Page 57 of All Twerk, No Play

I tugged at the hem of his shirt. “You said I vomited, but how did …?”

He chuckled and I let out an anticipatory groan. Whatever spurred his satisfied laugh was bound to be trouble. “You puked on my shirt, so I ran down to my place to grab a clean one. You barged in and faceplanted on my bed. Puke everywhere.” I pulled the pillow over my head to hide, and he laughed again. “Yep, burrowing like that. You said my sheets smelled right.”

I lied. I didn’t want to die in this bed, because he was here and now he’s seen my worst. Instead, I would like this bed to swallow me whole and drop my body directly into Hell.

Then again, I might already be there.

“I wanted to pass out,” I remembered, “but you convinced me to shower.”

“Your inevitable hangover would have been infinitely worse scraping puke chunks out of your hair.”

Just the phrase ‘puke chunks’ made me queasy. Then another memory surfaced: him in his wet boxers as I leaned against his chest in my shower, his hands massaging my scalp.

“You washed my hair,” I whispered.

“You refused to do it, you were too busy singing.”

“Did not." No way I sang in front of him.

“Did so,” he answered smugly, propping his head on his arm to hover over me. “You were impressive. I mean, your voice was raw from barfing and you sobbed between verses … but you can belt.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Although my appreciation for a hot, wet, naked woman serenading me was lessened by your song choice.”

I hid behind my forearm over my eyes. “What did I sing?”

He cooed his best Stevie Nicks impression of ‘Silver Spring,’ singing the lyrics where her lover is moving on and she doesn’t want to hear about him with another woman.

My head pulsed and my heart ached. I tried turning away. He softly rolled me back with a hand on my hip, not letting me escape from his teasing. “It got particularly sob-heavy during the bridge … or maybe you got shampoo in your eye. Hard to say, you were a mess about Alex.”

I pressed my fingertips into my eye sockets.

It would be easier to let him believe that, wouldn’t it? That would be the logical conclusion I would draw with the information he had. But as his expression closed off, I wanted him to know that if I’d chosen that song, I hadn’t been crying over Alexander’s engagement.

That would be too simple.

“Why did you hum ‘Silver Spring’ when you met me?” I averted my eyes, inspecting the ceiling. Was that a water stain? I should contact somebody … shit, he’s the one I would call.

He stayed uncharacteristically silent, waiting me out until I turned, his brown eyes guarded. Quietly he confessed, “That’s why, right there. Your silver eyes, with blue and green colors flashing.”

A lump formed in my throat. I shut my eyes, trying to decide how much to trust him. I’d never confided this to anyone; not Alexander, not Spencer. But Eric had a musical soul, he would understand the pain of that particular song, and my shock that he’d heard me sing it.

“That’s the same reason my mom used to sing it to my dad,” I whispered, forcing myself to keep talking, “before she died.”

When I mustered the courage to open my eyes, his palm hovered over his mouth, regretting his teasing. “I’m sorry.”

“When I was eleven. She—she promised to make it to my piano recital that time, that she’d leave right at 5, but her showing ran long. She rushed out … right into oncoming traffic.” I turned my head away, and he waited patiently as I pulled myself together. His rare silence was a comfort, his stillness a testament to the gravity he felt in my confession. “I waited alone, getting angrier and angrier that she’d missed another recital. I convinced myself that I’d never play again for her, that she didn’t deserve—”

My breath hitched in my throat. I squeezed my eyes tight, not wanting to see his beautiful eyes tinged with pity.

“Dad finally picked me up, came straight from the hospital. If … if she hadn’t left work early, she wouldn’t have …”

His warm hand slid into my palm. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”

I nodded, words trapped in my throat. The therapists told me that too.

“Before she—” After a few shaky breaths, the explanation poured out. “She loved Stevie Nicks, called her a woman who loved down to her soul.”

That’s how Mom had been: so vibrant and full of life, beloved by everyone she met. Dad had always been serious, except with Mom. She could convince him to do anything, even dance around the living room while she sang this song to him. He protested that they shouldn’t dance to a song about infidelity, but she grabbed his hand, lifting it high enough for her to spin below it while he laughed.

I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in 25 years.

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