Sweet Oblivion Page 4

  Sorry, that was unnecessarily mean, Aya typed after I didn’t respond. When does your father leave for his next tour?

  Dunno. He hasn’t finished the album, and the execs are breathing down his neck. I think that’s why he’s been so pissed—not just at me, but the world. I totally get why my mom’s not around. She’s trying to flood her liver in an effort to ignore the embarrassment of my dad’s other women.

  Is that working?

  I snorted before I typed. Considering she’s been ‘on location’ for the past three weeks? Even the media is sure she’s refusing to come home at this point. So no. Not even close.

  I guess I’m glad my parents got divorced then.

  Yeah. Yeah, that would be better, I wrote.

  6

  Nash

  Toward the end of my junior year, when the next February rolled around, Aya sent me a message: Happy birthday!

  It’s tomorrow, I typed back.

  I’d been wallowing in my room, frustrated that Cam had a gig and Aya remained impossible to get a hold of. I slammed my head back against the beanbag and shut my eyes, remembering what birthdays used to look like: huge cakes with sparkling candles, streamers, balloons, and laughter.

  I missed the laughter.

  I missed my mom, and the hurt inside me grew because my father hadn’t bothered to suggest we hang out on the deck—our birthday tradition.

  Just then he stuck his head into my room. “You got a song for me?” he asked, as he had each of the last few times I’d seen him.

  I swallowed the ache building in my chest, the weight of the anxiety pressing against my lungs. “No.”

  He glared. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to school, and—” And tomorrow’s my birthday.

  “I hear you banging around on your instruments. Look, I need a hit. If we don’t finish this album, we’ll have to postpone the tour again. And that’s not going to make the label happy.”

  I bit my lip, ducking my head. Besides the song I’d helped Cam with more than a year ago, I hadn’t heard much in the way of music. I’d looked it up and learned that grief and stress could impact my ability to focus. But I hadn’t mentioned the issue to anyone, shame building hard and hot each time my dad didn’t come home.

  It was almost as if he only cared about my ability to compose music.

  My phone chimed, and I sighed out a breath, thankful for the distraction.

  Of course I remember. You’re about to be seventeen! Aya wrote.

  “Are you even listening to me?” my father asked, stepping into the room.

  I tensed, his tone as dark as his expression.

  “Yeah. I just…”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Nash. This, the music, is important. It’s what pays for your cushy life.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say. Steve appeared in the doorway.

  “Your car’s out front, Mr. Porter.”

  “Fine. Great.” Dad turned back to focus on me. “Remember what I said. You need to bring something to the studio on Friday.”

  Friday? I had school.

  Steve frowned too, his gaze remaining on my dad a moment longer than left any of us comfortable.

  Dad stormed out of the room.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Steve scowled. “I believe your father’s feeling some pressure. From the studio.”

  “But…why?”

  Steve shook his head.

  Nash? Did you get my text? Happy 17th birthday!

  Aya’s text pulled me out of the dark place. Right. Focus.

  “You okay, son?” Steve asked.

  I nodded, unsure what else to say or do, so I refocused on my phone.

  Just remember I’m older, I typed, smiling.

  By ten whole days.

  I could feel the sarcasm vibrating off her message, which caused my smile to grow.

  I’m older, and I saved your life.

  Yes, yes, my knight in shining armor. A king among men. Blah, blah, blah.

  I barked out a laugh. She actually wrote blah blah blah. This girl. She had a fantastic sense of humor.

  The next day passed as the previous ones had. I made it through the school day—chatted up by a ton of kids and not interested in any of them. I wished Aya was here, with me. I wished my mother would come home. I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone. Again.

  So, I was more than a bit relieved to receive a text from Aya late that afternoon. It had to be really early in Nepal, and the fact that she’d woken up and climbed the side of the mountain, for me, made me smile.

  Got any plans for the big b-day? she asked.

  Not really.

  But I knew Aya had already surmised as much, which was why she’d made the climb two days in a row. Warmth spread through my chest. This girl—this girl I hadn’t even seen since we were five, meant more to me than just about anyone in my life.

  You know what I want, more than anything? Aya wrote.

  No idea.

  Cats. Well, kittens. I want a bunch of sweet furry babies to cuddle.

  I wouldn’t mind a sweet little furball to snuggle with either. Something to love me, to keep me company when my parents weren’t here.

  Yeah, I’d be down with a kitten, I wrote.

  Aya sent a smiley face with heart eyes, making my insides warm. Jeez. I should stop talking to her, but before I set down my phone, another text popped up.

  I wanted to ask my mum for one now that we’re moving back to ‘civilization’, but, from what you’ve told me, I should ask for a car.

  Wait, what?? You’re really coming back this time?

  That’s what she said.

  She’s said that before, I wrote.

  She seems serious.

  Well, then cars are important to teenagers here.

  No one here drives.

  That’s weird.

  She sent a shrug emoji.

  Tell you what, I’ll teach you to drive and get you a cat one day.

  And I’ll get you one. We’ll have twin cats.

  We continued to text, and my mood improved even more.

  Who cared that my dad was pissed at me? Who cared that he’d probably bang another groupie, causing my mother to party harder in an effort to show she didn’t care? Who cared that my mother had been spotted by the paparazzi two hours ago in a posh club off Sunset in LA, sucking down lemon drop martinis like they were water instead of coming home to spend my birthday with me?

  I had Aya, and she cared about me.

  “Nash!”

  I startled out of the version of “Nantucket Sleigh Ride” that included a full orchestra backing up the sweet seventies guitar licks.

  I blinked, shocked to find my room dark. How long had I been in here? “Yeah?”

  “You got a delivery,” Steve called.

  I bounded down the stairs, smiling when I saw the balloons and cake box held in the delivery person’s arms.

  “You Nash Porter?” the bored guy asked.

  “Sure am.”

  The delivery man shoved the box at me, followed by the balloons. “Enjoy.”

  I set the cake box in the kitchen, pulling off the note.

  Happy birthday, honey. We’ll celebrate when I get home. This project is wrapping up, and I’ll be back soon.

  All my love,

  Mom

  I considered dumping the cake in the trash, but then I opened it. The icing looked rich and chocolatey, so I cut myself a thick slice. The inside was marbled chocolate and butterscotch—the same cake my mom used to order for me when I was little.

  Steve walked in and settled in the seat across from me. He slid a large, rumpled package toward me. It appeared as much tape as wrapping paper, but the sight of it made me grin.

  “For me?”

  “Yeah.”

  I set my fork down and tore into the paper. I gasped, my gaze flying to his. “You remembered?”

  “You said it made a cool sound.” He cleared his t
hroat. “If you don’t like it…”

  I rounded the table and nearly hugged him. At the last moment, I held out my fist, which he bumped with his. “I’ve always wanted a theremin,” I told him, “especially after hearing it on Jack White’s ‘Missing Pieces.’ This is epic.” I turned it over, grinning hard.

  “Oh, and something else came for you.”

  Steve brought over an envelope. It was stained with what looked like raindrops. The handwriting was small, neat, a bit loopy.

  Everything in me paused as I caught the return address. Nepal. Aya had sent me mail. We’d never crossed the line into written missives. But her doing this for me… I blew out a breath.

  Steve settled into the chair and crossed his arms. I slit the top of the envelope, trying not to show him my shaking hands.

  I pulled out a card. It was a plain white one, no embellishments.

  Nash,

  We don’t have cards here like in the States. But I wanted to wish you happy birthday the old-fashioned way. I ordered you tickets to the Asher Smith concert, which I’ll forward to you next time I’m on the mountain. I know he’s your favorite.

  Hugs,

  Aya

  I gaped at the card. “Holy…”

  “What?” Steve asked.

  My smile widened. “We’re going to see Asher Smith. Aya got me tickets.”

  Steve raised his eyebrow. “Couldn’t you have gotten tickets through your dad’s record label?”

  I shook my head. “Dad doesn’t like Asher. I guess something went down between them when I was little. Anyway, no way he’d ask for tickets.” I smiled. “But now I have to go. Because Aya got them for me.”

  And because it would rub my dad’s face in it a little. Couldn’t be sorry about that. Not at all.

  The weight of my confrontation with him yesterday hit me again. He’d never pressured me like that before.

  “So those are from Aya? The pen pal?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah. She’s great.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  I nodded, my throat tight. I hesitated a moment before I brought up the most recent photo she’d sent me. She was standing next to a pony, her hand on its neck. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a braid that draped over her shoulder and chest.

  The V-neck of her T-shirt showed the top swells of a fabulous set of tits. Thanks to my mother’s profession, I’d seen my fair share of scantily clad ladies, and Aya put them all to shame.

  I turned my phone around and set it down.

  Steve picked it up and studied her for a minute. He looked up at me. “She’s very pretty.”

  She had sweet, pink lips I wanted to taste. Lips that I’d bet molded to mine perfectly. I wanted to suck her plump lower one into my mouth and nibble on it. I wanted to do a lot more than that, actually. I’d been fantasizing about getting with Aya since she sent me that first photo—no, since my toad of a ninth-grade English teacher had posted Aya’s image on the smart board.

  Steve shot me a look, reminding me he’d spoken and I’d nearly fallen into the fantasy of fucking Aya right there in the kitchen.

  I swallowed the heaviness of desire. “Yeah. I guess.”

  Steve shook his head. “Don’t fall for a pretty face, Nash.”

  I snorted. “I’m not going to fall for her. She’s in Nepal.” At least for now. “Plus, I don’t do girlfriends.”

  That was 100% true—much to my female classmates’ dismay. I had no interest in taking any of them out. Why should I? Instead I could hang out with Cam and his family, visit my mom on set for a photo shoot or one of her acting roles, or tour with my dad. I’d made out with my fair share of girls during the past couple of years, but I’d never pursued anything more.

  I didn’t want more, especially not if relationships were filled with recriminating glances and stony silences like my parents’. Fuck, neither one of them was even here, at home, for my birthday because they couldn’t stand the possibility of running into the other.

  “Want a piece?” I asked, attempting to send my mind elsewhere. I hated thinking about my parents.

  Steve nodded. “I like cake.”

  “This one’s good,” I said as I cut him a slice even bigger than mine.

  “Your mom said she’s going to call,” he told me.

  She wouldn’t, not now that it was happy hour, but I didn’t bother to respond. Just like I didn’t bother asking where my dad was.

  Didn’t matter. I had cake and two of the coolest gifts ever.

  Then Cam called to invite me to his family’s ranch that weekend for a barbecue.

  “We gotta celebrate your birthday,” he said. “Wish I could be there sooner.”

  “You’re on tour. You don’t need—”

  “I want to. Now, can you make it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  When we hung up, I smiled. I had Steve and Cam and Cam’s family to balance out my self-absorbed parents. Life was good.

  I savored every bite of my cake, licking my fork clean.

  As I took my plate to the sink, Steve told me his mom used to make him a butterscotch cake with chocolate icing when he was young.

  “Cool. Something we have in common,” I said. “Great taste in cake.”

  He paused, bite halfway to his mouth. “Guess so. You’re not interested in an actual meal since you ate dessert already, are you?”

  I snorted, and he smirked. He knew I’d been a bottomless pit of eating for the past few months, especially since I’d started running with him a few mornings a week.

  I’d told him I needed the exercise, but mainly I wanted to feel connected to someone. Steve had never brought it up again, but he always made sure he had the blue sports drink I preferred waiting for me on the counter each morning.

  “How about I heat up some of those filet mignons the chef left?” Steve asked. “With those potatoes you like?”

  I grinned. “Sounds good. With the creamed spinach. I like that stuff.”

  Steve tousled my hair. “You’re a good kid, Nash.”

  I nodded at him. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

  “Why don’t you put away the rest of the cake while I get dinner started?”

  I slid the cake in the fridge and pounded back up the stairs to grab my phone. I found more texts from Aya and Cam waiting.

  I smiled.

  Yeah. This birthday did not suck. At all.

  7

  Aya

  “Are you nervous?” Mum asked.

  I stared down at the pixels that made up Nash’s face on my phone. His sun-streaked, light brown hair was messy, thanks to the bit of natural curl I’d detected around his ears. It was long in the front, falling into his warm brown eyes. They were well spaced over his nose, reminding me of the statues I’d seen with my mother when we stopped over in Rome a couple of years ago on our way to England.

  I’d had to pay respects to my father’s second child with his second wife, and the only good part of the trip had been the art history lesson.

  “About what?” I asked. I forced my gaze away from my phone, which I’d turned back on as soon as the pilot rose to cruising altitude. I’d planned to look out at the Himalayas one last time, but leaving Nepal caused a deep ache in my chest. The village had been home for nearly three years. I’d celebrated more birthdays there than anywhere else, including my seventeenth, just two months ago.

  “Oh, I don’t know. New city, new school, nearly the end of the year, college applications—you pick which one to talk about first.”

  I stopped tapping my foot on the plush carpet that lined the central aisle of my grandfather’s private jet and turned toward my mother. Typically, Mum would’ve taken a commercial flight, unwilling to spend unnecessary funds on private planes, regardless of the fact that her family owned multiple jets. But this trip was different. I just wasn’t sure why.

  “I am a little nervous about all the school and social stuff,” I admitted. I hesitated, wondering if I should mention my Holyoke pen pal, Nash
.

  My mother shifted as she grimaced, her breath coming up short.

  “What’s going on with you?” I asked.

  While Mum still maintained her tan, the pallor underneath was becoming more visible. Or I was looking harder for it. Her features were still as beautiful as years before, but her brown eyes lacked their typical sparkle, and her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. Her hair was still thick and jet black, but its previous luster seemed dimmed.

  My mother’s family was French and Tunisian. Mum liked to tell the story of an “indiscretion” between a French general in the late nineteenth century, not long after the French invaded Tunisia, and a noble family’s daughter, which produced a son. Because of the boy’s French blood, he eventually emigrated to France where he, my great-grandfather, met a Parisian schoolteacher. They’d raised my grandfather and three more children in a small flat in Paris, and he’d studied medicine at Sorbonne. In the late eighties, my Jeddi bought a bio-medical company in Austin, Texas, and he’d moved my mother and French grandmother there.

  He liked the weather and the wide-open spaces, but that didn’t mean he’d left behind his heritage or traditions. More of them were instilled within me now that we’d spent the past few years in Nepal, reinforcing the Eastern philosophies Mum said Westerners brushed off.

  “I have something for you.” She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a black velvet pouch. She held it in her palm.

  I stared for a moment before I plucked it from my mum’s thin hand. Opening the drawstring, I drew out the small, garnet beads, my thumb tickled by the matching silk tassel.

  “Malas?” I asked. “You want me to meditate?”

  “If you’d like,” Mum said. “Or you can say mantras as you were taught in the village.”

  I stared at the twenty-seven uniform red beads, unsure if I wanted to accept what they represented. I’d enjoyed saying the mantras with the other kids in my classes…for a while. Until I realized they side-eyed me when I spoke their sacred words. Theirs, not mine.

  It was just like it had been in Kenya, and Mozambique, and Laos. I was tired of participating in cultures I could never fully understand because of being born in London. I hadn’t lived in that city long enough to remember much about it, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was different, thanks to my faint British accent, parentage, and lighter skin.