“Uh-uh,” he says, holding up a finger. “You are shutting up, remember? When’s the last time you had a conversation whereyou weren’t worried about things sounding good, or right, or whatever? You’ve had too much media training. It’s warped your perspective. You’ve got a good man there, Ster. I know I don’t know him, but I hear how you talk about him, even when you guys are fighting. I read the papers. I’ve seen a dozen pictures of him looking at you. The guy’s down bad, bro. You have a good thing here. Maybe even a once-in-a-lifetime kinda thing. Don’t let him go. You may speak now.”
Clearly satisfied, he sits back in his chair.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” you say. “Look at your life, Ry. It’s perfect. You’ve got a wife, a beautiful baby. A gorgeous house. A good job that doesn’t involve needing bodyguards and people wanting to throw things at you. It’s hard…”
“No,” Ryan interrupts again. He’s pulled over your pastry and is eating it unabashedly, making you wish that you had spent less time talking and more time enjoying it. “That’s bullshit, my friend. That’s somepoor little rich boypity-party BS. You’re living your dream. This is what you always wanted. Maybe not the fame part. But people singing your songs? Making a fuck-ton of money playing your guitar? The Sterling I met when we were kids would be geeked off his face if he could see what you have accomplished. There’s nothing stopping you from having it all. Nothing but your own ego getting in the way.”
“Kai deserves better,” you mumble. “I’m dragging him down with this lifestyle and all my personal bullshit. He never wanted any of this. He’s not that type of guy.”
“We all come with bullshit,” Ryan says. “I snore at night. Sienna can’t stand the noises I make when I’m chewing food. My boss tells me that I have a bad habit of coming in too hot when these IEP coordinators are giving my special ed families shit aboutaccommodations for their kiddos. Nobody’s perfect. The good news is, sometimes we meet people who don’t mind the ugly parts. For some reason, Sienna still likes me. Sounds a lot like Kai really likes you, ugly or not.”
“You make it sound so simple,” you say.
He shrugs. “Maybe it is? You gonna get on your knees and beg that studly-ass man to forgive your nonsense, or are you gonna cry about it all night?”
“Studly?” You raise an eyebrow.
Ryan laughs. “Bro, we’ve all seen those yogurt commercials.”
“My psychiatrist wants me to go on something for my anxiety,” you confess. “I completely blew her off. I’m guessing you’re gonna say that I should rethink that, too?”
“Sterling Graysonis wound up tighter than a virgin at a prison rodeo?” He huffs and shakes his head. “Never have I ever hadthatthought. C’mon. You already know the answer. Take the goddamn pills. Lots of people need their chemicals straightened out. Maybe they’ll help un-jam that stick from your ass.”
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically.
“Any time,” he says. “I mean that, too. We really need to get together some time when you aren’t having a mental breakdown, though. My door’s always open. Come for, like, a cookout in the summer. I bet Kai can crush some hamburgers and hot dogs. Hazel will be walking by then. Maybe you can teach her some sweet dance moves.”
“You’d better get your guest bedroom ready,” you say, “because it’s happening.”
“Good,” he says with a smile. “Hey, not that Iwantto break up this conversation, but your phone is going nuts.”
Your phone is on silent and flipped upside down on the other end of the dish that was holding your babka, making it out of sight and out of mind for you. When you pick it up, it’s vibrating like crazy. You have three missed calls from Los Angeles, and you’re about to miss Number Four.
“Holy shit,” you swear. “Let me just step outside and take this, Ry. It’s super important.”
“No worries!” he says cheerfully. “When you come in, Sienna’s gonna want that pickleball story. I’ll refresh your coffee.”
“I want another piece of that babka!” you call as you hustle towards the door.
As you step outside into the frigid night to take the phone call—a call that you’ve been waiting for literally for months—the breeze cuts right through you. Somehow, however, you are lighter and warmer than you’ve felt in longer than you can remember.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When the phone rings late on Christmas Eve night, your heart catches in your throat.
“Hi,” you say cautiously as Kai’s face fills the screen. He’s in his room in his house in Macon. You still have never been there, but you recognize it all the same.
“Sterling…” he starts. And, then, in a louder, totally different voice, “Angelika, baby, Uncle Kai’s on the phone. No more Reinhart WrestleMania. Your mama wants you to go lay down and get ready for Santa Claus.”
You wait patiently on the other end of the line, convinced that, if he doesn’t talk to you soon, you might actually die.
“Sorry,” he mutters gruffly, his eyes back on the screen.
“No problem,” you reply with a lightness you don’t feel. “You were saying?”
“I wassaying,” he says, “Sterling, there’s a damn car in my driveway. And it doesn’t belong to any of my folks.”
“Oh?” you respond, twisting the hem of your shirt restlessly around your finger.
