Everything You Are(67)

Phee thinks about a certain envelope in her cedar chest, the one she has never yet opened. The one her grandfather told her contains the secret rite that finishes a MacPhee creation off properly. “Only open it if you wish to create a binding oath,” he said. She’s considered burning it, unopened, about a million times, but it’s still there, lurking at the bottom of the trunk.

“What about his father?” Phee asks. “And grandfather? Were they all crazy, too? What about Dad? Because he said this shit has been handed down for generations.”

“Insanity can be generational. It’s possible. Your father wasn’t touched by it. But he takes after his mother’s side of the family more than the MacPhees. Maybe only some of them were crazy and just sold the story to the next of kin. The point is, curses aren’t real. This oath he bound you to isn’t real. You don’t have to do any of this.”

“I do, though.” Phee thinks uneasily about the music she hears all the time now, and wonders if her turn in the psych unit is coming. “I would, anyway, whether I’d ever sworn an oath or not. This is beyond Granddad’s stuff, Mom. Not playing is tearing the both of them apart.”

Bridgette’s sharp eyes scan her face. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? The cellist.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s written all over you. All these years I’ve been waiting for you to fall in love. Sooner or later, I tell myself. One of these days, the right man will walk into her life and she’ll be unable to resist. She’ll forget all about this insanity of her grandfather’s and make a family. And now some broken-down alcoholic cellist walks on stage and he’s the one?”

Phee laughs out loud, in spite of everything. “That life you keep trying to plan for me is more a fantasy than the curse. What man would ever tolerate my obsession?”

“I was wishing that the man would become your obsession, child.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Phee whispers.

“Oh, Phee.” Bridgette reaches across the table and covers her daughter’s hand with her own. “You never could do anything by halves.”



When Phee arrives on Braden’s doorstep on Wednesday afternoon at 3:29 and rings the bell, she gives herself a serious pep talk. She’ll be friendly but keep good boundaries. She’s not taking him on a date. The way her blood surges at the smallest thought of him, the way her heart beats faster and her breath seems to live in her throat at the sound of his voice, all of this is irrelevant. She’s here as a sponsor and a . . . coach. That’s it. A person with a job to do. Keep him sober. Get him playing the cello.

She has a rudimentary plan forming in her head, only she needs help to make it happen.

“Look what you’ve gotten me into,” she mutters to her grandfather as she punches the bell again. Music swirls between her ears, this time nothing classical, a mournful lament.

The door swings open, and her heart does a series of rolling somersaults, despite all of her best intentions.

“No Celestine?” Braden asks, looking behind her.

“He’s not exactly well behaved at the pet store. I half expected that you wouldn’t be here,” she adds, getting back in the car.

“I almost wasn’t.” He busies himself buckling his seat belt, avoiding her gaze. “I confess that I actually fled the premises, but then I came back.”

“Why?”

“Which thing?”

“Both. Why leave. Why come back?”

“Afraid to face the group. Afraid I’ll drink if I don’t go. Afraid of you, frankly. Did you tell them about my relapse?”

“Hey, my interference and enabling goes only so far. Tell or don’t tell, that’s your decision to make.”

“But you called a special meeting.”

“I told them I was thinking about drinking. They were all having fits because I missed on Monday. I never miss.”

“Are you? Thinking about drinking?”

“Crossed my mind.”

It’s not a lie. The aroma of the Scotch she poured on her grandfather’s grave is still making her mouth water. But that’s not why she’s called this meeting, which is all about Braden. As much as she’s struggling with her boundaries, though, she knows it won’t do him any good to talk about his relapses unless he brings it up himself.

They drive the rest of the way in an uneasy silence, Phee alternating between her own thoughts and trying to read his. When she parks the car, he makes no move to get out.

“You coming?”

“I tried to play last night. Just so you know.”

“Oh, Braden.”

“It was absolutely horrifying. Spent the rest of the night walking around and trying not to think. Or drink.”

“Did you pop into a bar? Buy a bottle?”

“I did not, oddly enough.”

“Come on,” she says. “Come inside. We’re late.”

The whole group cheers when they walk in.

“Hey, glad you made it,” Oscar says. “We were starting to worry. Phee is never late.”

“And she never misses meetings.” Katie glares at Braden, as if sensing that he is responsible for Phee’s absence.

“I’m only here because she dragged me,” Braden says, pulling up a chair.