Boundary Crossed (Boundary Magic #1)(70)

I saw the relief break out over his face. “Yes, sir,” he whispered back.





Chapter 31



Quinn and I danced for a few more songs, and then I noticed that two of the servers, young women in their early twenties, were waving at him. “Ex-girlfriends?” I asked.

He let out a short bark of surprised laughter. “They’re baristas at Magic Beans,” he explained. The girls each grabbed one side of a full keg, heaving it toward the bar at the opposite end of the ballroom. “I should probably help them with that,” Quinn remarked. “And then I might say hi to the couple in the corner, they’re regulars. You’ll be okay for a minute?”

“Of course.” While Quinn was gone, I looked around for my cousins and realized they were all occupied: dancing with their spouses and laughing, enjoying this rare opportunity to dress up and go out. They all looked so happy and grown-up. I smiled. For the first time I sort of appreciated my mother’s decision to make the party black tie. It was like looking at the most beautiful version of everyone.

Grief is a funny thing. I hadn’t even been thinking about Sam, not really, but suddenly I was hit by a tidal wave of longing for my sister. I wanted her to be here, smiling and laughing and teasing my father. She’d be dancing like an idiot, a gorgeous gown swishing around her as she did silly, unselfconscious dance moves with John, drawing him out, making everyone crack up. God, I missed her.

As if reading my thoughts, the music suddenly faded into silence, and I glanced toward the raised platform where the band sat. Most of the members of the band were stepping off for a break, but as they shuffled offstage they left behind a pianist and a guitar player. The guitarist paused for a moment, pushing hair behind her ears. Then she closed her eyes and began playing the simple, haunting chords to a song I recognized instantly.

“Unchained Melody” gets a lot of scorn for being cheesy, but you don’t become one of the most popular love songs in the history of recorded music by accident. Ghost had already been out for over a decade by the time I was in high school, but that song was still the theme of my high school prom when I was a junior.

It also happened to be Sam’s favorite goddamned song in the world.

I felt my eyes well with tears. I looked up and there was John, his unruly hair tamed down with gel, his tuxedo just the slightest bit ill-fitting. I smiled. He held out a hand wordlessly, and I took it, allowing him to pull me in for a dance.

“I miss her, too,” he whispered. “Your mom asked them to play it, in her honor.”

I nodded, suddenly choked up.

“Do you remember,” he said into my ear, “when Sam decided to see how many times she could play this song in a row before your dad flipped out?”

I let out a startled laugh. “Oh, God, I had forgotten about that. Was that during the infamous college road trip?” I felt, rather than saw, his nod. “Poor Dad. He still thought he could talk me out of the army by showing me some fabulous college that would sweep me off my feet.”

“He was so sure you’d like Berkeley, if we could just make it there. And Sam decided she needed to break his spirit on the first day.” There was a smile in his voice that I found myself echoing.

“Hey, it was her favorite song.” I shrugged good-naturedly. “What’re you gonna do?” My poor, ex-hippie father was usually the more patient of our two parents, but a man could only take so much “Unchained Melody” in a row before losing it. “How far did we make it?” I asked. “I can’t remember.”

John lifted his hand, leading me through an effortless twirl. “Salt Lake City,” he said when I returned to him.

I smiled. “Sam saved us all some time. Even if I hadn’t joined the service, I would never have gone to Berkeley.”

John’s smile faded, and he pulled me close again so I wouldn’t see his expression. “Because Sam didn’t get into Berkeley,” he said matter-of-factly.

I shrugged. “But you did,” John pressed. “And Stanford. And USC.”

I felt my expression harden. “What’s your point?”

He looked away. The last chorus was beginning, and we would walk away soon. But for some reason it was important to me to understand. “It was so long ago, John. We were kids. What does it matter now that I wouldn’t have gone to a certain school if I had gone to school at all?”

He sighed. “I’m just . . . I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You never have. When we were kids, you acted like the sun rose and fell on Sam’s say-so, when you were the one who could have done anything with your life.”

I stopped dancing then, not caring who noticed us. “You can’t exactly tell me she wasn’t special, John. She was your wife.” I really hoped the words you chose her over me weren’t as obvious to him as they felt in my head.

“Of course she was special. Of course I loved her. But I just never understood why you decided to write this goddamned narrative,” he said, frustration buzzing in his voice, “that Sam had value and you didn’t.”

“I never—”

“When Sam was alive, you made your whole life about protecting her,” John insisted. “Sometimes I wondered if you decided to join the army, to protect the country, just because Sam was in it.”