“What’s up?” Steve asked, looking up from a crossword puzzle. His pale eyes assessed me. His blond hair had grown out from the buzz to a conservative cut, and his face was cleanly shaven, showing off a deep chin dimple.
“Apparently we’re going to get a new kid at school. I’ve been wondering about her.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“I’m sure you know about her. I want to, too.”
“Why do you think I know anything?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because Pop Syad pays you to protect me. So I’m guessing you know way more about the new girl than I do.”
Steve shrugged. “I might know something. And you’re right. I don’t like surprises. They can create chaos.”
I snorted. “That’s all high school is—social chaos masquerading as education.”
Steve’s eyes gleamed, but he kept his expression stern. “If you want my intel on the new girl, then you’re going to tell me why I had to pick you up from the side of the school the other day. And I want to know what that has to do with the irate phone calls your mother is fielding from Ms. Gates.”
I waved my hand. “That woman hates me, and it has to do with the new kid.” I considered my options. Steve could get me the information I wanted—if I played nice.
“Ms. Gates asked me to write a note, but then she took the iPad from me before I finished typing. I grabbed it back, and then I had to get to a quiet place.” I shrugged, hoping he was buying this. “So I could actually tell the girl more about the school.”
He went back to his crossword puzzle. “Aya is Lord Reginald Aldringham’s daughter, and Irwan Didri’s granddaughter. Your grandfather was the one to recommend Holyoke to her grandfather.”
I scowled, displeased that Steve knew the answers even as I soaked up the information.
“And?”
“And nothing,” he said with a shrug. “What do you want for dinner?”
He’d been making me dinner lately, or at least making sure I ate whatever our personal chef left.
“I want to know more about the girl.”
Steve cocked his head to the side. “Why?”
I licked my lower lip. “I met her before. Years ago. And she seems nice.”
Steve nodded once. “You can tell me more over dinner, and then, once you do your homework, I’ll get you some intel.”
5
Nash
One Year Later
* * *
A year passed, and Aya and I now chatted on the regular. She’d never left Nepal—something to do with a problem with the village wells—but she caught up on enough celebrity news even on the top of a mountain to know my parents’ marriage was falling apart.
My dad cheated on my mum, Aya told me in one text after I confirmed that my dad was traveling whenever my mother was home, and she took off when he was expected back.
He didn’t ask for the divorce until Harriet fell pregnant, though.
At least neither of my parents had surprise kids out there. I told Aya as much.
I have two half-sisters. And my dad tried to get my mum to pay him alimony.
I felt my eyes widen. I don’t know what to say.
You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that I get how it feels. And how horrible it is when others ask you about your parents’ public breakup.
Because I was still only sometimes speaking to Hugh, Aya was my only real friend—not that I was ever lonely. People were always hanging around, hanging on, wanting a piece of me, and inviting me to more parties and events than I could manage.
I turned down most in order to talk to Aya or to hang out with Cam, who had returned to Austin to help out at his family’s ranch located at the edge of Hill Country. I liked Cam’s sister, Kate, and mother, Mama Grace. She and Steve got along well and at least partially filled the large hole my parents left with their neglect.
I hadn’t shared the pathetic truth of our friendship truth with Aya, not wanting her to think less of me, though Cam had disagreed last time we’d video chatted. He might technically live in the same city as me, but the guy toured constantly.
“You should tell Aya she’s important to you,” Cam said.
I raised an eyebrow. “No way. You know how this world is. I’ll say something that’ll end up in a magazine.”
He frowned. “You think this girl would sell you out?”
I didn’t. But I wasn’t willing to offer her the opportunity either.
Cam called me again a couple nights later, after I’d chatted with Aya. The dude kept in better touch with me than my parents.
“You want to hear who I collaborated with today?” he asked instead.
“Sure.”
“Asher Smith.”
“Are you for real?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Is he badass in real life?”
Cam laughed. “Yes, he is. He’s offered to help produce my next record. What do you think about this riff?
I closed my eyes as Cam played, my fingers moving over a phantom fretboard. The rest of the melody soared through my mind when Cam stopped, mentioning he didn’t have it finished.
I dove toward my guitar and continued playing. The song… It ran through my head, faster than my fingers could move over the strings. The melody built, richer, as more instruments flitted through my mind.
“And you need to add something softer—a harp, maybe? Then the piano chords should be…” I pursed my lips, trying to figure out how to translate from the guitar to the keyboard. “I’ll send it to you,” I said, feeling myself smile. This was it. I’d written a song.
Cam shook his head. He pulled a candy from his pocket and slid it into his mouth. He had a thing for Werther’s. “You just come up with that?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your dad say about your ability to compose?”
That feeling wrapped itself around my guts as sadness punched me in the throat. It must have shown on my face.
“Nash—"
“It’s all in the family,” I blurted out over Cam, not wanting to hear more sympathetic words. My brother was dead—had been for a while now. I needed to move on. I was moving beyond the crippling grief.
My comment to Cam had once been Dad’s favorite comment to me. “All in the family.” He’d slapped me on the shoulder whenever I played him a new tune, and I’d beamed with pride when my dad used my songs on his albums. All in the family was right. Or it used to be.
“What?” Cam asked.
“Music, composing. It’s our thing. We do it together.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “You help him with his songs?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Cam grimaced. “His last album?”
I nodded.
“I’ve never seen you credited.”
I shrugged. “I was young.”
“What about the album he’s working on?”
That feeling intensified, causing my guts to harden. I hadn’t been able to write shit since before Lev died—until today. “Nope, that’s all him.”