Ashes to Ashes (8 page)

He fumes. “I wanted to see you, I wanted to have fun, and I walk in on you and Alex cozy in the hot tub, and you won't even tell me what you were talking about.” He makes an annoyed face, which gets me so mad.

“We were talking about Rennie!” I burst out. “And, Reeve, you never want to talk about her!”

Reeve turns white. “What good does it do to bring up the past? She's dead. Talking about it isn't going to bring her back. This thing between you and me is separate from that.”

“No, it isn't. We're the reason Rennie died, and it's eating me up inside. She never would have been driving around that night if it weren't for us. She'd have been at her party, where she belonged—”

“Stop!” Reeve shouts. I jump. He's breathing hard. “I don't want to do this right now, okay? I can't. So just—stop. Don't say anything else. Please.”

“Okay.” He's shaking. I smooth my hand over his back until his breathing slows down. “It's okay.”

Before I can say another word, he's got me pushed up against the window and he's kissing me. And I'm kissing him back.

*  *  *

When we get to the school parking lot an hour later, I pull down the visor mirror and try to fix my hair. It's a mess.

Watching me, he says, “You're the only thing that's keeping me going.”

My hand stills.

“I can't not see you,” he says.

I don't look at him, I can't. “If we're going to do this, no one can know. It can't be like what happened tonight. We need to be careful.”

Quickly he says, “Okay. I'll do whatever you want. However you want to do it. I feel like I can't breathe when I'm not with you, Cho.”

And then I'm in his arms, and we're kissing again. Just like before.

A
T THE END OF THE
day, Alex waits for me at my locker, and then we head to his car. He's talking about who-the-hell-knows-what. I'm not listening. Instead I'm taking mental note of the people watching us together. I think back to how worried I was back in September, on the first day of school. It's funny, the stuff I used to think was a big deal. Now I realize that none of it fucking matters.

“Have you heard a single word I've said?”

I turn to face Alex. He's got his navy wool beanie hat pulled down super low over his ears, but a lot of hair still comes
curling out the sides. It's turning dark again, now that's it's full-on wintertime, with just a few flecks of rusty red.

“Honestly, no, because you've been talking nonstop since the bell rang.”

He laughs, like I've said something hilarious, and then chugs the last of his water bottle. It crinkles in his grip. “I'm nervous, Kat.” I think for a second he's joking. But there's something about his voice that makes me know it's true. It's low and kind of deep-sounding. That and he doesn't look at me when he says it. Instead he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead.

“Nervous? About what?”

“That you'll hate everything I play.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, even though I'm a little worried about that too. What if Alex's music really does suck? I mean, he rocked his “Baby, It's Cold Outside” solo during the Christmas tree lighting. But I've never heard his original stuff before. And that's the kind of program he's applying for at USC—songwriting. I've already come up with a few stock compliments in case shit is really rough, but he'll probably see right through them. I don't have the best poker face. If his songs blow, should I still encourage him to do this? Or would it be better to tell him the hard truth, that I don't think he's good enough, like the judges on those stupid reality show music competitions do?

Ugh. I never should have agreed to this in the first place. “Well, we could always do it another day. Or . . . like . . . never.”

“I want to do it,” Alex says. “We're doing it.”

“All right.”

We get into the car, and Alex turns the key and starts it up. His stereo kicks on loudly to the CD I burned for him.

“I like everything you put on here,” he says, turning it down. “But I don't sound anything like these guys.”

Uh-oh. I give his arm a friendly squeeze. “You don't have to. You just need to sound like . . . you.” Whatever that means.

*  *  *

An hour later I'm sitting on the edge of Alex's bed, sipping soda from a cold can. He's on a wooden stool across the room. He has his head down, strumming his guitar. He doesn't even look at the notebook he has propped open on a music stand. He knows the words by heart.

This is the third song he's played for me. And they've all been about the same thing—actually, the same person.

Lillia.

Which, yeah, I've known that he has a thing for her. But damn. The kid's in love. From the sound of it, he's been in love for a long time. Maybe forever.

He lets the last note vibrate out to quiet. And then Alex sets his guitar down and wipes his brow. “Those are the three I'm
thinking I'll submit.” He picks up a pencil to take notes. “Okay. So. First thoughts.”

I tell myself to keep my mouth shut, about a thousand times, rapid-fire in my head.
Don't be an asshole, Kat. Just focus on the music.
I lean back and try to say it as casually as I can. “Do you have any other songs? Or do they all sound like those?”

His face wrinkles up. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“You don't think I can take it? I can take it. Tell me. What do my songs all sound like?”

I start talking fast. “Fine. I'm only being critical like this because this is an application process, and the people who are going to listen—”

“Just say it!”

“They all sound like junior high love songs about Lillia Cho, dude.”

Alex's mouth drops open, and his whole face turns bright-ass red. “What?”

I start ticking points off on my fingers. “The first one was about a black-haired girl who comes to your window at night. The next, a dark-haired girl who doesn't know you exist.”

“Now, wait a second, Kat. I—”

I don't wait a second. I keep going. “And what was that last
one? A rich girl who holds your hand on the gritty streets of Boston? I'm sorry but . . . seriously?”

He stands up fast, so fast that the stool tips backward onto the floor. Alex's eyes are stormy, and he has them lasered on me. “I know you don't like Lillia for whatever happened between you guys in the past, but I'd appreciate it if you could try to be objective and keep your comments about the song and not the person.”

The hell? “Excuse me, Alex, but Lillia and I are actually cool with each other. This isn't about her. It's about you showing some range. I'm trying to help you, remember?”

“I have other songs.” He picks up his notebook and holds it out. “I have a whole notebook full.”

I shrug. “Great. Can't wait to hear one.”

Alex flips through a few pages and then frowns.

“Ha!” I give my knee a slap. “I knew it!”

“It's not that.” He lets out a deep sigh as he turns around and rights the fallen stool. “Shit,” he says under his breath, and plops down onto it. “It's pretty much exactly that.”

I see his confidence wavering, and it makes me feel like a dick. I shouldn't have called his music “junior high.” That was messed up. “Look. It's not that your songs aren't good. They are. They're sincere and, um, heartfelt. Which is Alex Lind to a T! But thematically speaking, they do sound the same.”

“Forget it, Kat. Don't blow smoke up my ass.” Alex flops into the chair. “And if you and Lillia really are friends, then you must know if something's going on with her and Reeve.”

I force a swallow. “What do you wanna know?”

“They left the New Year's Eve party together.” He won't look at me when he adds, “Plus, Lil told me they did kiss before. I mean, she said she regretted it, but—”

“She
does
regret it,” I correct.

“I get this weird vibe from them lately. I don't know.”

Lillia definitely doesn't want anyone to think she's dating Reeve, because she's not. A couple of random grief hookups do not a relationship make. But I can't tell him they
aren't
together either. Not after my conversation with Lillia. “Are you pissed?”

“I mean, yeah, I'm not happy with Reeve. He's my best friend. Was my best friend. Shit. I don't even know.”

Oh Lord. I don't want to have a Lillia therapy session with Alex right now. I try to keep him focused on the task at hand. I tap the letter from USC and say, “Here's what you need to do. Pick your favorite one of those last three songs, and then round out your demo with two others that sound different.”

“Actually, there is something new I've been working on.” He picks his guitar back up, opens his notebook, and flips to one of the last pages. “It's rough, but it's starting to come together. . . .”

The first three songs were super-quiet and whispery, but this
one explodes from the first note and fills the whole room with sound. Alex's hands are flying over the strings of his guitar, and it's like everything is vibrating.

From what I can gather, it's a song about crashing and burning and living like there's no tomorrow. It's about Rennie.

And . . . it's awesome. Truly freaking awesome.

When he finishes, I give him a standing ovation. “That's what I'm talking about, dude!”

“You liked it?” He blushes. “I actually wrote it the night I heard from USC. After what happened to Rennie . . . It's like, life's too short. I don't want to have any regrets, you know?”

I nod. “Good for you. I bet Ren would be happy to hear that.”

“Thanks. I'm glad you and Rennie had a chance to make up before the accident. You two went way back, and yeah, you had your issues with each other, but it's good that everything was forgiven.”

“Yeah. True dat,” I manage to say, even though the back of my throat is suddenly itchy. For weeks that's all I've wanted to hear from somebody. “Seriously, Lind. The song killed.”

Now Alex is the one who's not listening to me. He's off in his own world. “I think I'll call it ‘No Regrets.' ”

“ ‘No Regrets.' I like the sound of that.”

“You know what? Me too.”

R
EEVE AND
I
FIND TIME
to see each other whenever we can, always in secret. I've gone to his dad's office and helped him reorganize their filing system; he's come to the barn and watched me ride Phantom. Phantom likes him because he always brings apples. I told Reeve to stop, that it would spoil him, but Reeve sneaks them when he thinks I'm not looking. One night we just play cards in the back of his truck and listen to the radio.

We never talk about Rennie. Sometimes we don't even kiss. But what Reeve said about needing to see me to breathe—I feel the same way. Like if I'm away from him too long, I'm underwater.

After one of my riding lessons, Reeve invites me to his house for dinner later that night. I get nervous for a second that he's told his family about us, but he says his mom just wants to thank me for helping him get into prep school.

So now I'm at Jean-Jacques Patisserie, staring down at all the cakes and tarts in the glass display case. There are so many beautiful cakes to choose from. A mille-feuille, which is sort of a crepe cake with layers of pastry cream; a chocolate-raspberry bombe; a tall white chocolate cake with real gold sprinkled on top like it's a Christmas ornament. I'm thinking the white chocolate cake because it's got the wow factor, but then I remember how I made a mess of things the last time I went over to Reeve's to meet his family. How I wore my fancy blue dress and I bought that huge poinsettia arrangement, and Rennie opened the door in a football jersey, and she looked like she belonged and I looked so out of place.

I should have just gone to Milky Morning and gotten a cookie tray. It's too late for that now.

I stand there debating for so long that the saleslady comes over twice to ask if I need help. “Do you have anything more . . . rustic?” I ask. “Or, like, homey?”

The saleslady frowns. “Homey? Let's see, we have a beautiful strawberry tart with a pistachio brûlée.”

“Umm . . .”

“Or how about a peanut butter–chocolate mousse cake?” she suggests.

Eagerly I nod. “Yes, yes!” Peanut butter is definitely homey.

She opens the display case and pulls out the cake with a flourish, and it looks like something my mom would describe as “truly decadent”—ganache was poured on top, and it has hardened into a shell, and there are chocolate shavings piled high like a modern sculpture. Chocolate-covered peanuts border the cake like a pearl necklace. This is the least homey cake I have ever seen.

I shout out, “Wait! I'm so sorry. Can you wait just one minute? I just need, like, two seconds to consult with my friend.”

The saleslady looks annoyed, but she gives me a fake smile, and I fake smile back and turn around and whip my cell phone out to call Kat. She would know what I should bring to the Tabatskys.

She takes forever to answer. “What up, what up, Lil.”

“Um, so, remember how I helped Reeve get a postgraduate year at a prep school?”

“No. I mean, you mentioned that it happened, but not that you helped him.”

“Ugh. Well, I didn't really help him. I just gave him the idea.” Kat's quiet, so I just keep going. “Anyway, his mom is so happy about it that she wants me to come over for dinner.” Hastily I
add, “Just as friends. So, like, if you were going over to his house for dinner, what would you bring for dessert? If it was between a peanut butter–chocolate mousse cake and a strawberry tart?”