Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(34)
“No, this is your day off, Aly.” Mom tilted her head, bringing her hand on top of Dad’s as though she was giving up the fight to stay awake. “I only asked you over so we could go over that song.”
“I don’t mind. Really.”
“I can cook,” I told them. It was Sunday and I’d come here to see them. Being in the city away from my family, had me wanting to pull my weight. If Aly could swing it, so could I, but as soon as I’d made the offer, I regretted it. I could tackle, I could sack, I could play music and land a high GPA with little effort. Cooking, though, wasn’t really something I’d been successful at. And when my mom looked at me in disbelief, I realized what a stupid offer I’d made. Still, I didn’t want to look like too much of an idiot. “What?”
“What?” Mom repeated. “Bobby’s kitchen, Thanksgiving, six years ago.”
“The outside of the turkey was perfect.”
Mom did that pathetic little ‘Oh, honey, no,’ head shake. “Sweetie, the outside was ‘done’, but the inside was still frozen and the mashed potatoes managed to be runny and lumpy at the same time. And we won’t even mention how Bobby’s stove caught fire when you left the dishtowel on the burner.”
“Mom, that was…”
Kona’s laugh interrupted me. “We’ll call something in.” He looked at Aly. “You’re staying for dinner. No arguments. But for now, Wildcat,” he turned to my mother, “You need to nap.” He guided her out of the room by the shoulders and ignored her last attempt at a protest. “Come on.”
Aly’s gaze followed them as they walked away. I still hadn’t seen her smile, just a small dimpling of her cheek here and there, but as she watched my parents walk out of the room, I studied her. Today she wasn’t dressed in anything like what she wore at the studio. No baggy shirts or fitted dance pants. She wore a pair of denim capris that cupped her large calf muscles and a flowy spaghetti strap top with a trim lace that seemed to tease me into staring a bit too long at the smooth skin around her cleavage. Her hair was still pulled back from around her face, but rather than in a messy bun, it was in a loose braid that hung down her back.
When she looked back at me, her expression was still impassive, but not unfriendly. Still, she didn’t smile. I wondered if she ever did.
“So, Aly Cat?” I said when the awkward silence lingered too long.
Aly rolled her eyes as though the name had come from something simple and silly. “Kona came in a few days ago while Koa was having a temper tantrum.” I tried not to stare at her chest when Aly leaned against the piano. “Your mom was sleeping and he was being, well…”
“Himself?”
“Yeah.” Another swipe of that stray hair to behind her ear and I noticed she wore a silver bracelet with a single charm. A ballet slipper. “He didn’t want to eat his lunch and I didn’t cave so he was crying. I’ve learned that fussing at kids doesn’t work, and I tend to try the whole ‘be calm’ thing, but Koa…”
“Yeah, that shit won’t work on him.” My kid brother was a ball of energy and Dad tended to overcompensate by spoiling Koa rotten, despite Mom’s complaints. It just added to his being incorrigible, even at nearly two.
“So, instead of fussing at him, I started making cat noises just to distract him.” A small lift of the right side of her mouth and I swore Aly almost smiled. She shook her head and that charm slid back and forth when she waved her hand. “Stupid, I know, but it worked and Koa just laughed. Your dad saw the whole thing go down and just started cracking up. Told me I sounded like an alley cat.” Aly moved her elbows to the piano top and glanced over her shoulder as though she wanted to make sure my father wasn’t around before she whispered, “I think he thinks he’s way funnier than he is.”
“That’s the truth.” She had Dad pegged already and I respected her for how quickly she seemed to discover that my parents weren’t the celebrities people tended to see them as. Aly, in fact, seemed pretty unimpressed by my father’s celebrity or the ridiculous near-mansion my folks lived in. That made her cool in my book. Her only response was to nod at me before she sat behind the piano.
The living room wasn’t where my mom typically did her work. She had a small office off the back of the house with a small recording studio, her desk and PC and enough instruments to outfit a full band. But the baby grand was too big for her studio, and besides, it begged to be put on display. Still, she hadn’t been playing much lately. As always, her father’s Gibson Hummingbird stayed at its usual place on a stand next to the piano along with the small amp she kept near it.
Aly tinkered on the keys, playing the slow intro to her song, but her timing was off and she missed several notes, something that set my teeth on edge. I’m not sure why I sat down next to her, and joined her at the keyboard. Maybe it was a bit of conceit. Maybe I wanted to show her that I had a connection to music, too, through piano instead than dance. Maybe I just wanted to be near her when she wasn’t completely freezing me out, for whatever reason.
“You play?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Yeah, but I’m rusty.”
The keys felt cool and comfortable under my fingertips, and for a second I felt that calm settle into my chest, the same one that had always tampered down my rage when things became too much for me.