demo.”
Hal looked up; his expression seemed confused.
“I’d love to!” I rushed over and knelt at his feet. “Oh, please, please, please. Please let me.”
He chuckled, but it lasted only a second. Then he shook his head and stood up. “Uh-uh, Abby. No way. If Max the Tool found out, he’d go freakin’ ape all over you.”
“And on you,” I added.
“Not me,” Hal corrected. “Seriously, the man don’t give two squirts about me, but if he found out you were squandering away your talent on drivel, he’d tear you a new one.”
Suddenly, that made me fuming mad. “I don’t
care
about
Max
.” I jumped to my feet, punching a hard fist into my palm as I paced the room. “I want to
do
something. I
need
to do something. I need to do this for you, Hal.” I spun around to him. “Please let me.”