You'd Be Mine(58)

“He said some things.”

My throat aches. “Like what?”

“Like things I won’t repeat, so don’t ask. Believe me. He deserved it.”

“About me?”

Jason shakes his head. “Not in the way you think. Just … don’t worry about that part.”

The thing is, that’s impossible. Everyone else heard. Maybe I’ll coax it out of Kacey later. The door opens, and the doctor is walking out.

“He’s fine. You can go in now. He’ll be asleep for some time.”

I release a slow breath and get to my feet, holding out a hand for Jason, who shakes his head. “I’m done for. I’m going to bed.”

I grab him up in a hug. “For what it’s worth, thank you for being noble.”

Jason looks like he wants to say more, but I reach up and kiss his cheek and turn for the door before he can. I close the door behind me and wait to hear Jason’s door slam before stepping back out in to the hall. I call Trina and Connie first, and then home.

“Hey, Gran, it’s me. Change of plans. We’re coming back.”



* * *



Fitz is crouched against the couch, Kacey standing over him, both keeping vigil over a sleeping Jefferson. I walk over to them, placing a hand on Fitz’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at me; instead, he grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m such an idiot. He said he needed help weeks ago, and I laughed at him. I didn’t take him seriously.”

“This?” I say. “This was half-hearted at best. He’s still working toward rock bottom, Fitz.”

“How can you be so calm?”

My shoulder lifts weakly even though none of them see it. “I’m not. Inside, I’m mad as hell. But anger isn’t going to help anyone but us. He needs love and friends, and most of all, Fitz, he needs to get the hell off this tour. I’ve already got a phone call in to Connie and Trina. We’re calling off Kentucky. Jefferson needs some time.”

I give Jefferson one more look. Lean down and kiss his bruised cheek. “I’m going to bed. Get packed. We’re going to Michigan in the morning. You boys are expected at the farm.”

Fitz’s head shoots up. “Annie, that’s—” He looks to Kacey, who smiles sadly. “You don’t have to do that. I know how you—I can take him out of here. We’ll go back to Indy.”

I grimace. “Wow. He must have said something pretty terrible about me.” I raise my hand as he opens his mouth. “Please. I thought I wanted to know, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s better I don’t. Just … I’m expecting you both. My gran is, too. Ride to the airport leaves at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Be there.”





23



Annie


I leave, my steps heavier than ever as I make my way down the hall to my room. I take out my earrings and change into pajamas, removing all my makeup with a wipe. I refold my clothes, noticing Jefferson’s blood on my shirt from earlier. I don’t even try to clean it; I just fold that, too, inside out.

I pack everything carefully. Silently. Intentionally. I lay out my clothes for the morning. I place a call to the desk to wake me up. I preorder my breakfast.

But through all of this, I’m thirteen and I’ve just come home from school. I use my own key to open the door. The house is dark, though it’s only late afternoon. All the curtains are still shut. My parents came home late last night. Mom recently wrapped up a three-week tour. Dad’s been in town working on his next album. He promised me we’d all go out to dinner to celebrate my birthday once Mom was back.

I run up the stairs calling for my mom. She’d sworn to pick me up something special on the road while in California. I think it’s probably the designer cowboy boots I saw last time we were out there. They didn’t have my size at the time. She promised to double-check now that I was old enough to fit into women’s sizes.

I fling open the door to my bedroom, but it looks exactly the same as when I’d left this morning. No boxes, bed messy, my pajamas puddled on the floor next to my soggy towel.

I slam the door again, running back down the stairs, still yelling. No response. I head for the kitchen, seeing nothing but a few dirty dishes from this morning. I see a slant of light from the den. Of course. My dad spends all of his time in his den, writing. When they’re both home, I’ll sometimes find her asleep on the leather couch in there. He’d put his finger to his lips to quiet me.

“Shhh, Anna Banana. Ain’t your momma beautiful when she sleeps?”

Of course, as I get older, it’s hard to miss the empty bottles and stray needles about when my mom is sleeping. Even at thirteen, I understand what’s really going on. It’s part of their line of work, though. Lots of parents come home and have a beer after a long day. My parents’ jobs are extra stressful, so a beer doesn’t cut it. At least that’s what my dad tells me.

I creep over to the doorway, pushing it open. In retrospect, I realize things were different that day. For one, it was completely silent. No heavy breathing indicative of deep sleep, no strumming or soft singing, no lowered voices or even whispered accusations. Nothing. Eerily calm quiet. The kind of silence that feels more like a void of sound, rather than a hush.

The door opened into my nightmare. I saw my mother first, her sofa directly across from the entrance. She was barely on the couch. A gray, bone-thin arm draped to the floor, the back of her fingers tracing the plush carpet. A scream froze in my lungs. Her eyes were wide, terrified, burst bloody capillaries dotting the whites. Crusted-over vomit trailed from the corner of her mouth and puddled on the floor. Foam coated her shocking blue lips. I didn’t need to touch her to know, but I couldn’t stop myself for reaching for her one hand, still draped across the back of the couch. It was stiff and curled into the leather, as if she’d tried to pull herself up but couldn’t manage the effort.