Songbird (19 page)

H
er blonde pigtails whip in the wind as she glides through the air. She always gets mad when I push the swing a little too hard, but sometimes, an eight-year-old boy just doesn’t know his own strength.

“Devin, it’s too high!”

I grasp the chain-linked swing to slow it down.

“Better?” I don’t want to scare her. It’s my job to keep her safe.

“Better.”

Shyann smiles softly, and with that smile, I can breathe again.

It’s just one of a thousand memories that bombard me as I stare at the picture in the frame. This photo, specifically, always calls to me when I visit my parents. I love this shot because she’s smiling in it. Of course, she was always smiling—even when she became pale and weak and so very ill.

There are thousands of photographs in the house, of course. Years of memories, protected in glass frames, family albums, and school yearbooks. Those pictures would stand the test of time.

My memories, however, are starting to fade.

I remember the important times. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Those I can recall with startling clarity. It’s the little moments that are beginning to slip away from me—the silly, inconsequential times in our life that would seem unimportant to anyone else. Like how she loved to lie in the grass and find shapes in the clouds. Or how she worshipped the Backstreet Boys and wouldn’t shut up until I learned how to play “Shape of My Heart” on the piano.

I still can’t stand to listen to it.

Callie’s sweet laugh floats from the kitchen, effectively snapping me out of my memories. Mom had pulled her away from me as soon as we walked into the house, but I didn’t mind too much. We’d had a hell of a morning. The fact that she’s laughing at all is a miracle.

I know it’s hypocritical, but I hate her mom.

When I first heard about the baby, my reaction had been less than ideal, too, but at least I’m trying to make it right. From what Callie’s told me about her mother, I get the feeling Mrs. Rhodes won’t be apologizing any time soon.

I sit down at the piano and hesitantly lift the cover. It’s not like I’m going to play. I haven’t played in fifteen years.

“Callie’s lovely.”

I look up to find my dad standing in the doorway.

“She is.”

Dad sits down on the bench next to me. “Strong, too.”

Yes, she’s strong, but even that strength has limits. I saw it this morning.

“Have you told her about Shyann?” Dad asks, nodding toward the picture frames.

“Not yet.”

“It’s probably time to tell her, son.”

“Tell me what?”

We both look up, and I can’t help but smile. Callie’s wearing my mother’s favorite apron and covered in flour.

“Baking with Mom, I see.”

She glances down and laughs as she unties the apron. “I’m told
someone
likes peanut butter cookies, so we’ve been experimenting.”

My father grins. “Well, they smell delicious. I think I’ll go steal a few.”

As he walks by, he offers to take the apron back to the kitchen. I watch as my dad softly kisses Callie’s cheek and whispers something in her ear. I can’t hear a thing, but whatever he says makes her blush.

“Stop flirting with the mother of my child.”

Dad chuckles. “She’s all yours.”

He walks out, and Callie joins me at the piano. I wrap an arm around her and pull her close to my side.

“Do you play?” she asks.

“I used to.”

“Play for me. It’s only fair.”

“Fair?”

“I’ve played for you.”

I smirk. “You certainly did.”

Callie rolls her eyes and places her hands on the keys. A soft melody fills the air. It’s hauntingly sad and beautiful.

“Your parents are great,” she says. “My mom never taught me how to bake anything. She had this hideous blue apron she wore whenever she cooked. When I was in first grade, my teacher asked us to draw a picture of ourselves, showing what we wanted to be when we grew up. I drew a picture of me, standing in the kitchen and baking cookies. My apron was blue, just like Mom’s.”

She keeps playing, and I brush her hair away from her shoulder, watching as a strand slips through my fingers and down along her back. She’s so pretty. I pray our child has her eyes.

“At the bottom of the picture, I’d written
Callie wants to be just like her Mom
in my very best handwriting. I couldn’t wait to bring it home to show her. Mom took one look at the drawing and ripped it to shreds right in front of me. I was six years old, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the first time I realized my mother isn’t a very nice person.”

It’s official. I hate Kim Rhodes.

Callie drops her head and closes her eyes as she continues playing the somber song. I need to say something . . . anything to erase the sorrow from her face. Leaning close, I gently slide my hand along her neck and pull her close to me.

“You’re not her,” I whisper against her ear. “You’re going to be such a good mom, Callie. I know you are.”

She sighs softly and tilts her face toward mine. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so much, and if I’m being honest, I want to do more than just kiss her. I’m in unfamiliar territory with this woman, because kissing is usually the last thing on my mind. If she were any other woman, we would have done way more than just hand-holding last night. If she were any other woman, I’d lay her across this piano.

But we’re in my parents’ house. And she’s not just any woman.

With a heavy sigh, I pull myself away from her and walk over to the fireplace, gazing at the pictures on the mantle. I trail my finger across the glass of a photo taken when we were both ten years old. The emerald frame perfectly matches our Halloween costumes. That was the year Shyann talked me into being Peter Pan. She was Tinkerbell.

She really could talk me into anything.

The day they lowered Shy into the ground was the day I vowed to never be emotionally bound to another human being. Instead, I focused on doing exactly what she told me to do—get my diploma, go to college, and graduate from law school.

Done.

I never wanted to put myself at risk to feel that kind of heartbreak ever again. So I didn’t. And I
haven’t
.

Until now.

Of course, it’s different. Shy and I were bound by blood . . . our bond unbreakable.

Until life proved there was no such thing.

Distant and cold, I’ve spent the last fifteen years refusing to form any kind of connection with another living soul. I died that day, too, and I never wanted to come back to life.

Until now.

It terrifies me beyond all reason, but I want her. I want
this
.

“That’s a cute picture of you,” Callie says, suddenly standing right next to me.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Those brown eyes? I’d know them anywhere. Hers, too.”

I swallow down the emotion that threatens to choke me. Thankfully, Mom yells from the kitchen, announcing that lunch is ready. Callie keeps gazing at the picture, but she doesn’t ask any questions as I take her hand and lead her to the kitchen.

“Mama Callie!” Owen shouts, swiftly lifting her into the air.

Everyone laughs except me.

“Hurt her and you’re a dead man.”

He grins and places her carefully back on the ground. All of us take our seats at the table. Mom kept it simple . . . just soups and sandwiches. And of course, my peanut butter cookies.

Dad passes around the sandwich tray.

“Mom, do all of these have mayo?” I ask.

She frowns. “They do. I thought you said she couldn’t eat mustard.”

“No, I distinctly said mayo.”

Callie reaches for my arm. “It’s okay, Devin.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mom says. “I’ll be happy to make you another—”

“Please, don’t. I’m hoping that mayo thing was just a one-time occurrence. Honestly, I eat it all the time. It’s fine.”

“It’s
not
fine.” I walk over to the fridge and grab the turkey. “I don’t want you to get sick. Mustard?”

“I won’t get sick, Devin.”

Ignoring her and her icy glare, I make her a new sandwich and bring it over to the table. My parents look at me like I’ve sprouted wings. My brother, naturally, can’t resist giving me hell.

“Wow, Dev. I’ve never seen you so . . . domestic.”

“Mayo makes her sick,” I mutter.

Dad clears his throat. “So, I understand Uncle Owen has already gone on a shopping spree for his nephew or niece?”

“Nephew,” Owen replies. “Gonna be a boy.”

“I certainly hope so, since every piece of clothing you bought was blue,” Callie says with a grin.

Everyone laughs. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she eats her soup and totally ignores my sandwich.

Stubborn woman.

Owen chuckles. “What if it’s twins?”

Callie drops her spoon and glances nervously around the table. “Is that possible?”

Mom and I exchange a look.

“Are there twins in your family?” Dad asks.

“I . . . have no idea. I guess I should ask.”

As my family continues discussing the odds of multiple births, I lean close and whisper in her ear. “Why aren’t you eating?”