A Mother Would Know (29)

“Tonight?”

“Why not? The ideas are flowing. What better time?” He leaned against my car, his face so close to mine I could feel the warmth of his breath.

He wasn’t wrong. We’d been stuck on this song for a while, but I also knew that wasn’t why he was inviting me over. The truth was written in his eyes—the way they drank me in greedily. It was there in his body language, the way he angled his shoulder into me, allowing his arm to fall so his fingertips grazed my side.

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“That’s my girl.” Pushing off my car, he winked, swaggered off.

When I got in my car, I thought about calling Darren and telling him I might be a little late, but decided against it. He was probably already in bed, and if he wasn’t, I didn’t feel like getting the third degree. At least, those were the reasons I gave myself. But I knew it was because hearing Darren’s voice might have stopped me.

And I didn’t want to stop.

I kept up the professional pretense for the first few minutes at his house, sitting on the piano bench and rifling through his notebook. But then he slid onto the bench next to me, so close our thighs touched. Lowering one hand, he let his palm fall to my bare leg. Goose bumps rose on my skin.

“I always love when you wear this skirt.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I wore it.” Darren hated it. Said it was too short. That men could probably look up it while I was singing. But Mac always complimented me on it.

“Really? You wore it for me?” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, and I could tell he wasn’t sure if I was messing with him or not.

I turned to him, my face serious. “Yes, Mac, I really did.”

His hand slid higher up my thigh. I leaned into him, an invitation.

That was all it took. His free hand lifted to catch the side of my face. When his mouth met mine, his kiss was greedy. Hungry.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom. I straddled him right there on the piano bench. Later, we joked about how fitting it was that our first time was in the place we’d so often made magic together—just in a different way.

I could’ve stopped it at any time. Put on the brakes. Bailed.

But I never really wanted to.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Suzanne says quietly, pulling me back to our conversation, to her suggestion that I talk to someone. “I shouldn’t have overstepped. I just wanted to call and make sure everything was all right.”

“It is,” I assure her, knowing it’s a lie but not wanting to burden Suzanne. I’ve been relying enough on Kendra—and now I have to lean on Hudson, too. No need to drag her down with my issues as well.

After hanging up, I take another sip of my water and glance around, trying to remember what I’d originally come up here to do. My gaze falls to my unmade bed. Absently, I walk toward it. Fingering the edge of my comforter, I know this isn’t what I’d been planning to do when Suzanne called. Still, I make my bed, hoping the simple act of doing something will trigger my memory.

It doesn’t.

As much as I hate to admit it, I know I’m getting worse.

I head downstairs, make myself a cup of tea and meander into the family room. In the corner, by the large bay window, sits my baby grand piano. In the early morning sunlight, the dust is more visible than usual. It’s been neglected lately. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and played.

It holds too many sad memories.

But after talking to Suzanne this morning, I feel like playing it. I set down my mug and move toward the piano. Pulling the cover up, I’m greeted by a row of ivory keys. As I rest my hands on the keys, my signature red lacquered nails sparkle—I still get a manicure every two weeks. Beneath them, my hands are weathered, covered in age spots and spidery blue veins.

I rack my brain for a song I know by memory. One of my favorites comes to mind. A song Mac and I wrote together over fifteen years ago called “Heart Sky.” I play through the first verse and chorus. The piano is out of tune, and my voice is rough, out of practice. But it doesn’t matter to me right now. Closing my eyes, I conjure up the image of playing this with the band. I can feel the beat under my feet, the energy from the audience. When I reach the bridge, I falter, pausing, my fingers hovering. As hard as I try, I can’t remember the chords. It’s like I’ve hit a wall.

Frustrated, I shove back, stand up and close the lid with a little too much force.

Then I think more about Hudson’s suggestion to see the doctor. If there’s even the slightest chance someone can help me, I have to take it. Right?

I click into my contacts, look up Dr. Steiner and dial.



* * *



The first thing I notice when I turn the corner onto Molly’s street is the news van. I tug on Bowie’s leash, thinking we should go back. But curiosity propels me forward. The reporter is one I’ve seen before, but I can’t remember her name. It was Darren who used to watch the news all the time, not me. Blonde. Pretty. Young. Today she sports a black-and-white pinstriped pantsuit, her hair twisted into an updo. She stands in front of Molly’s house, holding a mic in front of her face, a cameraman poised a few feet in front of her.

Neighbors gawk from their yards, or peek through their blinds. When I get close enough, I catch the tail end of the reporter’s words.