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Her nose wrinkles, and I laugh. “Well, they’re kind of assholes.”
They are pious to the point of extremism and do not approve of Mom’s art or my music. Fuck ’em. Mom and I share a look that says exactly that, and she grins before sobering.
“Are you lonely, Rye?”
Shit.
Releasing her hand, I sit back. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay if you are. There is nothing wrong in wanting to find someone to settle down with.”
A choked laugh escapes. “Just the term ‘settle down’ gives me hives.”
I know relationships can work. I also know that when they fail, they fail spectacularly.
Being my mother, she leans in and inspects my arm. “No hives here.” She winks. “Stop being a male cliché, bitching about commitment. It’s pedestrian.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Ma…”
“I’m serious. You need love. You always were a sensitive boy…”
“God.”
“You’ve been part of your band for years. Now they’re all pairing off. It’s natural for you to want that too.”
“Okay.” I press my hands to the table and stand. “I’m leaving now. Good talk.”
“Chicken shit.” She says it with a gleam of evil humor in her eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be cautious with giving my heart away. I’m not unaware of the benefits. Hell, my friends have transformed in front of my eyes, becoming happy in a way I don’t understand, content, satisfied. It can’t be all bad. But I’ve seen the dark side too. I’d never say it, but some days I’m afraid for them. I don’t think any of them would recover if their relationships soured.
As for myself, I don’t know what would be worse. Turning into my mom and clinging to something toxic and ugly. Or my dad, unable to remain faithful but also unable to give up the safety of a sure thing.
Mom stands and gives me another surprisingly strong hug. I soak it in because I’m her boy, even though I give her lip, and I feel guilty for thinking of her as weak. She’s not; she’s merely human. Maybe that’s the problem. We all think we’ll act strong, do the right thing, but the reality of it is harder than it looks.
She leans back and cups my cheek. “I love you, Rye Bread. One day, someone else will love you too.”
“You have to love me, Ma. I’m your son. Not everyone finds me as lovable.”
A journo once called me Rye the Good-Time Guy. Like a ride in a carnival, I was good for some thrills and fun. I’d get you off, but too much of me would leave your head aching and stomach reeling. I probably shouldn’t have slept with her and called it quits before she wrote the interview. Lesson learned and all that. But she wasn’t entirely wrong. Everyone sees me that way.
Everyone, it seems, except my mother.
Shaking her head, Mom pats my cheek. “You’re too smart to think something so stupid.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rye
I’m feeling slightly low and morose when I get home, but I stop short at the sight greeting me in front of my apartment door. “Bren?”
She’s bending down to set something on the floor but snaps upright and whirls around at the sound of my voice. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Well, I do live here.” Shock has me staring. I’ve never found anyone at my doorstep before.
I live in the Dakota—a New York City icon. Each apartment is like a Gilded Age mansion in miniature. The condo board might be picky as fuck, but the natural light and feel of the space is incredible. Moreover, the gothic building has been home to Lauren Bacall, Judy Garland, and, most infamously, John Lennon. He was murdered outside its doors. It might sound morbid to some, but I choose to remember that he had a life here.
Every time I leave or return to the building, I send up a silent word of acknowledgment to John; I’m pretty sure everyone in the band does this when they visit me.
I’d ask Brenna how she got in, because security is tight, but I don’t want to ruin the mystery. The main point is she’s here. Here, at my house.
“When did you get back?” I ask, unable to stop staring at her like she’s a mirage.
“An hour ago.”
A pulse of surprise ripples over my skin. She just got in, and she came straight here.
She’s fidgeting now, her legs blocking what she left at my door. I eye it—and, okay, her killer legs too—with interest. Those long legs just might be my undoing: sleek, toned, and lovingly showcased by her tight navy-blue skirt and dainty spiked pink heels. I want those heels digging into my back while I bury myself in her wet heat.
Reflexively, I clear my throat. “What were you doing?”
Brenna’s cheeks darken, but she lifts her chin to counteract the blush. “You said you weren’t feeling well.”
