Not the Marrying Kind Page 27

  Pop was utterly smitten.

  “You feelin’ nervous, old man?” I said, slapping him on the back.

  “No,” he said, irritated. “I mean, yeah. Shit, yeah. I need to go out and tell these people something, and I don’t even know—”

  Fiona was scribbling something on a piece of paper. She handed it to him with a sweet smile.

  Pop read it. “What’s this number, Fi?”

  “That number is $72,000,” she said. “That is how much money we’ve raised here tonight. I confirmed all of it. Tickets paid in full. Donations from the bands. Donations from the neighborhood. Plus, Edward and Roxy made a personal gift that matched his hotel’s sponsorship. We can go pay your rent tomorrow, and then you can have a little cushion while you work on getting your revenue back up.”

  The news slammed into me. Mateo grabbed me around the shoulders, laughing. I stared, open-mouthed, at Pop.

  Fiona sparkled like a star.

  “This is the real deal?” Pop said, pointing at the paper.

  “The real fucking deal,” she repeated. “You can go give that speech now. Because we’re opening those doors and having a party, Red Room style.”

  As she said the words, we heard the sound of people pouring in, the music being cranked up. From the window, I watched the opening act walk on stage, instruments in hand.

  It was finally happening.

  “Fiona.” Pop’s voice was hoarse. “Is it… can I give you a hug?”

  She opened her arms. “Of course.”

  He did hug her—it was very fast and a little awkward, but Pop was smiling big.

  “This is… I can’t… you know…”

  “Save it for the after-party,” she said, winking at me. “I know how much you appreciate it. And Max and I, all of us, we would do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

  That was true for me in a lot of ways. I’d save Pop again and again.

  And I’d spend these blissful days with Fiona over and over.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know it too.”

  I was still leaning back against the desk, stunned. Fiona walked over and kissed me on the cheek. She didn’t have to say a word. I knew how she felt.

  “We’ll head out there, get everything going,” she said, taking Mateo and Rafael with her. Pop followed, but not before Angela gave him a hug that made my throat close up. I looked at the ground, amazed that they’d found each other.

  A second later, I was left alone with Angela. “If we crank this window open, we can see out over the stage and audience,” I said. “Want to watch with me?”

  “I would love to. Your father is going to give himself a heart attack with speaking in front of all of these people.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Being the center of attention is his version of hell.”

  I cranked the window open, shoved the desk aside. Angela and I were able to lean out. I caught Fiona’s eye in the crowd, standing next to her sister. Roxy whispered something in her ear that had her laughing.

  “Pop is really enjoying spending time with you,” I said. “I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

  She smiled, looking pleased. “It was hard, opening myself up to love again. I knew there would be a great risk for getting hurt. But my husband told me often, when he was sick, that he hoped I was able to spend time with someone special again. Someone I could enjoy life with. I can’t say what it was about your father that drew my attention. But you don’t meet a lot of people in this world who are just themselves. And who love their family and their community as fiercely. He does what’s right because it’s right. And seems to me he never complains.”

  I watched him setting up the mic on stage and talking with the band. The floor was packed with people, and the sign Mateo designed tied it all together.

  “You nailed it,” I said, laughing to myself. “Pop is Pop, and he’ll stand by you regardless. He’s met your sons, right?”

  “For family dinner,” she said, smiling again. “He was nervous but got along great with everyone. My grandchildren loved him. He’s got a way with children beneath that grumpy veneer.”

  Max and me, we were always a team.

  “I always thought so,” I said.

  “He’s going to miss you, Max,” she said softly.

  I cleared my throat. My chest tightened. “Yeah,” was all I could manage.

  I checked my phone one last time. No missed calls, no voicemails, no text messages. I caught Angela watching me. “Pop tell you my mom was supposed to come tonight?”

  “He did,” she said kindly. “Is she running late?”

  “Probably.”

  Pop was trying to get my and Angela’s attention, pointing to the stage. I gave him a what the hell look, but he didn’t let up.

  “I think you and I are about to go join him,” I said.

  Her eyes were sparkling. “I’m game if you are.”

  We made our way down the stairs and through the crowd. Fiona was already up on stage. The second I got to her, I tugged her against my side, the two of us facing the crowd together. Angela walked right up to Pop and held his hand. He looked like he’d just been told he won the damn lottery.

  “$72,000?” I asked, mouth at Fiona’s ear.

  She was beaming, waving at the audience. “We’re an unstoppable team.”

  “Without you, though, it wouldn’t have been possible.” I turned her head towards mine. Kissed her. “I mean that. You are the force that keeps the world spinning. Your parents, my dad, this place, we’re all so goddamn lucky to know you.”

  Fiona flushed beneath the lights, beautiful and strong. I wanted to fucking press pause. Stay here. Silence the voice in my head starting to freak out.

  Mateo said I wasn’t anything like my mom, but until two weeks ago I’d been just like her.

  I don’t always tell you things because it feels like you’ve got other stuff going on. Important stuff. You always wanted to be like your mom anyway.

  I didn’t want to think it. Really didn’t want the traitorous thoughts bouncing around in my head. The thoughts telling me I was only lying to myself and lying to Fiona. That men like me didn’t really change—and I’d be back to temporary flings and jobs I could leave the second things got hard.

  Tomorrow night, things were about to get hard.

  Concern appeared on Fiona’s face. She must have noticed my panicking. But before I could say a word, Pop grabbed the mic. The music overhead cut off, and the audience quieted.

  “Hey everyone,” Pop said. They applauded for him. He smiled, shy. “I wanna thank you for coming out tonight. For supporting me, and The Red Room, pay back our rent. We raised $72,000, and that means this place isn’t going to close.”

  The roar was deafening. Fiona was laughing, clapping.

  “We showed this town that punk rock will never die.”

  Another roar.

  “We showed this town that they can’t take spaces away that mean something to us. To music. This city’s been fighting with punk rock since the seventies, but it ain’t over, and they didn’t win.”

  The audience was going absolutely wild. I remembered as a little kid, spying out that window when I was supposed to be doing homework, watching people greet each other like long-lost family then sing themselves hoarse. As a kid, I knew some things to always be true, and that was that music made people happy. Simple as that. Sometimes, it seemed like this place was some kind of lifeline. Now, as an adult, I fucking understood that so much more.

  “And we couldn’t have done this tonight without my son, Max, and Fiona Quinn, of course.”

  Pop waved us up. We both took quick, cheesy bows before stepping back.

  It wasn’t about us. Not really. But I did hug Fiona close, wanting to remember this moment.

  “So let’s celebrate the way The Red Room knows how,” Pop yelled. Behind us, the band started up and the audience hollered. We shuffled off, swept into the crowd, and Fiona went to go dance with her sister.

 
“I’ll be right in the back,” I promised. I didn’t have to say it. I’d be waiting for my mom.

  Fiona kissed my cheek. “She’ll be here. I know it. And come throw some elbows with me and Roxy when she gets here.”

  Then she dove off into the crowd, hands in the air. She didn’t seem to have a worry in the world while the knot in my stomach was only getting tighter by the minute.

  I checked my phone.

  Still no calls.

  39

  Fiona

  The Hand Grenades were tearing up their set, as promised.

  My sister and I were in the very front row, just like old times, dancing and singing and jumping along to every one of my parents’ songs. The past two hours had flown by. I was soaked in sweat, my hair was wet, and I doubted I had much of a voice left.

  We’d fucking done it.

  Max and I had saved The Red Room.

  My cocky bad boy, however, was nowhere to be found. He was definitely here, and from time to time he’d swing through for a filthy kiss. But his mom had blown him off, and I could tell he was rattled tonight.

  So I gave him a little space and stayed with Roxy. Even Edward had tossed his suit jacket and torn off his tie. For a British aristocrat, the man sure could own a mosh pit.

  I hadn’t laughed this hard in a long time. I hadn’t felt this much like myself in a long, long time. Whatever fears that had gripped me since Roxy had gotten engaged, I was now basically sweating out on the dance floor. And as much as I wanted to give Max the credit—dating him had, absolutely, pushed me to embrace my own inner chaos—I knew that Max wasn’t necessarily the point.

  I was the point.

  It was time to give up a little bit of my hyper-control and live again.

  Mom was murdering a drum solo when Dad crouched down at the edge of the stage, guitar slung behind his back. “Do you girls want to come up with us? Like the old days?”

  “Oh my god, let’s crowd surf,” Roxy yelled, jumping up and down.

  Edward turned to me. Mouthed crowd surf?

  I shrugged. “You in or you out, Cavendish?”

  “Bloody well out, thank you,” he said. “I believe I’ll have Jett make me his finest gin and tonic, which I shall enjoy while my fiancée leaps into a pit of strangers.”

  Roxy winked at Edward before pulling herself up onto the stage. She reached down, yanked me up. I immediately turned to look for Max but couldn’t find him and didn’t see him.

  The first real moment of dread spread through me. I realized just how fucking vulnerable I’d made this newly open heart of mine.

  I suddenly got the feeling. The feeling. The one you get before everything turns to shit and you can practically see it coming.

  But then Roxy grabbed my hand. And my Dad squeezed my shoulders once before singing into the microphone, “Give a round of applause for my brilliant and brave daughters, Roxy and Fiona!”

  “Are we doing this, Fi?” she yelled into my ear.

  I looked out into the crowd, the outstretched hands, ready to lift us up. Fuck, it had been literal years since I’d risked not being caught like this. But I remembered the adrenaline rush, the total high.

  And whatever happened between Max and me, complicated or not, I couldn’t turn back. I could only push forward.

  “I’m ready if you are,” I said, grabbing her hand. We looked at my dad and gave him dual thumbs-up. He howled like a wolf, launching into a fast guitar solo, and nodded at the crowd.

  “You can do it,” he yelled.

  Shimmying her shoulders, Roxy dragged us right up to the edge. I looked down at our boots—hers were appropriately scuffed and covered in metal buckles that looked heavy and dangerous. Mine were still dangerous but also sleek, trendy, and a little bit expensive.

  The crowd knew what we were going to do. We were the Quinn sisters, after all. They raised their hands, called our names. Heart racing in my throat, we turned as one, backs to the audience. My parents waved at us, and we waved back.

  Once, when Roxy and I were in middle school, our closest neighbor—an older woman named Wanda—confessed to my parents that she was struggling to get enough to eat every day. Her pension wasn’t stretching far enough. Wanda used to give Roxy and me Popsicles on hot summer days and had a lurid collection of romance novels she’d secretly loan us from her back window. We adored her.

  My parents had fed her for an entire year until her daughter moved back home and was able to help provide meals more often. But until then, my parents bought a little extra at the grocery store every week and delivered it to her with a smile and a cheerful wave. On Sunday nights, she’d join band practice, and my dad would sing Frank Sinatra per her request.

  Punk rock, to my parents, wasn’t just about music. It was a lifestyle that valued community and the collective. It was a way of life, a guiding light—some people worshiped at churches or synagogues. My parents worshiped on the stage. It kept them grounded and rooted in what they believed to be true justice.

  What they did for Wanda, they’d done for many friends and loved ones over the years. Just as the same kindness had been repaid to us when we needed a little support.

  You fell. People caught you.

  “Ready?” Roxy asked.

  I exhaled. “Ready.”

  “Three. Two. One.”

  I dropped backward.

  My stomach lurched in the free fall. But then an army of strong hands held me. I flung my arms over my head and squealed as they carried my sister and me across the crowd. I could hear her laughter, could hear people calling our names with surprise and glee. The red lights of the ceiling floated overhead, and I stopped worrying that someone would drop me. I knew they wouldn’t.

  And they didn’t.

  Crowd surfing is a little bit like flying and a little bit ticklish. It’s like being in the song, hovering above the crowd, a goddess being worshiped by the people. I could never be a musician like my parents, but these brief moments of adoration must be what they felt like. An entire audience surging towards you to protect you from falling.

  An exhilarating minute later, and we were both set down gently on our feet—out of breath and shaking. I hugged my sister, held her tight. I was Fiona Quinn. I was Roxy’s sister. I was an accomplished lawyer and a punk rock wild child. I was both, and everything, all at once. I didn’t have to compromise a single thing for something as important as marriage.

  If I wanted an authentic partnership—my true soul mate—I was going to have to work just as hard at being authentic myself.

  Anything less and I’d only end up unhappy.

  “I love you, Fi,” Roxy said, hugging me back. “And I know you’ll figure things out. You always do.”

  I nodded, then gave her to Edward, who was staring at her with utter delight and admiration. “Once again, the Quinn sisters defy gravity, and in combat boots no less.”

  “Our reputation precedes us, naturally,” I said with a wink.

  Roxy turned to Edward, and I gave them privacy to do their Roxy-and-Edward thing. I’d already been scandalized too much by their past flirting.

  I waved to my parents. Waved to Pop, who was giving me a cheesy thumbs-up. From the bar, Mateo and Rafael were clapping towards me. I bowed, again.

  I searched for Max.

  Didn’t see him.

  The dread deepened.

  40

  Max

  Technically speaking, it didn’t count as a good fucking night unless it ended at the Westway Diner right before dawn.

  And it was right before dawn as the group of us slid into various cracked, vinyl booths, calling for coffee and eggs, bacon and toast.

  At a booth near us, Lou and Sandy sat with Edward and Roxy. They were talking about their set, voices hoarse, Edward falling asleep a little against Roxy’s shoulder.

  Mateo and Rafael were squeezed in with me and Fiona. Pop and Angela sat on stools, facing us. We were all loose, exhausted, punch-drunk. Sore and dehydrated.

  And grinning fr
om ear to ear.

  Well, most of us. Although I was ecstatic over everything that had happened—the money, the music, the night of community—my mom blowing me off was making me edgy and upset for reasons I really, really didn’t want to think about.

  I wrapped my arm around a sleepy Fiona and pressed my lips to the crown of her head as our servers descended with pots of hot coffee. I wanted to keep her close, touch her constantly.

  I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I wouldn’t be doing this much longer.

  Pop raised his cup of coffee. Angela beamed at him, and he returned the expression. “I don’t wanna get too emotional or nothin’, but I want to say thank you to everyone here. Thank you to Fiona. And to my son, Max, who I love a lot.”

  I reached for his knee. “We only did it because we love you so damn much, if you haven’t noticed.”

  Pop chuckled, rubbed his head. “Yeah. I notice some. But it means so much. All of it. So thank you.”

  “Punk rock will never die,” Sandy cheered. We whooped and hollered.

  Fiona stood briefly to hug Pop and Angela again. She pointed a thumb at Angela. “Pop, she’s definitely a keeper. Third date and she’s up all night like a true fan.”

  Pop looked sheepish. “I guess you could say I’m also a fan of hers.”

  Angela placed her head on his shoulder. “Life’s too short not to stay out late and make a few impulsive decisions.”

  Fiona grinned. “That’s basically the Quinn family motto.”

  She slid back in next to me. While everyone was distracted with the food being ordered, she poked me gently in the chest. “I missed you a lot tonight. Were you waiting for your mom?”

  “I was, and I’m sorry I missed your stage dive.”

  She hummed a little. “It was epic, like me.” She chewed on her lip. “You’re okay though, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m just disappointed.” I stirred my coffee lazily. “I thought you’d get to meet her.”