Page 46 of The Burdens We Share
I have to stifle a laugh with a cough, “You should give her more credit than that.” I have to remind myself I’m thefakeboyfriend and not the real one. However one day, I fully intend on being the real one.
“Give who more credit for what?” Ivory’s silvery voice asks as she enters the room with Tara at her side. She looks relaxed and I take that as a sign that their little talk went well. Tara also doesn’t appear to be devastated or dramatically crying, though that could be in part due to her Botox.
I grin at my little devil as Sam answers, “Nobody and nothing.” He changes the subject, “Ivory, your boyfriend is a fucking genius.”
“Watch your language in front of your mother and sister,” I whisper to him under my breath.
Sam sighs, “Sorry. Omit the f-bomb from the sentence.”
Ivory grins as she walks over to the table and looks past my arm at Sam’s homework. Her eyebrows rise in surprise, “Are you helping him with homework?”
I look at Sam as I answer, “I offered guidance, but he’s a smart kid. He figured it out on his own.”
Sam suddenly looks at me like I hung the moon and stars. I guess he’s not used to people complimenting him or having faith in him. I’d have to talk to Ivory about that. I’m sure a little bit of praise could keep Sam on the right path.
Ivory’s eyes glitter and for the first time in a long time, when she smiles it actually reaches her eyes. I want to take a picture of it, that’s how perfect it is. Before I can catch an idea of what she’s doing, she leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek, and whispers in my ear, “Thank you.”
I don’t know why such an innocent move has my cock stirring in my slacks, but it does. Badly.
Tara smiles at us as she starts opening cabinets to get some bowls out to most likely start cooking dinner. When she opens one particular cabinet, it falls off the hinge and makes a loud crashing sound. “You okay?” I ask her as I start to get up from my seat.
She nods, “Yes, thank you. I have to call someone to fix this.”
I shake my head, “I can fix it for you.”
Her eyes light up, “Really?”
“Of course. Do you have a drill?”
Tara leads me over to the garage where Ivory’s father’s tools are and I grab what I need before I fix the cabinet. Tara drowns me in conversation and I don’t even know how much time passes before the cabinet is fixed, Ivory is nowhere to be seen, and Sam has finished his entire homework assignment. “Do you know where Ivory went?” I ask Tara, changing the subject to something I actually care about instead of her favorite cabinet finishes and countertop styles. Tara really is a nice woman and she means well, but damn can the woman talk. I also think she might secretly be in love with me.
She looks surprised for a second as if she forgot Ivory was even here before she guesses, “Probably in her old bedroom.”
“I’m gonna go find her. We have to head to the airport soon,”I excuse myself as I slowly retreat from the room in search of some reprieve from Tara in the form of a particular pink-loving rockstar.
I ascend the stairs and hear faint guitar playing from the room to the left, across from her mother’s. I know right away that she’s inside and I slowly twist the knob and open the door, not wanting to disturb her. I peek inside and find her seated on her very pink childhood bed, with a, you guessed it, pink guitar on her lap as she plays a slow and soothing tune.
I take a moment to absorb her childhood room. This is all a part of her that my research could never give me. It’s a direct look into her life, her past, and I want all of it. I take in the white walls, the pink bed with pink pillows, the white shaggy rug on the mahogany floors, the big white vanity riddled with old perfumes and makeup products, and of course, numerous pictures of her throughout the years. I fully step inside and she freezes, the tune cutting off. “Keep playing,” I encourage her.
She gives me a small smile before she continues playing and I close the door behind me, absorbing the beautiful sound she’s creating. I’m not an avid music listener, but if Ivory is playing it, whatever it is, it becomes my favorite song. Part of it stems from her raw talent and the other from it beinghercreating it.
I listen to her tune as I walk around the room and look at all the photos. I first find a picture of Ivory with Sam on the beach. I trace her youthful face with my pointer finger as I smile at her small smile. She couldn’t have been older than eight or nine. She’s absolutely drop-dead gorgeous now, but she made quite a cute kid with her big front teeth and pigtails.
The next picture I find must be from when she was in high school because it’s her in a cheerleading outfit with some teammates. The next is a picture of her and her father and in this one, she’s sitting on his lap as a baby watching him play guitar, drool dripping from the corner of her little mouth.
Her song stops, “That was his favorite picture of us. I have it in my room in LA too.”
I turn to face her, “It’s a nice photo. I can see why it’s his favorite.” In the photo, he was looking at Ivory like she was the best thing to ever happen to him. You can feel the move the man had for his daughter through the framed glass.
She gives me a sad smile, “Thank you.”
I walk over to her and seat myself beside her on the bed. She starts strumming the strings of her guitar again and I ask, “What song is this?”
She explains as she plays, “It was a song my dad used to play me when I was a kid. It was the first song I learned to play on the guitar.”
Ivory plays the entire tune and I’m enamored by her the entire time. When the last note fades out, she places the guitar down on the floor and turns to face me, “Thank you for everything, Dallas.”
I tilt my head at her, “You don’t have to thank me.”
