Punk 57 (50 page)

“Will do.” And I head for the elevators.

I ride up to the twenty-first floor where there are two penthouses, and there’s only one floor above us, and that’s the Crists’. I love the view, and I’m glad Misha likes to be in the city. We frequently spend time with his father in Thunder Bay, but the nightlife, shows, and concerts are too alluring to stay away from. We like the noise here.

Once inside, I smell steaks cooking, and my stomach instantly growls. We have a gym in the building, but I like the classes at Rika’s dojo, so I braved the reporters for that today, but now I’m starving. And I need a bath.

Arms come around me from behind, holding my belly, and I lean back, feeling instantly relaxed. His intoxicating scent surrounds me, and I need contact.

“Help me get out of these clothes,” I beg.

He pulls my shirt over my head and helps me out of my sports bra. I’m only six months along—our son is due in March—but I’m playing up the helpless act. The more he touches me, the happier I am. And Misha doesn’t like to see me mad.

After stripping out of my shoes, socks, and workout pants, I turn around, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.

He looks incredible. I like this house arrest he’s been keeping himself on. All he does is walk around the apartment all day, half-naked in only lounge pants, listening to music and leaving lyrics in random places. They’re written all over the refrigerator, on napkins, on Post-its stuck to the walls—which he started doing when I freaked out about Sharpie on the fresh paint in the bedroom.

It’s all a part of his creative process, he says.

Whatever. It works, I guess.

“Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”

I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.

I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully when he starts massaging my leg.

“The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of you.”

“Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between his legs with it.

I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest to chest with my belly.

He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth coating my scalp and back and making me moan.

He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.

I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.

He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.”

I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.

Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”

“You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”

He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”

He levels me with an unamused look.

I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”

He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”

What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative. Even if I wasn’t any good at it.

I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.

“You need to put in an appearance,” I say.

I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he doesn’t live it up enough.

“Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”

“I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”

I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say. “Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”

“No, but my music can.”

He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have together to give it to others? No.

“And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important, and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right, and that’s what I’m doing.”

I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.

But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘
Lose Yourself
.’”

And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.

He pushes my head back, dousing me under the shower as I squeal in laughter.

Hey, what did I say?

THE END

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Please turn the page to read Ryen’s letter to Delilah.

Dear Delilah,

My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.

I’m sure you don’t even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep reading, because there are a lot of things I’d like to say.

You’re under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.

By now, I’m sure your life—like mine—has changed a lot. Your memories of me—if you have any—could range from resentful to so ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you haven’t thought about me in years.

But just in case…I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be said, and it’s long past time.

You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on the playground, alone because I wouldn’t be your friend any more. I can’t imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.

There’s a secret I want to share with you. I haven’t even told my best friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.

When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six o’clock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products: shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file... I’d line up everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, I’d bathe.

That’s right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a mountain meadow
for an hour
. Then I’d finally emerge and begin the moisturizing and nail cleaning process.

Good grief, right? But wait, there’s more.

Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would like me.

Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.

This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes, and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.

That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so uncomfortable in large groups and couldn’t talk easily with people. That my music and movie choices weren’t like the average kid.

Plain and simple: I didn’t fit in.

I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited to my small environment, I couldn’t find anyone I did have things in common with. I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was crashing a party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.

That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about everything. Every day at recess, we’d walk around the perimeter of the field and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you listened to me and didn’t make me feel pressured or awkward. I was glad to finally have a friend.

Until I started wondering why I didn’t have more.

We’d keep walking and talking, but sooner or later, my eyes would drift over to where everyone else was playing and laughing, and I’d start to feel left out again. What made them so special to be crowded with people? Why did they seem happier and a part of something better? What were they doing and how were they behaving that I wasn’t?

I came to the conclusion that I needed to see myself as better before I could be better. And by better, I mean popular. In putting myself on a pedestal with whatever nasty behavior I could, I believed I was elevating myself. And in a way, I guess I was. Being mean got those friends I thought I wanted.

Now, there’s nothing I can say that makes what I did to you alright. I know that. Even a kid knows how to be nice. But I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I regret what I did. It was the first act in a long line of acts that made me a very unhappy girl, and I see now how valuable one good friend truly is and how little those popular kids actually mean in the big, wide world.

I can’t change the past, but I will do better in the future.

I’m sorry if I bothered you. If you’re reading this and wondering why I dwelled on something that was perhaps so insignificant to you. Maybe you’re surrounded by a great life and tons of happiness, and I’m not even a memory.

But if I hurt you, I’m sorry. I want you to know that.

You were a good friend, and you deserved better. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you. I wish I’d done the same.

Love,

Ryen

If you’re reading this, then hopefully that means you finished the book. And if that’s the case, then I’m very glad.

Punk 57
was a different book to write, and a difficult one. We romance readers can be very hard on our heroines. We often see ourselves in those roles and compare their decisions to the decisions we would’ve made instead. We tend to judge them more harshly than we do the heroes, because we hold them to the same expectation we hold ourselves. This is why many heroines are often innocent, timid, and kind with good hearts. Seeing those women find their power is a fun journey. They’re easy to love.

Ryen, on the other hand, was not. Especially in the first few chapters.

Knowing this, of course I was very scared. I only hoped you’d stick with her long enough to see her come around and eventually be proud of her.

Ryen’s need for recognition, adoration, and inclusion echoes with us all. We see it all the time. No kid wants to be different. They want to belong, they desire the approval of others, and they, most often, aren’t yet mentally strong enough to be able to stand alone. As we get older, though, most of us develop that capability. We learn that nothing feels better than truly loving yourself, even if it means those around you do not. We joyously find that we just don’t give a damn anymore.

And it feels pretty great.

But most of us have done things—unfair things—in the name of self-preservation. That’s the story I wanted to tell. Ryen hating who she was, trying to be different and trying to find a way for people to finally see her, but then discovering that she hates herself even more. Lying to yourself never moves you forward.