Page 1 of Sing Me Home
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Cash
Hawaii—Fall Break, his Freshman Year of College
The idea that I needed a bachelor’s degree to cut an album was ridiculous. Dad could launch my music career with one push of the record button. Ronny Don, our family’s agent, had been pressuring him to do just that. But no—Dad insisted on gatekeeping. Like a framed piece of paper could keep me from spiraling into addiction, the way he once had.
I scowled, watching the palm trees fly by.
“The pressure is intense and you’re not ready for it,” Dad said as he steered our car onto the street of our Airbnb.
I sat up taller, scanning all the rental cars parked in the driveway and along the curb.
My family had left this morning at the crack of dawn to spend the entire day filming a Salt Theory Swimwear photo shoot. Which was slightly annoying since this was an extended Dupree familyvacation. So while I’d spent my entire day not vacationing, my cousins filled their hours zip-lining and eating shaved ice without me.
And Charlie was still a no-show.
There’d been a ticket with her name on it. A whole room in the house, empty and waiting. I kept pretending I didn’t care but deep down, it’s all I thought about. Every morning I’d looked for her. Every time the front door opened, I hoped it was her. I kept checking my phone like an idiot, hoping for a text. Justsomething.
No new cars were parked on the street.
“My professors are idiots,” I grumbled, releasing some of my frustration with my words. “You’d hate them, Dad.”
Mom said nothing, but gave me a look in the rearview mirror that said plenty.We’re in Hawaii for crying out loud. Can you please be happy?
But I couldn’t. Not without Charlie here. I was a rain cloud, drenching everyone around me with negativity. Every day she didn’t show felt like she was choosing to stay away from us. From me.
“You might be right,” Dad said evenly as he put the car in park. “But you need to live some life before you jump into music full-time.”
My gaze slid to the house when the front door opened. My cousin Griffin bounded down the front steps, his normally pale cheeks burned like a lobster, his red hair poking up at the crown. He was wearing a mischievous smirk that I knew all too well. Something was happening inside.
I rolled the window down.
His green eyes were bigger than I’d ever seen them as he poked his head into the car. “Charlie’s here,” he said like it was scandalous.
“Charlie’s here?” I sat up with a jerk and hopped out of the car.
It was stupid how happy I felt. Especially with how cranky I’d been thirty seconds ago. I sprang up the front stairs like a deer and bounded inside behind Griff.
We only had three days left of our week-long vacation. Then we’d board Dad’s private jet back to Virginia. Last night, lying in bed unable to sleep, I’d told myself to forget about her, and not just for the trip. Just be done with this ridiculous crush once and for all. If she couldn’t be bothered to come to Hawaii of all places, then she obviously didn’t miss me as much as I’d missed her.
Yeah, that all flew out the window as soon as Griffin said her name.
The house was quiet. “Where is everybody?” I asked him as we jogged through the foyer.
Uncle Ashton’s booming voice answered from the basement. “I cannot believe you! Showing up here like this?”
“Holy crap,” I whispered. “He’s ticked. What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.” Griff laughed.
I trailed him down the stairs. When we rounded the corner, it felt like someone had jammed their fist in my gut. In the last fifteen seconds, from the car to here, I’d gotten my hopes up. Likewayup. Walks along the beach, late-night swims in the pool. After everyone fell asleep, I’d play my guitar and Charlie would sing with me.
It wasn’t that far-fetched. We weren’t blood relatives—just two kids raised like family on Clean Slate Ranch. There were plenty of nights when we’d hung out, messing around, watching movies, writing goofy songs together.
But none of my vivid fifteen-second fantasies involvedhim.
Charlie—whose hair was braided in cornrows—was standing next to a guy who looked like Sid fromToy Storygrew up and became a failed SoundCloud rapper. Wide-leg jeans hung off his butt showcasing dirty SpongeBob underwear, greasy black hair, and enough zits to convince me he’d never heard of benzoyl peroxide.
