I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
CHAPTER 39
Ryder
(SIX YEARS AGO) RYDER’S JOURNAL
It’s Christmas in Malibu, which doesn’t really feel like Christmas. No matter how long I live in California, my Boston childhood makes me yearn for cold days and a white blanket of snow.
Daisy arrived last night. Over coffee this morning, I noticed she winced when I touched her arm. I asked her if she was okay, and when she answered, I knew something was wrong. I raised her sleeve to reveal bruises running up her arm in a fingerprint-like pattern.
Rage shot through me. I asked her who the hell hurt her, and she admitted it was a guy she went out with. She swore she got away before anything else happened and that she’d never see him again. She was so damn casual about it all, but I could tell she was scared. I got the bastard’s name from her. The need to break him is overwhelming. I made arrangements. Daisy will never know why, but the abusive asshole will never touch her again.
(NOW)
I take the circular stairs up to the widow’s walk on the top of the house. There’s a bench that my grandmother installed before I was born. She told me she added it for my mother. This was her favorite place. I remember very little of my mom, but whenever I’m here, I feel closer to her.
Though familiar, the ocean view is never exactly the same. The angle of the sun, the filter of the clouds, the turbulence of the sea—are ever-changing.
Just like my life.
I arrived here less than a month ago, and I thought I knew how this trip would go. I’d settle in and write some songs. I’d work with Brendan to sell the house. I’d work with the pet sitter to find a home for Archie.
And then, feeling good about ticking everything off my list, I’d return to LA and set up the rest of my year: the Music Awards, the international legs of my sold-out tour, and recording the songs I wrote for the soundtrack.
I never counted on my life and emotions being shaken so hard that I don’t recognize anything anymore. It’s all changed too fast, like the coming of a summer storm or the sun suddenly breaking through the clouds.
I don’t understand why I can’t just stick to the plan, to all the solid reasons I have for keeping my checklist and moving on.
“I thought I’d find you up here.”
I turn to find my brother. He’s balancing two cut-crystal glasses partially filled with an amber liquid in one hand. In the other, he holds a bottle of whiskey. He sets down the bottle on the narrow table next to the bench and offers a glass to me.
I take it and sip. The liquor burns and warms its way to my stomach.
A ghost of a smile passes over my lips. “Do you think she planned it?”
“Who?”
“Grandmother. I’ve seen you more in the last month than I’ve seen you since I was thirteen. She was always trying to bring us together. Do you think that’s why she left the house to both of us? So we’d have to come together and agree?”
Brendan laughs. “Count on it.” He looks out at the water with a frown and swirls the liquor in his glass.
“Why do you hate this place?” I blurt out. Even I’m surprised by the question.
He stares at the horizon. “The truth? I don’t hate it. It makes me sad. You were younger, Ry. You don’t have as many memories of Mom. I remember how it was, how she came here in the end, going through hospice. For you, this is a sanctuary. For me, it’s where I lost our mother.”
“I remember, just not well enough.”
He nods. “When she still had the energy, she’d play the piano here for hours. I’d be off somewhere. But you’d never get bored, sitting next to her and listening. You got your musical talent from her.” He hunches his shoulders a little from the wind, leaning against the railing.
“Bren—”
“Wait. I need to say this. I’ve had a lot of years to think about what happened when you left to perform with Future Shock. I know we failed you. Dad failed you by not letting you pursue your dreams. You loved music more than anything. You taught yourself the guitar and played it until your fingers bled. It was the one thing you wanted to do above anything else, and we failed you, Ryder. I’m sorry about that. Especially me. You hadmy back when we were kids. Even though you were younger, you stuck up for me. And I didn’t do the same for you.”
His words spear something small and scared and dark inside me. One word emerges from that place. One word I’ve stuffed down and buried deep in work and travel. I always needed to keep moving because if I stopped too long, the questions and doubts would reemerge. “Why?” The word arrives in the air between us before I can take it back.
Brendan laughs. “You never figured it out? I was jealous of you. You’ve always done things well. Before you left, you were the golden child. Mom’s favorite—and Dad’s as well. Things just came naturally to you. Sports, school, music. But mostly, you had this incredible drive to work until everything was perfect. Back then, I was the screwup. I was older, but it was you who Dad cared about. I was obsessed with numbers, but I never had the grades you did, the patience to stick with things that bored me. And then you got your shot to be an actual star, and you rebelled. Instead of supporting you, I saw the chance to be the favorite and took it. When you left, Dad finally had to see me. You didn’t leave us first. We left you.”
