Page 29 of One Last Verse

I shook my head.

“I wondered if people needed me. I wondered if I was making them happy. Because if I couldn’t make my own mother happy, how would I make a stranger happy? I felt her repulsion toward me every single day of the first three years of my life.”

“What are you talking about, Frank? You make your parents happy. You and your music make millions of others happy. You makemehappy.” Not at this particular moment, but he did nonetheless.

“I made you sad, Cassy.”

“That’s not true.”

“That’s what you said when we met. Remember? ‘Ambivalent’ reminded you of your father. The ones we love the most hurt us the most. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it will always be.”

“You made me feel, Frank. That’s what music is meant to do.”

“Feelings are overrated.”

That was the strangest thing that had ever come out of his mouth.

“You’re drunk.”

“Look who’s talking.” He laughed softly. “If my memory serves me right, you were hammered when we met.”

“It wasn’t my best moment.”

“Oh, it definitely was. I wouldn’t have asked you out otherwise. Yoga is a big turn-on.”

I bit back my smile as the memories of my first unofficial meeting with Frank during Dante’s party flashed through my mind. The man could be a charmer when he wanted.

“You don’t believe me?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“I believe you, but can we talk about it later?” I held out my hand, hoping he’d get the hint. “I have a really long day tomorrow. My mom and I are trying to find Ashton a decent car for his birthday, and I need to be up early to make it on time for Isabella’s studio session.”

“Give him one of mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I stepped closer, gesturing for him to get up. “He’s eighteen. A Ferrari will be out of his league probably for another ten or fifteen years.”

“You underestimate him. I drove my first car when I was fifteen.”

“You’re an exception, Frank. My brother is not. He needs to learn what it means to actually earn things, not just get them at the snap of a finger from his sister’s boyfriend.”

“Say that again.”

“Which part?”

“The boyfriend part.” His lips stretched into a lazy, drunk smile. He was impossible to be mad at. “I like it.”

“Will you please stop being a baby and let me help you?” I grabbed his hand, and when he wouldn’t budge, I rolled my eyes and said, “Boyfriend.” His smile turned into a huge grin and he stood.

His body swayed dangerously as we walked through the hallway. The house was still and quiet, and all the Christmas lights in the living room were off. I stopped for a second to turn them on, and Frank continued into the bedroom on autopilot. He slowed down when he was halfway there and leaned against the wall for support. Then his back brushed the frame of one of the paintings as I hurried to catch him. He was heavy against my shoulder and we were a messy tangle of clothes and limbs when we finally reached the bed. He sat on the edge, his head hanging while I rearranged the pillows to make sure they were high enough for him to be comfortable.

“Don’t do this again,” I said, my voice something between a shake and a gasp as I struggled to lay him down.

The smell of liquor hit my face when he began to ramble, “I’m putting you through hell, aren’t I?” His palm slipped over the curve of my hip.

“You are,” I agreed, sitting next to him. “But I’m willing to stick around.” It was half joke, half the truth.

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s what people do, Frank.” I drew a deep breath through my teeth. My stomach was woozy with what I was about to say. “When they love someone. They stick around.”

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