Love and the Silver Lining Page 3

  A wave of sadness hits, and not just for the changes in Bryson over the years, but for all of us. For Cameron, who quit inspirational music despite it being his first love. For Alison, who pushed friendship into more and got her heart broken. For Mason, who hasn’t spoken to any of us since Bryson fired him from the band. And for me, sitting here, lost and afraid, clinging to bits and pieces of the past since my future is only a long road of unknowns.

  I don’t even make it through the end of the song before I feel the pressure in my chest that warns a breakdown is coming soon. It’s one thing to cry and blubber in front of Cameron, but I’m not about to shed a tear in front of the rest of the band.

  I disappear into the kitchen and out the back door. It’s a small yard with only a waist-high chain link fence, but Bryson has made it somewhat of an outdoor space. Along an extended porch, there’s a couch swing, two rocking chairs, and a metal fire pit. He definitely won’t need that anytime soon. The temperature today is supposed to reach ninety-two degrees.

  Carefully, I sit in the swing, not totally sure if it will hold me, and kick my feet back and forth. Time seems to pass slowly, seconds ticking like minutes, but that also seems to be my new normal—finding ways to kill time. I readjust and try to pull my shorts down on my thighs. Even in the shade, my legs are sticking to the lacquered wooden swing. Sweat trickles down my back, but I stay put . . . ten minutes, then twenty.

  The backdoor screen squeaks as it opens and closes again. From my shadowed spot in the corner, I see my new guest faster than he sees me. Bryson stands with his hands on his hips, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered as if watching the trail of ants I noticed earlier.

  It’s an odd stance for him and makes my chest twinge with both compassion and curiosity. Bryson isn’t the kind of guy who shows emotion. At least not that I’ve ever seen.

  He lifts his head and blows out two long, intentional breaths, then lets out a frustrated growl.

  “Practice not going so well?” I keep my voice nonchalant and direct, a default of mine when I’m not quite sure how to gauge a situation.

  Bryson turns at the sound of my voice. “If Jay missing two lead-ins and Harrison fumbling through the beat is not going well, then yes, practice is abysmal.” He rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. “Cam’s been on a tear writing music again, and he doesn’t exactly know how to write songs for the common musician.”

  Cameron’s a musical prodigy. He can play every instrument I know the name of and some I don’t. But like most musicians, his creativity is directly linked to his state of mind, which has been jumbled for a while now. He spent months artistically blocked, writing and trashing every song or idea out of his head. But something changed when he got back from the tour. A dam broke and a flood of music has poured out ever since.

  The swing catches and moans as Bryson sits, but it only takes a few seconds before our feet move in unison, pushing us lazily back and forth.

  “We thought you left.”

  I assume the “we” includes Cameron, which is probably why he’s not out here checking on me. “I was going to, but the backyard was closer.”

  “I’m guessing your escape act wasn’t due to our tempo issues. You doing okay? I mean with everything that’s happened?” This question is more tentative, like he knows it’s potentially the unraveling string on a sweater.

  “Oh yes, I’m fantastic. My future got blown to smithereens, but yes, I’m doing just fine.”

  Bryson turns to look at me, and I avert my eyes to focus on the skin around my cuticles. “Well, at least this setback hasn’t ruined your ability to use sarcasm.”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t a setback. It’s a bolted coffin.”

  “Come on. All you have to do is find another school and you’re back where you started.”

  “Where I started?” I look up, unsure if I feel more appalled or irritated at his lack of understanding. “I’m not doing this again.”

  When he gives me an eyebrow that basically screams quitter, the pressure I’ve barely been keeping at bay comes tumbling out in a massive verbal deluge. “Imagine asking a girl to marry you, and then, while you’re all in love, you plan the wedding. Spend all the time and money picking out flowers and tuxes and invitations. You count the days on your calendar, so thrilled you will get to spend the next year with your bride. And then the day comes, and you stand at the altar waiting for that moment when all the planning and worry and stress becomes worth it. Only she doesn’t come. Instead, she leaves you standing at the altar with a note that says, ‘Sorry, but don’t worry, there’s more fish in the sea.’” I take a deep breath. “Now, tell me, how likely are you to go track down that girl and ask her to marry you all over again?” I stare into his eyes, daring him to argue with my logic.

  Yet somehow he finds a way. “I can’t answer that. Your analogy is flawed.”

  “It is not flawed; it’s perfect.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Why?” I demand, my annoyance growing stronger the closer he gets to laughing.

  “Because I’m never getting married.”

  “Shut up. You know what I mean.” I close my eyes and seriously consider wringing his neck. “God said no. End of story. Now I just have to figure out what the heck I do with the next ten years of my life.”

  “Ten years? Maybe you should just start with ten days.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Overachiever.”

  I laugh even though I don’t want to. There are times when Bryson’s worldview is nice to latch on to. He keeps his circle small, his mind focused. People come in and out, but he never attaches. “Honestly, Bryson, I’d be happy just figuring out the next five days.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Well, let’s see. On Saturday, I will be officially kicked out of my current apartment, and since my new apartment isn’t available until September, I’m left with two temporary living options. Move home and watch my mom date a bunch of men who aren’t my dad, or move in with Cameron and share an apartment with three guys who are barely cordial to each other right now.” I run frustrated fingers through my hair. “Believe it or not, Cam’s offer is the lesser of the two evils.”

  He rolls his shoulders, and I notice how tense his body has become. It’s probably the heat. He has to be catching on fire in those clothes, but I long ago quit teasing him about dressing like he’s going to a funeral every day of the week. “Wow. You and Cam living together.”

  I don’t know why hearing Bryson say it makes me feel guilty, but I do all of a sudden. “It’s not like we’d be living together. It’d be more like a platonic slumber party.”

  “For three months?”

  “Yep.”

  He pulls on his shirt, oscillating it to get some relief from the heat. “In that case, you could always move in with Zoe. She has a nice two-bedroom apartment with nothing in that second room but an old treadmill she doesn’t use.” He tosses the suggestion so nonchalantly that I’m not sure he recognizes the depth of what he’s offering.

  “Are you serious? Because I have to be honest, my sense of humor is really limited right now. And if this is just some sick way of making fun—”

  “Darcy,” he says, cutting me off. “I know I’m not always the most sensitive person in the room, but I would never minimize what you’re going through. I do know a little of what it feels like to be homeless.”

  I nod, feeling bad that I assumed the worse. It’s a well-known fact that Bryson moved in with Cameron our senior year of high school to get away from his stepdad. The details are vague, and Cam has never shared the why, not even with me, but I do know that event has shaped Bryson’s life. At least I assume as much, since that’s when the black wardrobe started.

  He stands, and though Bryson moves with an air of easy living, I can’t seem to shake the idea that he’s upset. “I’ll ask her if you’re interested.”

  Of course I’m interested, but the stars would have to align and my luck hasn’t exactly been leprechaun status l
ately. “You’re welcome to try, but I doubt she’d even consider it. Zoe and I have never really bonded.” Even though Zoe is six years younger and we only interacted in youth group one year, it was a very painful year. I’m work boots and no makeup. She’s gel polish and perfume. To say we clashed is an understatement.

  “You leave my little sister to me.” His eyes grow serious, and I’m mesmerized by the intensity that consumes them in a split second. “If you want this, I’ll make it happen. Or . . .” And then his demeanor shifts just as quickly back to the apathetic, couldn’t-give-a-flip attitude I’ve come to expect. “You can move in with Cam and plan the next ten years of your life. It’s your call.”

  My call. My decision. What a change from the compressing black hole I’ve been falling through for a week now.

  I hesitate for a second because I know this choice is opening a world of uncertainty, especially with someone like Zoe, but I also know that moving in with Cameron is not something I’m ready to do. It’s too big a risk when his friendship is the only absolute in my life. “Call her and ask,” I finally answer. “If she says no, then I’m no worse off than I am now.”

  His mouth turns up into a barely perceivable smile. “Consider it done.”

  four

  As Mafia-like and convincing as Bryson’s promise was to me, I’m still surprised when Zoe calls me the very next day to schedule a tour of the apartment. A feat that seemed way harder than it should be for a twenty-three-year-old, but as she put it, “My new marketing career keeps me so busy, it’s impossible to swing any free time.”

  But after a ten-minute list of all she’d accomplished in her first year out of college, and then another five minutes of fumbling through a myriad of scheduling conflicts, we finally settled on noon Thursday.

  My first thought when I pull through the gates of her apartment complex is that I misread the directions. My second thought is that Zoe’s marketing job must be paying better than average.

  Bryson’s toss off about a spare room did not prepare me for the opulence that is to be my new home. Rock balconies with dormers jut out from slate-gray buildings, giving them a very high-end Craftsman feel. The bottom floor apartments have garages, while others have reserved carports, not that it’s necessary. There’s a ton of area parking, and with the security gate, I doubt this place gets too many unintended guests. Not like my old apartment, which had a tight twenty-car parking lot that often filled to the point I had to park along the street.

  I follow the curve of the drive, scoping out all the amenities a place like this would offer. Chairs and large beige umbrellas dot the decking around a huge serpentine pool, the water clear and glistening in the sun. No one is utilizing the area, which I find surprising considering it is full-blown summer in Texas. It makes me wonder what type of residents live here. Probably ones like Zoe, who implied she had little time for such frivolous activities.

  Building 7 is easy to find. It’s right next to the pool, clubhouse, dog park, and fitness center. Zoe lives on the second floor, apartment 723. I park the car, ease from the driver’s side, and force myself to take the stairs versus explore the complex. For a year now, I’ve eliminated all luxuries from my life, a way to prepare my mind and heart for living in a Central American country. Now I’m so overwhelmed by them that I totally understand why other nations think all Americans are rich.

  I pause at the top of the landing. Each side of the long walkway has a small personal alcove and fancy wood door with etched silver numbers. I walk forward, looking to the left and right for Zoe’s. Hers is halfway down, left-hand side. There’s a stunning summer wreath on the door, a welcome mat in cursive, and two potted plants to greet me. Another reminder of how different Zoe and I are from each other. My idea of decorating is making sure there’s no residual pet hair on the furniture. Although now that my dog-grooming days are over, or hopefully so, maybe it’s time to collect some nicer things.

  I ring the doorbell and remind myself that no matter how difficult Zoe is, living with her is only temporary and by far the best option on my pathetic list.

  She opens the door with her phone crushed between her ear and shoulder. “Yes, and I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow morning.” She waves me in with a perfectly polished hand adorned with two silver rings and rushes back to an open laptop on her kitchen counter. “Two hundred. Not a problem.”

  Left alone by the door, I take a second to assess my new surroundings, which could only be described as modern. No, ultramodern. Everything is white. The leather couches, the lacquered furniture, the area rug, even the wood flooring has a whitewashed finish. What isn’t white is furry, mirrored, or dangling with crystals. And worse, nothing looks even the slightest bit used.

  “Sorry about that,” Zoe says from behind me. “I swear that office would shut down if I took a day off.” She comes to my side and claps her hands together. “Well, this is it. Two bedrooms, two baths, thirteen hundred square feet. We have a balcony that overlooks the pool just through those French doors, and the area is super safe. Want to see the spare room?” She smiles, and though it’s hardly genuine, it makes her entire face glow.

  Zoe as a preteen was pretty, but Zoe the adult is the kind of beautiful that turns heads in a crowded room. Her hair is long, blond, and full of trendy waves. She has Bryson’s eyes, only bigger. Same color, though, and with it that same combination of complexity and intrigue. Her skin is lighter than his, giving her that delicate porcelain appearance. Her nose slopes slightly, and her mouth has a bow shape that makes her more old Hollywood glamour than the average pretty girl. If any person could fit the décor in this space, it’s her. Whereas I’m more like that old piece of antique furniture your aunt gives you that’s too much of an heirloom to throw away so you stick it in the corner where no one can see it.

  “Yes, that would be great. Thanks,” I say and follow her to a little hall.

  “My bedroom suite is at the end. Your bathroom is here.” She pauses by a door in the hall, leans in, and flips on the light. “Sorry it’s not private, but no one really comes over except my boyfriend, and he’ll use mine.”

  I peek in. It’s simple. Two sinks, a shower and toilet. Plenty of storage, not that I need it. My makeup routine is mascara and lip gloss, and that’s only if I’m meeting friends somewhere. “This will work just fine. Thank you.”

  She turns off the light and walks two more steps before opening another door, this time on the right side. “Here you go.”

  The room is medium-sized, probably a hundred and fifty square feet. Not bad for a second bedroom. There’s a four-paned window that lets in a lot of light and a chandelier-type ceiling fan dripping with more silver crystals. The treadmill Bryson was referring to is still against the back wall, along with a set of small dumbbells.

  “This is really perfect, Zoe. You sure you don’t mind me putting you out like this?”

  “Not at all. I haven’t used this room in ages. The treadmill was my mom’s genius idea,” she snorts sarcastically. “But come on. What’s the point of working out if you can’t go to the gym in cute leggings and pick up boys?”

  “No idea,” I say, even though I’ve never worn fitness leggings or tried to pick up boys.

  “But that’s Mom. She’s always trying to . . . and I quote, make me stronger.” She rolls her eyes. “Talk about compensating. Anyway . . .” She checks her watch. “I need to head back. I’ll get the spare key for you.” Then she’s gone in a flash of perfume.

  A whirling sickness grows in my lower belly. This wasn’t what my life was supposed to look like this summer. I was supposed to be sharing a room with another missionary teacher, not bunking with Bryson’s half sister. I look at the raised ceiling and wonder again what I did wrong to deserve such disappointment. “Where are you? Why did you do this to me?” I ask under my breath.

  I’ve been a Christian my whole life and never have I wavered or doubted. Until now. First my family is destroyed and now my future, too. I swallow down the hurt and
blink away the sorrow so I can return to the kitchen with at least a little dignity intact.

  Zoe’s waiting by the counter, laptop packed up in a bag slung over her arm. She holds out a single key for me. “Here you go. I’m not home much, so move in whenever you need to.”

  “Thank you.” I stare at the key as it passes from her hand to mine and realize in our lightning-fast tour she never once addressed logistics. “Bryson didn’t mention rent or utilities.” I’d already calculated what my max might be and hope her answer doesn’t exceed it. My plan is to live off the savings I’ve recovered from the trip until I can figure out what I want to do with my life. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.” She waves her hand again like it’s the silliest question in the world. “Just don’t mess with my things or try and steal my boyfriend and we’ll be good.”

  “Zoe, I need to give you something. My being here is a complete inconvenience to you. Not to mention, I could be totally psycho. You’ve hardly asked me any questions.”

  She opens the door and passes the threshold, examining me the way I’ve been examining her all day. “It took a lot for my brother to call. If he’s willing to do this for you, then I’m pretty certain you’re not the next Single White Female stalker.” She closes the door, then pops it back open. “Make yourself at home, roomie.”