All I Ever Wanted Read online

  How the hell did he know that?

  “How long were you walking around town today?” I asked, no longer smiling at this little game. “Did you overhear the gossip about it?”

  “Was there some to overhear?” He raised one of his dark eyebrows and studied me.

  “There…um, well, there’ve been these rumors since Thanksgiving. About an incident that happened at the church when Mr. Keaton—the husband of the woman you pointed out to me—was in Miami for a trial he was working on.”

  “Ah,” Alex said. “Sometimes I guess right, I suppose. Sorry.”

  I tried to shrug it off. “No, that’s okay. I just—you know, I wish when people made a big commitment to each other, like a marriage vow, that they wouldn’t take it lightly. Mr. Keaton’s always been a pretty good guy. It’d be sad if his wife was really cheating on him.”

  “Maybe the rumors aren’t true,” Alex suggested.

  “Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t believe that. There had been too much gossip—and way too many local eyewitness reports corroborating that gossip—for me to believe it was all a ridiculous rumor.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “We can talk about something else.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Then I changed my mind. “Actually, no, I want to know what you see when you look at my little hometown. Is there anything you like about it? Or is it just sort of silly and contemptible in your mind?”

  “What?” He sounded shocked. “Of course it’s not silly or contemptible! It’s just filled with people. Like in every big city or small town. And those people are human, so they’ve got their judgments and their perspectives on things. I know they’re all out there making up stories in their heads about me, so I’ve always just done the same thing. Wherever I go. Not only here.”

  “What kind of stories do you think people make up about you?” I had to ask. “That you’re a cool and talented rocker guy who writes really insightful songs?”

  He snorted. “Not hardly.” He pulled me toward him to let some giggly grade-school kids pass us on the sidewalk. I loved feeling his arm around me, and for a couple of extra seconds he kept it there. Then he let go and took a step away from me. It made the air feel suddenly even colder.

  “Well, what then?”

  He cleared his throat. “Samantha, we’ve passed dozens of people on the street tonight, and almost every one of them has formed spontaneous opinions or judgments about me. Why I’m wearing torn jeans and old sneakers. Why my hair is cut this way. Why I have earrings. Why I’m unshaven. And why I’m walking around town with you—one of their little darlings—when I’m a stranger to them. Some wave at us out of kindness or curiosity. Some say a friendly hello or a suspicious one. But all of them made up their own instant history for me as a way of explaining why I’m with you. And if I held your hand or kissed you in front of them, they’d have a reaction. Not all of those reactions would be positive.” He paused. “Most of them wouldn’t.”

  I wasn’t about to say this to him but, yeah, he was right. The stories Oliver must have created in his head about Alex—just based on the way he looked and the few words he’d said—had my brother despising him on first contact. Although, to be fair, Alex had baited Oliver at the Bake Sale.

  But even Maya had looked a little shaken up after seeing Alex there. And my parents—especially my father, who hated it when guys dressed “sloppily”—were not going to be immediate fans, what with the piercings, the tattoo, the wild hair, and the “attitude” he couldn’t quite hide. A musician persona that was clearly not the straight-laced business major they would’ve preferred me dating, if I had to date at all.

  No, Mom and Dad weren’t going to be able to see how Alex and I could connect, and I wouldn’t be able to explain it to them without also explaining how much I really wasn’t like the quiet, cautious girl I once had been and still pretended to be at home. Not at school anyway.

  “Then they’d be wrong,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “You write great songs.”

  He tilted his head slightly, paused, and finally said, “Thanks. Songs are stories. And, as you know, I like stories. They don’t all have to be true to be interesting.”

  “What about ‘Dragonfly’ then?” I asked. “Was it based on something real or was it just a song you and your band mates completely made up?”

  “Both,” he said simply. “I actually wrote that one myself. Got the idea from a man I saw on the street in Cleveland. He had a long torso and two bulging backpacks strapped to him. Like he was carrying his burden and someone else’s at the same time. His leanness was insect-like—reminded me of a dragonfly—and the backpacks looked like wings. Like he should’ve been able to fly away but he couldn’t do it. He was grounded because of his commitment to others.”

  And this was the reason Alex and I had talked so late into the night after the White Knights concert. Because he said insightful things like this, and I just couldn’t get enough of it. Because he looked at the world so differently from anyone I’d ever met. Like a poet and a philosopher rolled up into one, but he dressed in the guise of an indie-punk guitarist/sax player. He wasn’t easy to categorize, but that was what made him so fascinating to me. So unique.

  “There were some lines you wrote in the second verse—‘You move through shadows, in dark skies and light, by day weighted down, flying only at night; so real in slumber, so unfettered it seems, yet your soaring’s contained to unrealized dreams…’ They were really memorable, Alex,” I said. “I’ve heard them over and over in my head since the fall.”

  To that, he only smiled, but I could see the flash of pride in his expression. And he should be proud. He’d created a work of art with that song. Shared a secret part of himself with the world and managed to dazzle us all.

  I knew I didn’t have anything in my life that could possibly dazzle him, but I did have a secret that someone who liked stories the way Alex did might appreciate. And because he’d given me the gift of his music, I wanted to share something personal of mine with him in return.

  “There’s a place I used to go to make up things,” I told him. “Not lyrics the way you do, but stories all the same. You know that bridge we’re trying to save?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s my Land of Make Believe. It has been ever since I was a kid. I used to pretend Abbott Springs was on one side of the bridge, but that my real kingdom—the magical place I was from originally, filled with people who were like me—was on the other side. And when I crossed the bridge, I’d transition into that land.”

  “People like you? You mean beautiful princesses…who can’t bake?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, sort of like that. We’re definitely a no-baking bunch in my secret kingdom.”

  “Does it have a name, this kingdom?” he asked.

  “Amethystonia” I whispered, realizing I’d never before said it aloud. Never told another living soul about my private, entirely fictional childhood hideaway—not even my best friends at home, like Maya, Bree, or Everly. Or my roommate Janna at school. Certainly not my family. “My birthstone is an amethyst, and I thought that sounded really exotic and cool when I was seven.” I knew I should be embarrassed by the silliness of it now. That normal guys would laugh and think it childish. But Alex wasn’t like that.

  “It’s a great name,” he said. “Sounds like an excellent setting for a lot of stories.” And the way he said it made me think he really, sincerely believed this. “Been there recently?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It’s been a very long time.”

  “Ah. Never too late to go back for a visit.”

  I nodded, and despite the freezing air, I couldn’t help but heat up from the inside out. I felt this crazy sense of happiness because I was with him. Because I felt understood for once. And because, for now at least, we’d somehow moved beyond the awkwardness that had trapped us in its grip earlier in the day. We’d managed to reclaim a little of what had bonded the two of us the ni
ght we met.

  I was glad for this reprieve, however small and probably temporary. It made me feel like do-overs were possible. That the damage I’d done was at least mostly forgiven, if not quite forgotten. For the first time in hours—no, weeks was more like it—I’d begun to actually relax.

  Alex must have felt it too because he looked over at me. He gave me one of his scrutinizing, semi-amused glances and put his arm around me again. It was a more playful than romantic gesture, but that was okay. I’d take it. Just feeling his touch against my body, even though all of the winter clothing, had me flooded with warmth and wanting.

  My mind rushed back to thoughts of the two of us in October. In his hotel room. In that king-sized bed.

  The way he’d kissed me until I’d felt lightheaded. Like I was levitating.

  The way he’d run his fingers across my belly and I could feel the calluses on his fingertips. Rough and gentle at the same time.

  The way our bodies found a perfect rhythm together. And how I’d purposely disrupted it when I pulled away that night. He was getting too close. Too close to knowing the real me, even though I’d given him all the wrong details.

  “So, ready for some pizza?” he asked, steering me back toward the town square and the Italian restaurant he’d picked out for our dinner. Giovanni’s. As the only really good pizzeria in Abbott Springs, I’d been there hundreds of times, but never with Alexander Hamilton. Somehow I knew he’d make everything about it feel like a brand-new experience.

  “Sure,” I said, moving closer to him. Hoping he wouldn’t take back his arm and break the connection between us.

  He didn’t. Not until we were almost at the entrance of the restaurant. I was just reflecting again on how nice it was to have reached this equilibrium. How much I was looking forward to a relaxing, pressure-free night of one-on-one conversation with him when a man cleared his throat loudly behind us.

  As we turned, I heard an all-too-familiar voice say, “Sami. How are you doing, sweetheart? Going to introduce me to your new friend?”

  Alex took a good look at the man standing tall on the sidewalk a few feet from us and immediately lowered his arm.

  And I said, “Hi, Dad.”

  Alex

  Holy Protective Parents, Batman.

  Mr. Abbott was not looking at all pleased with his daughter’s choice of a Friday-night date. Still, he stiffly shook hands with me when Samantha introduced us and, unlike his son Oliver, did not immediately get in my face with the intent to start a fight. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

  “Where are you from, Alexander?” Samantha’s dad asked coolly, as if he half-expected me to reply that my hometown was somewhere in the middle of the Andromeda cluster.

  “Boston,” I said. “At least originally. Now I live in Cleveland.”

  “Hmm,” was his reply. Then, after a beat, “So, how did you and Sami become, uh, acquainted?”

  “He performed at a concert in Cincinnati, Dad. At my university,” Samantha answered for me. “Alex is an amazing musician.”

  Those words warmed me up a few degrees, but her dad was nowhere close to being won over. “What kind of musician?” the man asked.

  Samantha opened her mouth to speak, but I decided to field this one myself.

  “I play saxophone, sir. And guitar—both electric and acoustic. And also a little piano, pipe organ, clarinet, banjo, and snare drum. But generally, I’m more familiar with instruments in the brass and strings families than in woodwinds or percussion.” I paused. “I sing a little too. Baritone.” I was doing my best to control my temper, but I could feel a few nerves snap at this inquisition and hear a thin blade of edginess work its way into my voice. For Samantha’s sake, I tried to rein it in.

  “I’m impressed,” Mr. Abbott said, but he didn’t really sell the statement.

  Beside me, I could hear Samantha’s teeth chattering. She looked half frozen, and I regretted having kept her out in the cold for this long.

  “Oh, honey, you’re shivering,” her dad said, noticing this at the same time I did. “Were you two headed inside?” He pointed toward Giovanni’s front doors.

  She nodded.

  “Great!” her dad said. “I’ll get us a table.”

  Samantha’s eyes widened in panic and her gaze shifted immediately to mine. “Well, Dad, Alex and I were actually planning—” But he’d already swung the door open and was stepping inside.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered in her ear. “Let him have his way on this. He’s just trying to make sure you’re all right.”

  Her eyes flashed blue fire. “I’m fine! And I’m twenty. And I can eat dinner with whomever I—”

  “Sami!” her dad commanded. “And, er, Alexander…Alex.” He motioned us forward. “C’mon in. It’s a lot warmer inside.”

  Depends on who you’re asking. I had the sneaking suspicion I’d get a much warmer reception from that Abbott statue in the middle of the town square than I would from Samantha’s father but, no matter how she might protest, this was her dad. She wasn’t going to be disrespectful toward him. I could tell. And I could also tell he knew this and was counting on it.

  Turned out, Mr. Abbott was a popular dude.

  He seemed to know almost everyone in the Italian place and made a show of stopping by several tables on the way to ours and chatting with the locals. Wasn’t sure if this was his usual way or if he was ratcheting it up especially for my benefit. Making sure I knew he was somebody in town. A big somebody I shouldn’t mess with, which meant I shouldn’t mess with his daughter either.

  Duly noted, Mr. A.

  Samantha sat politely but very silently—more subdued than I’d ever seen her—while her dad blathered on about the items on the menu. When the waitress came for our order, her father said, “So, what’ll it be, kids? Thin crust? Thick crust?”

  I deferred to Samantha. She said, “Thick crust, please.”

  I was fine with that and said, “Sure.”

  Her dad grinned. “Great! Okay, now the toppings. Mushrooms?” he suggested, glancing at his daughter. She nodded. Must’ve been a family favorite.

  “Alex?” he said.

  I sighed. Didn’t want to be hard to please here, but this was where I had to draw the line. “Um, not for me, sir. I’m more of a sausage guy.”

  Samantha sort of laughed, and her dad cut me a sharp look like I was trying to send some secret dirty message to his daughter or something, but I wasn’t. Mushrooms were gross. They were fungus. Bleh. And I just really liked meat.

  After staring at me for a while longer, the man slowly turned to the waitress and said, “Candice, one large thick-crust pizza. Half mushroom, half sausage, please.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Abbott,” she replied cheerfully. “And I’ll bring you all cups for soft drinks, um, unless you’d like something else. Beer? Wine?”

  Samantha’s dad answered for us. “Oh, no. Soft drinks are what we want, right, gang?” He didn’t wait for his daughter or me to answer. “Sami’s still under age,” he added. This was entirely for my benefit, I knew, not for the waitress’s. Samantha sent him an irritated glare but said nothing.

  “Of course,” Candice said. “I’ll get this sent in to the kitchen and will be back in a few minutes!”

  Mr. Abbott smiled at her as she bounded away, and I could only hope the pizza would come quickly. I could see a wicked-long list of questions forming in his head and wasn’t sure how many more I’d be able to answer without getting pissed.

  “So,” the older guy said to me once we’d gotten our drinks from the soda machine and were settled back at the table, “you’re a musician full time, eh?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “Nope,” I said and then paused for effect. Had to admit, I felt a zing of satisfaction in getting to contradict him. I didn’t like to be stuffed in a box and labeled. I took a few long gulps of my Coke before adding, “I’m a college student in Cleveland. History major. I’ll be graduating with my B.A. this May.”
r />   The old dude’s eyes widened in surprise, and so did Samantha’s. Despite all of the hours of talking she and I had done, especially in Cincinnati, we hadn’t discussed this.

  “Interesting subject,” Mr. Abbott said in a careful, noncommittal tone.

  “It is,” I agreed. “History is about the lives of real people. Even if the recorded accounts are biased and have limited viewpoints, it’s still fascinating to me. All of these stories of human beings throughout time.”

  There was a dawning of understanding in Samantha’s eyes. Recognition of why I would choose history as my major. A full acceptance of that. For the first time since we’d entered Giovanni’s, she genuinely smiled. And she said, “No wonder you love it. I’ll bet it helps fuel your songwriting too.”

  She was adorable. And sweet. And passionate about music and lyrics. I got lost for a moment in her beautiful expression and didn’t speak. Just smiled back at her.

  Her dad cleared his throat. “But your folks are still in Boston, then?”

  “My mom is, yes.” I hesitated. I knew he was waiting for the rest of it. “My dad is…elsewhere.”

  This resulted in him raising an eyebrow across the table and opening his mouth again. His daughter cut him off.

  “You know, Dad, Alex is in town because of the fundraising for the bridge. He’s helping Everly and Jubby set up all of the band stuff for tomorrow night, and he’s going to do the sound during the show.”

  This earned me a tiny look of approval. “It’s a great cause,” he admitted. “Very kind of you to help out.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have to see Hale Bridge before the weekend’s over.”

  “You should. But on Sunday you’re going back to Cleveland, right?” Mr. A’s expression was so hopeful that I almost laughed. He loved his daughter and had made it pretty clear he didn’t think I was good enough for her. Couldn’t blame him. He was watchful and overbearing and a pain in the ass, but I would’ve loved to have had a father who cared about me like that.

  Samantha, however, rolled her eyes and didn’t let me answer the question. “Dad, seriously,” she huffed. Thankfully for all of us, the waitress came just then with the pizza.