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“Dairy is overrated.”
“Have toast, then.”
“I don’t eat bread or rice or…” He looked as if he was going to throw something at me. “Carbs in general.”
He swore and shrugged. “I don’t care what you eat. Just find something and stop grinding your teeth.”
I was still wearing my workout gear, but I’d doffed the ridiculous heels. On bare feet, I shrugged out of the blanket and padded into the kitchen, shivering as another wave of ice rammed into the window over the sink. I opened the fridge and took a good look, and ignored him completely as I perused the contents.
Three cartons of milk. Yuck.
A loaf of bread. Non-gluten free. Seriously? Not to mention the carbs. That was a no.
Cheese. No again.
Butter. Hell no.
Back bacon. Gross.
Eggs. Onion. Water. Ugh.
My choices were pretty slim, but I couldn’t ignore the rumbling in my stomach because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. I rooted around a bit, hoping to find an avocado or green pepper or broccoli. But there was nothing other than a bottom drawer filled with beer and the other one filled with bottles of water.
I grabbed the eggs and onion and rifled through the drawers until I found a frying pan and spatula. I turned on the front burner, set down my pan, and expertly cracked four eggs, then cut up some onion and tossed it on top. I spied the salt and pepper and, after seasoning, let the food do its thing. When it was ready, I scooped two eggs onto a plate and moved back to my spot on the sofa.
“There’s more there if you’re hungry.” There. I’d been the adult. I’d shown him that I wasn’t going to act the way he expected me to. Smiling to myself, I sank back onto the sofa and grabbed for the blanket.
“I’ve already eaten. Make sure you clean up your mess when you’re done.” He packed up his notebook and headed for the bedroom. I stuck my tongue out at him and settled in to eat. Good. I was glad he was gone. I could eat and grind my teeth and make as much noise as I wanted to.
Except, an hour later, I was bored out of my mind and damn near climbing the walls. I cleaned the kitchen and stared out the window at the ever-swirling snow and ice. It was getting bad out there. Like really bad. Another wave of ice hit the panes, and I backed away, wandering the large main area of the cabin. We used to come up all the time when I was younger, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been. There was a bunk in the loft, and that was where I usually slept. I glanced up, but it was in darkness and didn’t seem all that welcoming.
Beside the stone fireplace was a long table filled with pictures—there had to be at least twenty-five or so. My fingers grazed them as a knot formed at the back of my throat. So many to look at. Me and Dad on the dock. My sisters and me laughing in front of a Christmas tree. A dog we adopted one summer, Blackie, begging for food.
He was a scrawny thing who’d shown up in July and sent all of us girls over the moon. But by the time September rolled around, we had to leave for school and he was gone. I’d cried for at least a week, and when I’d gone back to my mother’s place, I’d begged her for a puppy. She’d refused, of course, said that a dog was too much work. Said it would be like having another child in the house and that she could barely keep track of us three. As if. Our nanny, Matilda, was more of a mother than she ever was.
A black-and-white photo caught my attention, and I grabbed it. For a long time, I stared at the image—so long that my vision began to blur and another damned knot formed in my throat. Taken when I was about three, in it I sat beside my dad and stared up at him, eyes wide, a chubby face filled with adoration and love. He grinned down at me, an old Gibson across his knee, his young face not yet touched by fame and all the demons that chased it.
We’d been happy once.
We’d been a family.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I set the picture back in place. I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to remember all that had been lost. What was the point? There was no going back. Not for any of us. I hadn’t talked to my father in six months. He’d been holed up in his recording studio over Thanksgiving with her, Samantha Needles, and hadn’t made the trip back to the plantation house, even though it was his tradition. Hell, I could have stayed in New York City or done the West Coast instead, but I thought he’d be there.
He hadn’t shown for Christmas either. That had been a lovely affair (cue the most sarcastic tone ever) spent with my mom and her new boy toy, who was exactly three days older than me. And then, well, New Year’s Eve had happened.
In that moment, my eyes squeezed shut, my heart racing faster than a locomotive, I realized something. I was lonely. So damn lonely.
The world thought I had everything. They looked at the pictures I posted online and saw a queen. A boss who owned her shit. It couldn’t be further from the truth. The only thing I owned was Fendi, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton.
My stomach was off, and I shivered. I was exhausted in my head, my body, and in my heart. I grabbed up the heavy blanket and headed for the loft. It was probably cold up there, but it was dark. All I wanted to do was sleep. And hide.
Maybe I’d never come back down.
6
Boyd
I was eight the first time I picked up a guitar. A Christmas gift from my absentee father, I’d plugged in that sucker and made so much noise, my mother took it away from me and didn’t give it back. Which was why I forgot about it until I was thirteen. My parents had just split, and when we finally settled in in our new place, the guitar from that long-ago Christmas was stuck in a with a bunch of other crap that had been tossed into my new bedroom.
