Quarantales: The Complete Contemporary Romance Box Set, page 46
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stand with my heart pounding until the very last note.
“Oh, there you are,” she says when I finally open the door.
As usual, the sight of her with my Martin hits me like the opening notes of a favorite song. She’s gotten my journal lying open beside her, too. And there’s a new page filled with words written in pretty cursive. Lyrics, I’m guessing—lyrics to this new song of hers.
She follows the direction of my gaze and snaps the journal closed like I caught her in the middle of a lewd act.
“I was afraid a bear had got you or something,” she says. It’s a joke, but her voice is strained. And she sets the guitar back in the open case at her feet. “I’ll make us breakfast while you take your shower.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. Her new song is still resonating in my soul.
I need to kick her out. But I end up just grunting something about being hungry before escaping to the bathroom.
She’s got to go, though. I’m going to tell her that over breakfast.
But breakfast comes and goes without me saying a damn word. The song she was singing….it’s still playing. Not just in my head, it’s filled up my entire chest. It renders me mute even after my plate is empty.
This isn’t natural, right?
To respond to someone like this in every way? Someone you have no business being with….
“You’ve been quiet today, and I think I know why,” Reina says on the other side of the small kitchen table.
So she figured out that I want her to leave.
“It’s no offense to you,” I quickly start to explain.
“No offense taken,” she assures me. “Situations like this are hard and frustrating all around. I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do.”
So she gets it. Good. I open my mouth to offer to pay for the hotel and anything else she might need over the next few months.
But then she says, “And I think I know how to fix ‘Broken Road.’”
I stop, scrunch my forehead, and back up. Apparently, we’ve been talking about two different things.
I thought this conversation was about her moving out. But she was talking about “Broken Road”—the song I wrote about my own regrets. I’d done it more as a writing exercise, to see if I could write a ballad.
But she’s been toiling with the lyrics I wrote off and on for days. To the point that I told her yesterday that we should probably just scrap that one and give our full attention to the morbid rallying cry I’d written about climate change.
“I thought we were letting that song go. The intro doesn’t work. And the last verse is DOA,” I remind her.
“I know! I know! But I just couldn’t stop thinking about it,” she answers, her dark brown eyes widening with apology. “Then, while you were in the shower, an idea for the intro hit me. But you’ve got to trust me.”
“Trust you…” I repeat.
“Yeah.” She peeps up at me from across the table. “Can you do that?”
Chapter Nine
There’s A Lot You Don’t Know About Me
REINA
So I guess California is wearing off.
Wyatt’s back to his usual grumpy and laconic self today. But at least he comes with me. He only stops to grab two black gaiters from his old army duffel—cloth masks that you wear around your neck and pull up over your nose when you need it.
He hands one to me, and I’m surprised to see it’s nicer than expected. There’s a nose wire at the top with a filter sewn in underneath, and the fabric material is some kind of super soft microfiber.
“Where’s your truck, by the way?” I ask when we get outside the cabin. “I didn’t see it when I went down to the lake for afternoon yoga the other day.”
“Oh, I um…left it at the airport garage,” he answers, looking away from me. “I didn’t want any tow jobs distracting me from writing this album.”
I whistle, liking his dedication. But I don’t feel like driving myself, especially considering the Lake Pinewood reservation checkpoint situation.
“It’s a beautiful day outside. Let’s just walk, okay?” I suggest.
“Okay,” he grunts.
As we walk toward the main road, I slip the mask over my head and arrange it around my neck like a scarf, pretending like I’m not holding my breath. But Wyatt doesn’t stop me when I start walking in the direction of the Lake Pinewood reservation. Whew! I let out a discreet sigh of relief.
However, after surprising me with how chatty he could be over the last couple of weeks, he’s awfully quiet now.
Probably pissed. Because I’m overstepping. I know I’m overstepping and possibly setting myself up to get kicked out of his cabin.
But that song of his…it’s important.
I don’t know why it means so much to me, but the idea of a ballad about regret…it stirred something inside of me, to the point that I found myself writing one of my own this morning.
No, I can’t just let it go like Wyatt suggested last night.
Still, I can tell he’s all sorts of not happy by the direction we’re headed in, so I change the subject.
“I was wondering, after you finish writing this album, what are you going to do with it?” I ask. “Test it out at the casino?”
He chuckles low. “No, I’m going back to California to record it.”
“Record it?” I repeat. “Like, in a studio?”
“Yeah, where else?”
I don’t know, but the thought of him leaving again for California makes my heart…I don’t know…kind of itchy. Making music with Wyatt has been magical. Full of promise, like the spring unfolding all around us.
I knew from the start it was only temporary. I couldn’t stay on his couch forever. But I had no idea he was planning to return to California. And though I know I should only feel happy for him, my heart pangs, already missing the only person I’ve made non-secular music with in over a decade.
I clear my throat to dislodge the lump of sadness inside of it. “I didn’t know you had enough money to do something like that.”
He peers over at me with a slight smirk. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Well, that’s not my fault,” I answer. “Every time I try to ask you something personal, you clam up—”
The vibration of my phone for the first time in two weeks interrupts my accusation. Is it Cynda? Is she finally calling me back?
I yank the phone out of my jacket pocket only to deflate when I see it’s Shirley, the friend from group who told me about Wyatt’s buying whiskey three years ago.
“Hey, Shirley,” I say after picking up.
“So your boyfriend took care of your Cal-Mart bill this morning,” she answers, her voice set to gossip.
“My what…who?”
“Wyatt,” Shirley answers, her tone insinuating I’m an idiot for not knowing who she was talking about. “Wyatt told me this morning that he’d be paying for all your Cal-Mart orders until further notice.”
My heart jolts. “He did what?”
“Right? Mike didn’t go in on groceries with me until after we were married. But I guess when you know, you know. No wonder Florence said you didn’t seem too broken up about it when she kicked you out.”
I roll my eyes. I didn’t act upset because I was trying to be noble about the whole thing. Also…“We’re not a couple, we’re just—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just friends. That’s what he said too. Just friends who up and decided to quarantine together inside a one-room cabin, in a state that doesn’t have a stay-at-home order.”
Well, when she put it that way, it did sound kind of suspicious. But I feel compelled to point out to her, “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Why?” Shirley demands. “Did you two get in a fight?”
Oh Lord, now I’ve given her something else to talk about. And, in a town the size of Lake Pinewood, gossip spreads faster than—well, the virus that’s got the entire world on high alert right now.
I want to argue with Shirley about why Wyatt paid for my Cal-Mart order, but I have a feeling that will only make it worst. Leave it up to Shirley to interpret my protests, and she’ll be telling everyone Wyatt and I are engaged by the time she delivers the groceries.
“Okay, thanks for letting me know, Shirley. Bye.”
“Hold on, does this fight mean you’re not getting married now? Because I’ve got a bet going with Bruce and a few other people.”
“Hanging up!” I singsong before doing just that over Shirley’s protests.
“Everything alright?” Wyatt asks, raising an eyebrow. Both his eyebrows and beard are back to appearing kind of bushy, I notice. More of California wearing off.
“You shouldn’t have offered to pay my Cal-Mart tab for me,” I answer.
“Oh, that…” he waves it off. “Least I could do since you’re the one making all the meals.”
“I’m making all the meals because I’m living under your roof, rent-free. You came through for me when I most needed it. Cooking a few meals is the least I can do.”
He shifts his eyes away. “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” I repeat. “Are you sure they didn’t completely replace you with another person out there in California? You hate people in your space.”
“So who were you really hoping was calling?” he asks, lifting both eyebrows this time.
I blink at the sudden change of subject. “What?”
“You looked disappointed when you saw the name on the Caller ID. Were you expecting a call from somebody else? Pastor Thomas? A boyfriend?”
His question reminds me of the news I never got around to sharing with him. The last two weeks had been so full of music and joy. I hadn’t wanted to pop the bubble with the sad news.
“You know, Pastor Thomas was fighting liver cancer for a while. Sadly he lost that battle.”
Wyatt stops walking. “He died? When?”
“A couple of months ago,” I answer, stopping too. “I sang his favorite spiritual at the funeral. It was nice. A lot of people came out to send him home.”
Wyatt expels a huge breath like he doesn’t know what to say. And I can’t blame him. Until recently, I wasn’t a person with problems, only goals. I hate to admit it, but I liked being the one with all the answers in our relationship. The sober and wise sponsor who could do for Wyatt what Pastor Thomas had done for me.
But now, with me losing both my own sponsor and my room at Florence’s house, I was putting him in a position he’d never been in before.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, his voice stiff. “I know you two were close. He was like a father to you.”
“Yeah…” A familiar ache squeezes my heart, guilty and full of regret. I hate that Pastor Thomas passed before I could keep the promise I made him.
Time to count my blessings.
One…my Missouri move fund was still intact thanks to Wyatt.
Two…I’d helped him write and compose the music for two terrific songs over the last two weeks.
Three…as risky as my idea for fixing “Broken Road” might be, I really do think it will work.
Four…this is the first awkward conversation I’ve had with Wyatt since we agreed to just be friends after that incendiary stove kiss. And perhaps most important of all.
Five…I can always change the subject.
“And as for having a boyfriend,” I snort and start us walking again. “Who do you think would want to date me around here?”
“Plenty guys,” he answers immediately. Like it’s a no-brainer. “I think the real question is why somebody hasn’t snatched you up yet. Are South Dakota men just that dumb?”
I cut my eyes at him. “I mean, yes. But I’m also a recovering alcoholic who spent most of her adult life failing on the way to hitting bottom. I’m no prize myself.”
“Says who?” he challenges.
“Says everybody,” I answer.
“You heard them say this?” he asks.
I shake my head at Wyatt. Why is he being like this? Pressing instead of laughing at my self-deprecating jokes? “I don’t have to hear people talk to know what they think of me.”
We walk along in silence for a little bit, the crunch of dead leaves and pavement beneath our feet.
“Sometimes, the voices in our head sound like they’re coming from everyone else,” Wyatt says quietly. “But really, the voice is us, not able to forgive ourselves.”
It’s such a ridiculous thing to say. A strong wave of emotion ripples through me. I know what I am. I know what I’ve done and how I’ve messed up my life—irrevocably.
I’m the daughter who didn’t get invited to either of my parents’ funerals, the sister who was told never to come back. But for some reason, Wyatt’s words poke at my heart, digging through the hardened surface to find the feelings I’ve been hiding from since Pastor Thomas’s death.
“And either way, you’re avoiding the subject, Reina,” he continues. “Who were you hoping would be on the other side of that line?”
I think about not answering, but in the middle of all that thinking, the two words slip out. “My daughter.”
You’re not supposed to touch your face, they say, but I raise my hand to swipe the threatening tears from my eyes. “I was hoping it would be my daughter. The one I’ve kept secret for twenty-eight years.”
How much will Reina reveal about
her secret daughter to Wyatt?
Find out in the next episode of
Reina and the Heavy Metal Prince
Part Six
Episode 6: MISTAKES & REGRETS
Chapter Ten
Mistakes & Regrets
REINA
I have a daughter….
This is the first time I’ve said those words aloud in…well…. Ever.
From the beginning, Cynda had been a mistake. A drunken one-night stand with some guy I’d half-met at a Kappa Alpha Psi back-to-school party. I could barely remember his face the next day when I woke up alone in my dorm bed, and I’m not sure I ever bothered to get his name.
But apparently, I hadn’t made him put on a condom.
That mistake came to roost when I realized a few months later that I couldn’t remember the last time I had my period.
At first, I denied it. I only had a year of college left until I earned my nursing degree, and I had just begun taking my dream of singing for a career seriously. I had hoped the situation I found myself in would somehow magically work itself out. But the mistake kept growing and growing until eventually, I had to tell my parents.
To say they were disappointed is an understatement. They were old-school Christians, who didn’t believe in sex before marriage, any kind of vices, or abortion. They immediately stopped paying my college bills and made me come home to have the baby in secret.
My sister, Marilee, came home too. I’d been a surprise baby, and Marilee was seventeen years older.
Growing up, she’d doted on me, just like my mother. She stayed telling me how pretty I was and how I was the best singer in the family. Even better than her. She went to bat for me with our mama when I asked for a guitar for my fifteenth birthday because I wanted to learn to play it along with the piano.
And she’d been the one to convince me to go to Saint Louis University even though what I really wanted was a music career.
“No reason to upset Mama and Daddy,” she’d advised. “And a nursing degree from SLU will be a good thing to have in your back pocket while you pursue your singing hobby. Plus, I think you’ll enjoy the freedom of college. I know I did.”
I hadn’t considered music just a hobby. But Marilee had been right about me enjoying college. For the first time in my life, I’d been able to choose what I did with my free time. No more church socials. No more eight o’clock curfews, and I could go anywhere I wanted without having to tell anybody. I’d been able to talk to boys whose parents my parents didn’t know. Go to parties without prayers, and drink and smoke.
I’d loved college until the Big Mistake. But to my relief, when I came home, so did my older sister.
Marilee had moved to a small Missouri town called Guadalajara a few years ago, but she’d returned to our house in St. Louis as soon as she heard the news.
She was everything I wasn’t. She never drank anything stronger than wine standing in for the blood of Christ. Wouldn’t dream of touching weed, much less smoking it.
While I could barely take care of my trendy dookie braids, she had a standing appointment at the beauty shop every two weeks to maintain the same wrapped perm she’d been wearing since high school. She was a respectable woman who’d married a black doctor within two years of earning her nursing degree. She worked at the front desk of his family practice in Guadalajara, and she had never missed a Sunday Service at Guadalajara Baptist before Mama called her with the news that I was pregnant.
She and Mama made plans around me while the mistake continued to grow. Of course, I couldn’t handle a baby. We all agreed about that. I was too irresponsible. Plus, my sister and her husband couldn’t have kids, so maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
I’d have the baby, and Marilee would take it back with her to Guadalajara and raise it as hers and her husband’s. I’d return to my previously planned life, finish nursing school. And with my looks, surely I could find a doctor to marry too, Mama pointed out. “Especially if you get rid of those ropes in your hair.”
This baby was just a wrinkle on the road to nabbing a husband even better than Marilee’s and raising a family of my own. It was all figured out, and I happily went along with the revised plan. I had the baby in the spring and was back at Saint Louis University the following fall.
If I hadn’t met Eddie after an amateur night performance, I might not have ruined the life they had all planned out for me.
