Bounce (29 page)

The words hit me like a brick to the chest. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“You've only known me a few weeks.”

“Doesn't matter. I know you, Grey. Here. I'll start for you. The night I left home . . . ​Now, you.”

“You're going to pay for this, Sky. But, okay.” I make myself jump in, quickly. If I build up enough momentum in the beginning, maybe I'll be able to get through it. “The night I left home was about nine months ago. Madeleine and I were fighting, as usual. I'd just barely graduated high school. I mean . . . ​don't think I'm an idiot. I'm not. I just hated school and didn't try. I knew I didn't want to go to college, so what did it matter? But the paths available to me, as a Blackwood, were either go to an Ivy League, start a number of successful nightclubs and restaurants, or launch an online dating business and movie studio. Same as most families, right? Not knowing what you want to do—that wasn't okay. And that's where I was. I didn't know I wanted to sing yet and I guess I was lost-ish. Okay, I was lost. So I started partying a lot, and getting in trouble. Madeleine was going crazy with me. The night I left, the fight was over some career counselor she had paid for me to see. I'd gone surfing instead. So she cornered me in the kitchen and made me feel like a loser piece of shit who had no ambition. Again.

“I couldn't take it anymore. Being a disappointment.” Shit. My momentum is washing out as I remember that night. This was a bad idea. I have to force myself to keep going. “So that night, we were fighting in the kitchen. And all these things started coming out of my mouth, like how I wanted to find my real mom, who wouldn't hassle me all the time like she did. I told Madeleine it was torture living under her roof, that I was sick of being a project. I asked for my birth mother's address, and she gave it to me. That was new. That was something I'd asked for before during fights, but she'd never actually given me the address. And it surprised me. I felt like she was done with me. I didn't stop to think. I took off. I took my dad's Cobra, the one he and wonderboy Adam had built from a kit, because it was blocking my truck in our driveway.

“An hour and a half later, I pulled into a dumpy apartment complex in New Haven and went up to the second floor and knocked on the door. Lois answered.”

I stop, reliving the scene. Not wanting to talk about it.

“Keep going, Grey,” Sky tells me.

“She was frail and sick-looking, my real mom. I didn't realize it until then, but for the past decade, I'd made up this story about her in my mind. In the story, she had cleaned herself up. She'd gotten sober and stopped dating drug dealers. This was all because she wanted to be a perfect mom for me, by the way. This makeover. That's part of the story I told myself. She hadn't wanted to see me yet, because she wanted everything to be perfect when she did. I imagined that she'd have a job, a nice house, and maybe even kids. Smart, funny kids who I could call my siblings. I'd actually made her into a version of Madeleine. But that wasn't the case. It wasn't who I saw that day.

“She looked like a woman in a cancer commercial . . . ​sunken and ashy. Bad. Just . . . ​not healthy. I wanted to die when I saw her. When I thought that was the woman who'd given birth to me, I almost left. I probably should've. But I stayed. And I told her I wanted to move in with her. I said this while I looked at a coffee table littered with beer bottles and cigarettes. At the stack of bills sitting under an empty bottle of Absolut on the wooden bureau next to the television, which was playing some kind of daytime game show. Which just about fucking killed me. I don't know why. Maybe because it seemed like such a denial of real life, that you can win money by spinning a wheel. It went against what I believed. It went against the Blackwood way.

“But then it got worse. It got worse because she told me my dad only sent enough money to cover the one-bedroom she lived in, plus just enough for her to eat. ‘But maybe he'll kick in for more, if you live here,' she said, and went into this huge tangent about the apartment upstairs, which was a two-bedroom. And how much it cost, and how it was coming vacant in the next month and how she'd had her eye on it for a while because it had a balcony, and how perfect it was that I'd shown up, because now if my dad sent enough money, for both of us to live, she'd get to move into the apartment of her dreams.”

“Oh, God,” Skyler says. “What did you do?”

“I told her I had to think about it some more. Then I left. I got in the Cobra and drove home, but I couldn't actually go home. It was around midnight, I think, when I pulled off the road onto a private beach a few miles from home and did some donuts in the sand. Then I realized I liked it even better when I did donuts in the shallow surf, so I did that for a while. I whipped that car in circles, trying to flip it. Trying to destroy it. I worked my way deeper and deeper until finally the sand was too soft, the waves too high, and I was stuck. I could feel the car rocking with the waves, but I just sat there. And all I could think about was that I wished I'd taken Madeleine's car. I wished it was
her
car getting swallowed up by the Atlantic.”

I guess that was the smash. I was just crazy. Crazy with how much I hurt. The avoid came later.

“Eventually, I left the Cobra, walked home, got in my truck, and drove across the country to Adam's house in Malibu. So, that's the story of how I left home. Now you're caught up on the saga of Grey Blackwood's riveting family issues.”

I can feel the intensity of Skyler's stare. I thought I'd want to disappear after I told her all of this. I only sort of do.

“Grey, I'm so sorry you went through that. But I have to say this . . . ​I think you're worthy of being loved. I don't think it's hard to love you.” She laughs. “I mean, it's not like
I
do. I'm just projecting . . . ​in order to shed light on the situation.”

I laugh. “You love me? Wow, Sky. I'm a little surprised, but—”

“I was trying to explain that I think Madeleine loves you and that, difficult or easy, the result is what matters.”

“I feel like I should say it back, but it might not seem genuine—”

She pushes me. I was expecting it, so I grab her wrists and pull and she lands on top of me. She laughs and digs a hand into my side. That leads to play wrestling in which I act like I'm trying to match her while being careful not to accidentally hurt her. In about ten seconds, I'm not thinking about wrestling anymore. I pull her next to me and picture dead puppies and influenza and banana slugs, trying to undo the effects of our bodies rubbing up against each other. Doesn't work.

Skyler yawns and nestles in beside me. Her small hand rests on my chest, and I wonder if she feels how fast my heartbeat's going. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think life's tough,” she says. “Everyone needs help along the way. But when you let someone lift you up, it can really be a beautiful thing.”

“Are you trying to tell me I should accept Madeleine's help and do the showcase?”

Skyler laughs. “I do think you should do both of those, but no.” She peers up at me and smiles. “I was trying to say thank you.”

  
Chapter 32
  

Skyler

I
wake to find that Grey's gotten up but that his side of the bed is still warm and the sheets still smell like him. I know I'm dating someone else—starting to, anyway—but I can't resist hugging the pillow he used, breathing in his scent, which is like smoke and surf all in one.

It's still dark out, but a thread of orange gleams on the horizon. I have to get going to the set, but I still have a little time, which is the best feeling ever.

Smiling, I think about last night, about us dozing together, waking up here and there to talk some more, safe in the darkness, the open window carrying in the rush of passing cars, conversations on Abbot Kinney. Every now and then, Grey would tell me he should get up and go to his room, and I'd agree, but he'd just stay there, or I'd keep his hand in mine, and we'd fall back to sleep just to wake an hour or two later and do it all again.

I hear a clatter in the kitchen and start to get up to investigate, but Grey calls to me: “Stay where you are.”

So, I stay where I am and pick up Grey's pillow again because I'm a big dork and he's delicious, and I'm going to miss him when he doesn't live here anymore.

After a couple of minutes, Grey appears in the doorway, and I burst out laughing. He's shirtless, wearing only his sweats, but he's got on Beth's Wonder Woman apron, which fits him more or less like an oversized bib.

“Cute.”

He grins. “I know. Hey, how do you like your coffee?”

“What are you up to?”

“You'll see. Coffee? How?”

“Actually, I like tea. There's some lemon verbena.”

“Tea.” He nods. “Got it.” Then he disappears again.

“Seriously, what are you doing?” I call. “We have to get going soon.”

“We have forty-three minutes until we have to leave for the studio. But if you feel stressed, we can always save time by showering together.”

“Funny.”

“It's a good plan,” he calls. “I mean, just for the sake of efficiency. Not because I want to see you naked.”

“Of course not.”

Because you already have, I think, and that night comes back to me again, the feel of him against me, his powerful, warm body over mine. Skin against skin. We'd been so close. I don't know what would have happened if we'd gone through with it.

Grey returns, distracting me from my unproductive thoughts. He's carrying a breakfast tray, which he sets down on my nightstand. On it is a mug of tea with a bottle of honey and two plates holding some kind of towering breakfast sandwiches. What he lacks in presentation skills, he more than makes up for in quantity and the world's most adorable grin.

“What are these?”

“They're my famous hangover-busting ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches.”

“But I'm not hungover.”

“No, but they're really good.” He picks up one of the plates for himself and then nods at me. “Dig in.”

It smells amazing. No one has ever brought me breakfast in bed before—except my mom, once or twice when I was sick. He's so sweet. So different than he appears. Than he
lets
himself appear.

But all I can think about is the fact that I'll be in a bathing suit in three days. In front of a crew of thirty—and Brooks.

I pick up the sandwich, trying to shake this weird superstitious feeling, like every bite I take is going to show up as a pocket of fat on my body. I'll just skip lunch, I tell myself.

Grey watches me, a smile on his face, waiting for my verdict. I take a bite, and it's salty and buttery and crunchy and perfect. I groan.

“Oh my God, this is the best thing I've had in my mouth in months.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and I hear what I've said and start to laugh so hard that I inhale English muffin and choke. I cough and take a sip of my tea, while Grey rubs my back. I'm a mess, but I'm okay with being a mess in front of him.

After I take another couple of bites, I remember my supplements and lean down from the bed to grab my purse from the floor.

“What're you doing?”

“Getting my vitamins.” I dig them out of my bag and then pop a couple out of the pack.

“What are those, anyway?”

Seriously, I wish I had a dollar for every time someone asked me what's in these things. I'd be able to bail out the farm
and
buy a new car. Shrugging, I say, “I don't know. Just helps with weight loss.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “You think you need to lose weight? That's nuts.”

“Well, I mean, just a little. Because of the cameras.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone.”

“No way. Mia told you that? Beth?”