Page 100 of Life of the Party

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know how to convince him he would never disappoint me, no matter what. I would love him, no matter what.

Silently I stroked my fingers slowly down his chest.

He sighed. “Maybe I don’t have to worry. One day you’re going to figure out how beautiful you are, and then I’ll be out of the picture for good.” Grey shrugged. “It’ll be better that way. I’m too selfish to let you go.”

I wanted to argue with him, I sat up to protest, but he stopped me with a shake of his head. A smirk bent his lips as he looked at me, and his blue eyes began to gleam wickedly. “Until then…” he pulled me up to him, his strong arms wrapping around me, holding me close. “I’m going to enjoy every minute.”

My smile was glorious as he kissed me.

CHAPTER 40

We awoke the next morning wrapped up in each other and stayed that way all day. The rest of the house was dark and quiet and empty, but in Grey’s room the lights were on, the music blaring, a party taking place on his bed. We didn’t leave it for anything but food delivery. We smoked and got high and did coke and laughed and talked and kissed and made love between the rumpled sheets. It was going down in history as one of the happiest days of my life.

We talked about everything. Simple things like our favourite colour and food, TV shows and movies and bands…every new tidbit of information we learned seemed more interesting than the last. Hours went by, our tongues fuelled by cocaine, driven by sheer curiosity and utter fascination. I couldn’t get enough of him, I couldn’t learn enough—I hung on his every word, asking question after question.

He told me things about his childhood. I learned a little about the friends he’d lost touch with and the crazy BMX jumps they used to make, how he broke the same arm on three separate occasions taking those very same jumps.

He was an only child who lived on the poor side of the city. He got a paper route and saved up the money he made to purchase his very own Yamaha acoustic guitar from the Sears magazine when he was only seven.

“So, what about your parents?” I wondered carefully. He always failed to mention them; their names hadn’t come up once. I could tell it was a sensitive subject. “What do they do?” I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning up against the wall, Grey’s white shirt draped over my petite frame as he lay on his side, facing me, his legs tangled up in the blankets. He avoided my gaze a moment, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke slowly from his mouth.

“I don’t know where my parents are.” He admitted reluctantly.

“Not at all?” My dark eyes were wide with wonder.

“No. I’ve never known my dad, I don’t think he was ever around. My mom left when I was young. I haven’t heard from her since.”

I bit my lip in empathy, surprised by this new information. “Where did you go…when she left?”

“I stayed with my grandma,” Grey sighed heavily, like the topic weighed on him. “She was a far better mother than my mom ever was, from what I remember.”

“Is she still in the city?” I smiled in an effort to lighten the mood.

“No.” He grimaced. “She died when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Grey. That’s awful.”

Grey shrugged again. “I didn’t have any other family to live with, so I bounced around the system for a while. I never stayed in a foster home for more than a few months. I dropped out of high school about the same time.”

“You didn’t have anyone at all?” I was horrified by the thought. My family sucked most of the time, but at least I knew they were there. If I did lose my mom and dad, there was always an Auntie Linda and an Uncle Paul, an Uncle Pat, and a Marcy…I knew I’d be taken care of by someone. Grey had been so young when he lost his only family; he must have felt so…utterly scared and alone. My heart broke at the thought.

“I did okay. It wasn’t that bad.” His coolness almost had me convinced. If I didn’t know him as well as I did, I would’ve missed the slight sadness in his eyes, the tightness in his voice. He was more affected by the past than he let on. I could tell it was hard for him to talk about.

I smiled shrewdly. “So…what are all those?” I asked then, pointing toward the stacks of crumpled looseleaf piled on his desk. Grey looked up at me in surprise, relieved by the sudden change in topic.

“Paper.” He smirked, and I could see him relaxing. “No. It’s music.”

“Music?”

“Yes. Music.” He sighed fondly at me. “Some lyrics, some melody lines, just stuff I’ve written as it comes to me.”

“You wrote all that?” I was amazed. “Can I read them?”

“Uhhhh…,” Grey hesitated, “…I don’t know.”

“Why not? I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“I know you won’t, but…” He ran a hand through his messy dark hair. “See, I find it hard to…express…myself, sometimes. Maybe you’ve noticed.” He chuckled.

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