Page 130 of Sing For Me

Will

Ihave no idea why I came here.

I shouldn’t be sitting in my truck outside my parents still-dark house at six in the morning. I can’t even remember driving to the neighborhood.

When I left Eva’s, I couldn’t stand the thought of going home so I just kept driving instead. For two hours I drove aimlessly through the mostly-deserted streets until, somehow, I ended up here.

At some point during my meandering trek, it started to drizzle, and now it’s really coming down, steel grey sheets of rain making it hard to see the house.

I should leave, but I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to go. There’s no way I can talk to Rose right now so the apartment is still out. I could go to the shop, try to get some work done, but with the way my head is pounding, I’m not sure I’d be able to read a single line of my paperwork.

I’m almost relieved for the headache—it’s just about the only thing I can feel right now. The rest of me is numb. Frozen. My brain too foggy and slow to form coherent thoughts. If I try too hard to focus, the realization of everything that happened this morning cuts through me like a sharp blade and I lose the ability to breathe for a moment. So maybe numb is better.

I lost Eva.

No, I didn’t just lose her. I fucking walked away. She stood there in her kitchen, ready to fight for me, forus, and I threw it all in her face.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I jerk violently when I hear the rapping at my window. I peer out into the gloomy darkness of pouring rain to see my father standing next to my truck. He’s dressed in flannel pants and a t-shirt, meaning he just got out of bed, and he’s already soaked through to the skin from the deluge.

I pull open the door. “What are you doing out here?”

“Was gonna ask you the same question, kid.”

In spite of the rain and the early hour, he gives me a smirk that’s so familiar I feel a sudden tightness seize my chest. He looks so quintessentiallyhimselfin this moment, hair rumpled, eyes bright, smirking in spite of the howling winds and rain. Cash Ransome, internationally beloved rock star, the bad boy of the band.

My father.

But as he gets a clearer look at my face through the open door, the smirk and the brightness fade away, replaced with heavy concern. “Come on in the house, Son.”

I turn to face the windshield again, unable to look into his worried face. “I think I’m going to take off.”

He opens the door farther, his hand coming up to clasp my shoulder. “I’ve been watching you sit out here for the last twenty minutes. Come inside, Will. I’ll make coffee.”

I don’t bother to ask why he’s awake so early. Instead, I watch as my legs slide across the seat, as my feet hit the pavement and I stand. I feel like I’m outside of my body, watching someone else make these movements. Take these steps. I barely even feel the rain pounding down on my shoulders, even though I’m soaking wet within seconds and my brain vaguely makes note of how cold it is.

The house is silent when we walk through the door. My dad apparently brought a few towels down when he decided to come out and get me, because he throws one at me before I can take two steps into the house.

“Don’t drip on your mom’s floor.”

I towel off my hair, pull off my wet socks, and squeeze some of the water from my t-shirt, but there’s not much I can do about my sodden jeans.

“You wanna go get changed?” he asks, gesturing at the stairs. I freeze in place, the image of my bedroom—kept exactly the same since the day I moved out, the same as it used to be all those hours I spent there with Skye—hitting me hard.

“I can’t go up there,” I croak out without thinking.

Dad studies my face for a moment before nodding. “I’ll run up and grab you some sweats. Why don’t you start the coffee?”

I nod, swallowing hard. God, I shouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t be. The only thing that’s going to happen is another fight, and I don’t have the energy for yelling at my dad. Don’t feel like being pissed at him right now.

If I let myself start to feel anything I’m going to end up thinking about Eva. And I’m going to lose my shit.

You can make coffee,I tell myself.That’s something you can do.

My mom has one of those fancy espresso machines but my dad refuses to touch it. According to him, coffee should be simple, cheap, and black. I think he just likes to give her a hard time about it. But I go to his cheap little drip machine and start up a pot, praying the entire time that my mom doesn’t come downstairs. Or, shit, any of my siblings.

My dad must sense my desire to avoid everyone, because as soon as we’ve filled our mugs, he gestures to the basement stairs. “Let’s go downstairs. Then we won’t have to worry about waking anyone up.”