Catch Me (31 page)

“Let me show you,” Isaac says, placing his napkin on his plate.

“I’ll take her,” Nick says, standing up beside me and waiting for me to do the same.

“Thank you,” I whisper to Isaac, who offers me a small smile before turning to Damien, who is animatedly talking into his cell phone.

Nick walks me down the hallway, massaging my shoulders gently. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, his voice a whisper against my cheek.

I shiver but nod. “Yeah, I just need a minute,” I reply, walking in to the bathroom and shooting a look over my shoulder to let him know I’m okay. Once the door is closed I sit on the toilet and bury my face in my hands. My shoulders begin to shake as I sob into them, asking for forgiveness,—whose, I don’t know. I’ve never been taught to pray, but that’s the only thing I can think of doing right now. It’s either pray or call my sponsor because I can feel a part of me beginning to itch for the easy way out. The easy numb that I know I can get if I go back to the hotel right now and walk into Shea’s room. He may not be into the hard stuff anymore, but anything will do right now. Anything. But I can’t. And I won’t. So instead, I silently pray to whoever or whatever may be listening to me. I ask for forgiveness over and over and when I feel a little bit lighter, I wipe my face and get up.

I wipe under my eyes as best as I can so I don’t look like I’ve been crying and then I step back out into the hallway. I hear Nick having a conversation with somebody in the other direction, so naturally I walk that way. I don’t want to eavesdrop, but the open floor plan of the house makes it pretty impossible not to.

“So you’re only recording for Shea right now?” a man’s voice asks. He has a deep voice, one of those voices you hear on one of the corny radio stations with “power love hours” and “slow jams.” That type. It’s sexy low, but it reminds me of corny nineties R&B singers.

“Yes, Pop, I already told you this,” Nick responds, sounding irritated.

“You keep selling yourself short, you’re never gonna make it anywhere,” his father responds.

“I already made it, didn’t I?” Nick retorts.

His father scoffs. “How much are you getting paid per track right now?” he asks.

“Enough. Are you gonna eat with us or should I tell Mom you’re busy?” Nick asks, clearly irritated.

“I’ll be right there. I heard you brought a friend home,” his dad comments.

“Yeah … and?” Nick asks, his voice getting quiet.

“Your mom seems to like her. Is she someone I know? Singer?” his dad asks.

“No. I’ll tell Mom you’re coming,” Nick responds and I hear him close a door.

Stepping back, I walk closer to the dining room, standing off to one side so I can wait for him. I watch him as he walks toward me, pulling on the dark blond hair in the middle of his head. The hallway is so massive that I feel like I get lost in it. Somehow Nick makes the tables look small beside him and the walls look like they’re opening up wider for him. His eyes look troubled when he notices me, but quickly calm when I smile at him. Walking straight to me, he wraps his arms around me, placing his chin on top of my head and letting out a deep breath. I instantly sag against him and wrap my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek to his chest and breathing him in. I close my eyes and squeeze him harder, smiling when he does the same.

“Isaac said you were there to help me,” I whisper against his chest, hating the way he stiffens. I want to know why he never told me, but more than anything I’m ashamed and hurt that they were there to witness all of that.

“We’ll talk about it later, baby,” he says, kissing the top of my head and dropping his arms. He tilts my head up to look at him. “I hope you’re hungry,” he says as the side of his lip curls into a smile.

“Always.”

He chuckles and places a chaste kiss on my lips. “That’s my girl.”

Mirielle beams at us when we walk back in and take a seat. Damien is talking to Isaac, leaning over the table to emphasize whatever point he’s making. I realize that he’s very expressive, like my brother, and the thought makes me smile. A tall man walks into the room as Damien is explaining to me the difference between two film cameras. He’s an independent film director and has already told me about two scripts he’s currently reading. The man looks identical to Nick. There is absolutely no room to question that he’s his father. He has the same body build: tall with very defined muscles. The same deep golden skin, the same aqua blue eyes and the same dark blond hair, the exception is his is long and gelled back. Upon looking at him I decide that Nick’s dad is a DILF. For real. He smiles at me, the same gorgeous panty-dropping smile that Nick gives me and I almost gasp as I shake his hand.

“Michael,” he introduces.

“Brooklyn,” I respond.

Nick nudges me under the table with his leg and I shrug at him, widening my eyes.

“Uncanny, right?” Mirielle says with a laugh.

I blink rapidly a couple of times. “I’ve never seen two people look more alike,” I respond.

She laughs. “I always used to joke that if Michael ever left me, he was going to have to take Nicky with him because I couldn’t deal with seeing him every day.”

“I don’t blame you,” I agree with a laugh.

We start eating the best food I’ve had in a very long time: white rice, black beans, and breaded chicken. It’s so good that I want to ask for a doggy bag and pretend that I’m giving it to Scooby when we get back to Nick’s place. I don’t, of course, because that would make me sound pathetic. And fat.

“So, Brooklyn,” Michael starts as he takes a sip of red wine. “You’re in the music business?”

I open my mouth, snap it shut, and open it again. Fuck, I hate this question. I sigh, conceding that he’s going to find out at some point. “Yes.” Michael raises an eyebrow and signals me to elaborate, so I do. “I’m a talent director for Harmon Records.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up as he puts down his glass. “Nice,” he says, nodding in approval. “How’d you get into that?”

Nick’s hand finds mine under the table. I think he can sense how uncomfortable I am talking about this. As he draws circles around my thumb, I find it in me to continue my explanation. I don’t even mind explaining it. I don’t mind saying who my family is. What bothers me is what comes after that—the assumption that I am what I am because of them. I hate that assumption, but it’s one I’ve learned to accept a little better.

“Chris Harmon is my father,” I say, making Damien drop his fork onto his plate loudly, but my eyes stay glued to Michael’s. His eyebrows knit slightly and he smiles. I can hear his thoughts. He doesn’t have to voice the typical “that makes sense” for me to know that’s what he’s thinking. He surprises me by not saying that, though.

“I knew you looked familiar,” Michael says, sounding like if he’s having an “aha” moment. “We’ll all have to get together for dinner one day. We used to go over to your house a lot, many moons ago,” he says, looking at Mirielle, who smiles back at him adoringly. “I’m sure your dad has calmed down a lot since then,” he says laughing. “I haven’t been to one of his parties in ages, but they used to get wild.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter under my breath.

“Nicky finally picked a good one,” Michael says quietly, still looking at me. His words make me cringe inwardly. They’re the same words Shea’s mom used when we started dating. “You picked a keeper, Shea. Don’t let this one go,” she’d say. Her gold digging self thought Shea couldn’t make it by himself and needed to cling on to me to become anybody, but she was okay with him never becoming famous as long as he married into my family. I’m used to this.

Michael laughs suddenly. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, Brooklyn,” he says, I guess reading my expression. He signals around his house. “Trust me, we’re doing quite well. I just mean, he didn’t bring home another one of his gold diggers.”

For some reason, his words don’t make me feel any better, and the death grip Nick has on my hand lets me know that it makes two of us.

I shrug. “It’s fine. I can see how that would be a concern,” I respond, because it’s true. I’m hesitant to trust people because in the past I’ve been burned. Being Chris Harmon’s daughter means attracting a lot of the wrong kind of guys. Other than Shea, my other exes have also been musicians and most of our conversations have revolved around the business. I let out a relieved breath when Michael changes the subject to talk to Damien about his film company, and smile at Nick reassuringly. There are still a million questions running through my mind, but I’m not sure I’ll ask him any. I think more than anything, I’m scared that if I ask him something and he gives me the wrong answer, I’ll shut him away.

We eat the rest of our meal in peace and say our goodbyes. Michael and Mirielle both welcome me to come over again and send their regards to my parents. Isaac and Damien both give me a hug, followed by Mima, whose hug lasts longest. When I sit in the car, I can smell the fried food and spices on both Nick and me and it makes me smile.

“You’re a lucky guy,” I say, as we drive away from his parent’s house.

Nick smiles and takes my hand, bringing it up to his mouth and caressing it with his soft lips. “I am.”

His words zip-line to my heart, making it skip a beat. I turn away, hiding a smile as I look out into the bay, my eyes lingering on the bridge.

“When did you know?” I ask quietly, still looking at the bridge. I know I look different. I refuse to look at photos of myself back then. I looked anorexic with barely any meat on my bones, and my hair was bleached blond, much to my mother’s dismay, which is why I did it.

“You mean after I saw you again?” he asks, just as quietly.

I nod, hoping he’s looking at me.

Nick lets out a long loud exhale. “Will you look at me?” he asks. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s expecting me to say no. “Please,” he adds, and it’s a plea I can’t deny, so I do, even though there’s a sadness in his eyes that I wish I could erase. “I think I always knew … but I knew for sure the second time I saw you. You look so different. So different. But those eyes … God, I’ve dreamt about your eyes so many times, I don’t think I could ever forget them.”

My heart stops when he says that, and I close my eyes for a moment, not wanting to forget those words and the way they sound coming out of his mouth. I wish I could walk around recording him and the things he says to me.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks suddenly.

My eyes blink open. “Sure.”

“Why were you there? Why were you doing it?” he asks.

I bite my lip and lower my eyes. Even though it’s been years, the pain is still so raw to me, which is why I try not to think about it. “I had a million reasons,” I say when I can bring myself to look at him again.

He nods as he switches lanes. “How many reasons did you have not to?” he asks.

“One,” I say automatically, not even having to think about it.

“Which was?” he asks, his voice wavering as if he’s unsure he wants to hear it.

“Isaac.”

We’re stopped at a red light now and I can see Nick’s eyes glistening. He blinks a couple of times and clears his throat. “Do you know how hard it is for me to hear that?” he asks, his voice a raw whisper.

“It’s not like you didn’t help me,” I mutter. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

He shakes his head and looks at me, pinning me with his eyes. He looks pissed off. “You’re thanking me for helping you?” He closes his eyes and takes a breath before opening them back up. “Brooklyn, do you realize you were within an inch of your life by the time we got you there? Do you know how scared we were? Do you know how fucking scary it is to wake up in the morning, thinking you’re going to help your brother train for a fucking marathon and have him call you on the verge of tears when you’re on the other side of a bridge timing his run? I had to make him drive halfway there so I could hold you as you shook uncontrollably in the backseat of my car. Your mouth was fucking foaming. Fuck. That was the single scariest thing that has ever happened to me. I waited for two days in that fucking hospital until you woke up from that coma. Two days without sleeping or eating because I was that freaked out. Then your uncle Robert comes and thanks me, and your fucking mom demands that I leave. Demands it because you were awake already.” Nick is seething by the end of his statement, completely ignoring the cars honking behind us, telling us that the light is green.

Tears begin running freely down my face. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, remembering my mother giving me hell over the whole thing. She was so sure that whoever helped me get to the hospital was going to go sell their story to the first gossip magazine they found, but they didn’t. There was no news about me ever being on that bridge or in that hospital. The only news they reported was when I entered rehab. Then it was “Chris and Roxy Harmon’s daughter, torn up about breakup with Shea Roberts, turns to drugs. Seeks help” everywhere for about a week until everybody forgot about me again.

When he pulls into the parking spot in his building, he puts the gear in park, unbuckles my seatbelt and pulls me into his arms, cradling me, letting me sob freely into his shirt.

“You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to thank me for doing the right thing, and you don’t get to apologize to me for making me go through it. I would have done that for anybody. It just fucking kills me that it was you—the most gorgeous woman on earth with the most beautiful smile and the best sense of humor. I hate that you ever considered ending your life. I hate that nobody was there to make you want to fight for it, and I hate that it took me so long to find you again.”