I shuffle across the bamboo floors that give glimpses of aquamarine beneath our overwater bungalow. Rhyson stretches out on a lounger, a pad on the deck beside him and harmonica in hand. He bends to jot down a few notes, sun-darkened and beautiful in just his board shorts, the coppery streaks in his hair deepened by our two weeks here.
His right hand is still paler than the rest of him, even though the cast has been gone for a few weeks. Guilt seizes my insides every time I imagine one of this generation’s greatest musicians slamming his hand into stone for me. I’ve cried about it more than once, but I’m trying to forgive myself for something Rhyson insists wasn’t my fault. The surgery was three months ago, so he’s in very aggressive, well-monitored rehab. The insurance company’s specialist will examine him when we return to LA next week. I think I’m more worried about it than he is. He does all the rehab exercises and keeps all of his weekly appointments. He even brought a small keyboard with us so he can practice some basic scales every day. The specialist advises slow and steady, and I can only pray that he regains full mobility. If he is any less of a pianist than he was before we met, I don’t know how I’ll forgive myself. I don’t think there’s a category of forgiveness for that.
“How’s the hand?” I lean into the door, knotting the sheet under my arms.
He looks up from the notes he’s scribbling onto a composition pad, his smile bright against his tan.
“Sixty percent of the time,” he says, wiggling his fingers. “It works every time.”
“It’s too early for Anchorman.” I laugh and roll my eyes.
“Will I ever stump you?”
I pretend to think about it, tilting my head and tapping my chin.
“Probably not. You’re the better musician. At least give me movies.” I flick my chin toward his hand. “So you think you’ll be ready for the Boston Pops come Fall?”
Even though he doesn’t talk about it much, I know he regrets not being able to accept the invitation to play with the famous symphony orchestra this summer. Of course, they extended the offer to whenever Rhyson Gray is good and ready.
“We’ll see where I am with the album.” He glances at his hand, shrugs. “And everything.”
A cloud passes over the sun, temporarily dimming its brightness, just like this moment dims all that’s bright in our life. We have so much, but a full recovery for his hand is what I want most.
“Is that the harmonica I gave you for Christmas?” I ask, needing to change the subject, gesturing toward the small instrument in his lap.
“It is. Come here.” He extends his arms for me to join him on the sun lounger. A smile stretches wider across my face and the shadow lifts the closer I get. I climb on top of him, locking our bodies at the center.
“Are you writing something for the new album?” I nuzzle into his neck.
“Uh, no. Not for the album. Something else.”
“Vegas?” I pull back to peer at him.
Prodigy is holding an artist showcase in Las Vegas soon. Grip will preview songs from his new album. Kilimanjaro will perform a few songs they’ve been doing at festivals. And Rhyson will introduce me as Prodigy’s newest signed artist.
“No, not for Vegas.” He gives me a careful glance. “You still thinking about inviting your sister? About meeting her while we’re there?”
My teeth snap together. I decided I’d like to meet my sister, the only blood I have left in the world besides my father, but I’m not sure what I want with him. His betrayal, not just of me, but of Mama, cuts so deep, I just don’t know if it will ever fully heal. I’ll take it one day at a time. The same way Rhyson takes his relationship with his parents. His father came over for dinner right before our vacation, and I was amazed by the growing ease, maybe even affection, between them. They talk at least once a week outside of their sessions with Dr. Ramirez. His mother . . . I don’t know why that relationship remains frozen, or if it will ever thaw, but I don’t think she’ll be coming to dinner any time soon.
“Pep, Vegas?” Rhyson’s raised brows remind me I haven’t answered him.
“Yeah, I want to meet my sister when we’re out there.” I shrug. “We’ll see what happens with my dad.”
I nibble and lick the strong tendon in his neck, wanting to shift away from something I’m not certain of to something I absolutely am—our connection.
“So what are you working on?” I ask, my voice dipping to a provocative whisper.
“This is what I’m working on.” He presses my butt until his erection grinds between my legs even through the sheet. “You wanna collaborate?”
My husky laugh is his answer, and I unknot the sheet so it falls away, kicking it to the floor. It took me a while to get used to the “private” part of private island, but after days of walking around naked, not another person in sight, I got it.