#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (25 page)

Chapter 69

A bleakness sweeps over me as I ride the train out of Manhattan. I already miss JQ, but we'll be back together by next weekend when his break starts. I mess around on my phone, but keep returning to the lock screen, counting the minutes ticking by.

The great swath of time stretching ahead of me, when I don't know what I'll be doing, or where, makes my chest tighten. I can't be a tourist at college, interloping in the dorm or wandering the streets. I have to make a decision about what I'm going to do before I return to Cranville. Even at the Quaid's, I'll be dwelling in the shadow of other people's lives. I have to figure out what I'm going to do with mine.

I'm only a few stops away from my dad's town when my phone buzzes. JQ has already sent me a few sexy, missing you texts, but this one is from Niko. All it says is
Babe
.

I start to write a reply, telling him to fuck off, but there's another bubble. It says
I. Need. You
. My stomach sinks.

I delete, delete, delete. Instead, write
You're fooling yourself.

He instantly responds.
No, Josie. I can't go on without you. Please come back.

Even without hearing his voice, his tone worries me, dousing my spite with a rare flash of pity.

Before I reply, he writes again.
Things are getting heavy. If you'd just give me one more chance
.

I can't
. The words dangle. Our breakup was abrupt, but there were weeks of fighting, animosity, and one of us sleeping on the couch, well, not really, but in theory. The writing was spray-painted on the walls of our hearts.

He writes
Then at least let me say goodbye to you. Please
.

I thought that's what we did when you showed up at my house uninvited.

Please.

I'm visiting my dad.
I have the urge to suggest we Facetime, but even I'm not that heartless. My heart is strong and happy and belongs to JQ.

Where does he live? I'll come to you.

The loudspeaker announces my stop, and I disembark without answering.

My dad waves frantically at me from the platform as if I somehow forgot what his bearded face looks like. He used to keep it trim, even though traditionally he was supposed to let it grow freely. Perhaps his fiancé is influencing him.

He wraps me in the same warm hug I remember from when I could only reach around his waist. His paunch is considerably bigger. She must be a better cook than my mother was.

"What have you been up to in the Big Apple?" he asks when we're on the road.

"Living. Playing piano." I shrug.

"Give any thought to your future?"

"Only ever second of every day," I say more sharply than I mean to, so I soften it by adding, "Have you ever heard of MSM?"

"The Manhattan School of Music? One of the preeminent music schools in the city. Of course I've heard of it."

The gusto in his answer takes me by surprise. He turns onto a street and leans over the center console conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I sent your mother the prospectus for MSM and Julliard and a half dozen other music schools."

"My mother?" Oh. "You wanted me to study music?"

"I thought you might enjoy it."

"Enjoy it?" Duh. "Why didn't you send them to me? Why wasn't it ever my choice?"

He exhales. "Well, I guess part of me was afraid of her."

"Mom?"

"I'd already upset her so much. I just wasn't able to make her happy anymore. When men get older the plumbing doesn't always—"

"Oh my god, stop. Don't say another word, but don't take that on. That's bullshit. There are pills to fix—" I hold up my hand. "Never mind. I can't even believe we're having this conversation. Do you really believe it's your fault she left?"

He answers with a sigh. "She had us both under her thumb."

"Dad—" But I stop. I want to ask if Bubbie said anything to him in her last moments. If she wanted him to tell me goodbye for her, but I can't bring the words to my lips.

We pull into the driveway, and he studies the patches of snow on his lawn for a minute before turning to me. "You're here now. And that's all that matters."

"No, that's not all that matters. Our family is broken. I destroyed my life. You try to sugar coat everything. Why can't you acknowledge that I fucked up? I threw away my future for a three-year party."

If we weren't parked in his driveway, I'd slam the door and storm off. Instead, we both sit there for longer than is comfortable. Me stewing, him doing whatever it is he does to convince himself that his once-brilliant kid isn't a screw up.

"Well, the thing is, Josie, we continue on. I'm getting married. I have a happy family. Wait until you meet these kids. They're great. You have the chance to pick up the pieces, rearrange them if you want. I never wanted you to go to business school. That was your mother's idea and although you say that you fucked up your life, you stood up to her in a way that I never could have, and I admire that."

My eyes widen at his use of profanity and the rest of his words catch up soon after.

"Oh."

"Come on, let's go meet the gang," he says, getting out of the car.

Whoever this man is, I'm not entirely sure he's my father.

Chapter 70

It's possible the Speedwells subscribe to the same catalog the Costa's used to order their cookie-cutter McMansion. The flow plan is the same, along with the tile in the entry, the granite counters in the kitchen, and the mantle in the sitting room. The glaring difference is the three kids and the woman playing spin the dreidel in the family room.

"Karen, come meet my lovely daughter, your new daughter, Josephine." From the floor, where she and three kids play a board game, she gets to her feet and promptly wraps me in a hug. To my mother's consistently flawless appearance, Karen wears yoga pants and a Rutgers T-shirt. She has a brown bob pulled back in a headband and wears glasses.

"Don't mind us, they're just taking all my gelt," she jokes, referring to the dreidel game.

I'm surprised the kids are out of school, but they must go to Hebrew school and follow a different calendar.

A little boy with brown hair and brown eyes gives me a wave. The other boy, perhaps a year or two older, steals one of his brother's chocolate coins. The little girl points, her eyes wide as he stuffs it in his mouth. Without turning around, Karen says, "I saw that. Give him one of your coins. No, make that two."

She shakes her head. "Meet Abigail. She's four. Elijah, seven, and Ethan who apparently loves chocolate more than his brother."

"I'm ten," he says as if that's the reason why.

"Will you play with us?" Abigail asks in a squeaky voice.

I turn to my dad as though I'm a child all over again and need to see him give me a nod of approval. He does and then says, "I'll bring your bags to the spare room down the hall."

Karen redistributes the gelt and we spin the dreidel for the next half hour.

That night we have quiche, light a candle, and the kids receive picture books about Hanukkah. Either Karen had a spare work of Jewish lit lying around or she knew I'm a big fan of Leonard Bernstein.

As I lay in bed that night, I feel a little pinch at how my life would be different if my family had been as warm and cozy as Karen and my father's. How things may have been different if he'd lumped on the couch with my mother and me in between. We had some nice family moments, but they were forced and orchestrated.

The next day we roll up our sleeves and make peanut butter and jelly
sufganiyot
, a kind doughnut. Ingredients spill everywhere, but Karen doesn't reprimand us like my mother would. When it's time to clean up, she sings a song encouraging the kids to help.

In the afternoon, they play games and study. I retreat to the laundry room with my phone, alternatingly sexting with JQ and talking Niko off the edge. He's pleading, begging me to meet with him one more time. He started saying he wants me, but now insists he needs me. I consider tossing my phone in the washing machine.

The next day, Karen takes the kids to visit her mother, and I get bored. My father's at work, but I'm mad at myself for not asking him more questions: Why couldn't you have tried harder to make it work with mom? We could have had this kind of life. Maybe I'd even have siblings. Why are you such a pushover?

Instead, I force myself to think hard about questions I can answer.

Why did I screw up so much? It was fun and freeing at the time.

Why didn't I just tell my mother how I really felt and apply to music school? Because I was afraid of disappointing her, so I went ahead and flew clear past disappointment into sheer disgust.

Why can't I be happy? I am happy. I'm in love with JQ, but there's still an itch inside.

I wander around the house and find a wall of family photos, including several of a man with a long beard and
yarmulke
with his broad arms wrapped around his family. They're all happy, especially Karen with baby Abigail in her arms. I wonder what happened to him.

I browse the images, not seeing any of myself, until, in the upper corner there's one of Bubbie and me, seated at her piano. My heart swells.

After dinner, we open our gifts and instead of toys, there is more wrapping paper.

Karen explains as she places unwrapped gifts on the table. "One night during Hanukah, we wrap gifts for kids who might not have such an abundant celebration. It's a way of giving back."

My father smiles proudly as though he's all too aware he replaced his
type A
wife with someone with compassion and kindness in her heart. Or maybe that's just what I see through my lens. The upgrade is bittersweet. My dad and Karen deserve to be happy, the kids too, but I don't fit in. I'm on the knife's edge of blowing things up. I dance around what I might say to my dad instead of yelling, but all I see in my mind are ALL-CAPS.

I toss and turn that night, my belly full of latkes and sour cream. I've been ignoring my phone today, but when it buzzes, I hope to see JQ's name on the screen.

It's Niko.
Josie
.
Babe. We're playing a secret show in New York tomorrow night. Please, I beg you to come. I want you to show me your tits
.

…And he's back!

It continues.

I can't go on without you.

Seriously, Josie, I can't take this anymore.

I've given up. Nothing matters without you here.

I worry he means suicide, but then I see there's another message. It's from Mitty.

Hey Josie, sorry I dropped off the face of the earth. This text should say hi, how's it going, what have you been up to? Instead, I'm writing because I'm worried about Niko. He's taken the breakup really hard. I saw some of the messages he's sent you. It was an accident, I swear, I'm not a snoop. He nodded off with the phone on his chest and before it flashed off, I saw. Don't worry, he's not going to off himself. We both know he's too in love with music to do that, but he also thinks you're the music or his muse or something. Fuck if I know. If
you wouldn't mind talking to him, it might help. I mean, it's up to you. Early afternoon is best. Peace- M.

I scan my socials for the show. It's tomorrow night in the city. Cocooned in the stepfamily life, if I face the kind of boredom and anger I did yesterday, I might just do something stupid, or stupider than meeting up with Niko.

I wake up to another set of messages. These are from JQ. He tells me he finished up early and is going home on Thursday instead of Friday and asks if I want to come. I do. I really do, if only he lived on a different block than my mother, or better yet, a different town.

When I shuffle out to the kitchen, Karen and the kids do a menorah craft at the table.

"Good morning," she says. "We're going to a party at the Temple today. Thought you might like to come."

My father would have liked had I gone to Temple more with him, but never forced me. "Thanks. I'll pass."

"Well, you can't just hang out here all day."

I stiffen.

"In this family, we celebrate our holy days, Josephine."

"Am I not a part of this family if I don't participate in every single activity?"

She straightens. "That's not what I meant, but I thought you might enjoy an outing, meet some new people, and set a good example for your younger siblings."

I laugh sharply. "I didn't sign up to be a role model."

She steps closer to me. "I didn't sign up to be your mother, but it seems to me you’re in need of one."

My mouth hangs open. "Nope. She was fired. I'm doing just fine on my own, thank you." Or maybe she fired me. I ignore the little voice inside that tells me a mother like Karen would be nice. I slam the door to my bedroom and pack. This picture perfect family my father has created doesn't leave room for me to be me.

By the time I reach Manhattan, the dusky skyline dims the luster of my anger. I have luggage and am not sure what to do with it, so I take the train to the Village. The sidewalks bustle with students eager to finish classes before the long holiday break. A string of twinkle lights, half of them burned out, blink in the window of the music shop.

The same wiry-haired guy sits behind the counter. Without greeting me, I wander to the back of the shop and stash my bags before sitting down to play my most desolate piece yet.

When he shuffles around, signaling it's time to close up shop, I exit with just my purse. My feet lead me toward the Bowery. I should get on the train to Rhode Island. I should text JQ.

Instead, at the will-call counter I tell the ticket person my name. She hands me the ticket I knew would be waiting for me.