Forever Ours Read Free Page A

in her panties.  
    “ Anything I want?”
    “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t think you can put ponies on layaway at Walmart, but I’m sure she’d try if you put that on your list.” This gets a faint smile out of her. “My mom will be in here soon and she’ll probably want to cook something for you.”
    Something about this makes her hang her head. “I’m not hungry.”
    “Look, no offense, but you look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
    “No offense?” She looks up at me. “Telling someone they look like they’re starving probably doesn’t sound that offensive, but it is.”
    “Sorry. I just…. Well, you don’t have to eat, but my mom makes dinner every day whether you want to eat it or not.”
    “Just a typical American family, huh?”
    “Yeah, I don’t know what that means.” I open up the refrigerator and reach into the box of Capri-Sun to pull out a pouch for her. Shit. It’s the last one. “Here.” I place the drink on the breakfast bar in front of her. “We can hang out in the living room while my mom cooks. Unless you want to go to bed.”
    “I thought you were going to play your guitar or something.”
    I smile even though she looks dead serious. “Yeah, we’ll wait until these assholes leave.”
    Jake is waiting just inside the front door as Tristan and Freddy haul their equipment across the living room. “See you later, man,” Jake says with a nod. “I’ll give Rachel that sheet music.”
    “And the notes,” I reply and he nods. “See you tomorrow.”
    “Peace out,” Freddy says and I nod at him and Tristan as they all leave.
    I grab my guitar off the carpet and nod toward the sofa. “You can sit down. My mom will be in here soon.” I feel the need to keep reminding her of this so she doesn’t think I’m going to try anything. As much as my friends suggest this to me, I’m sure she’s encountered enough creeps in the foster homes she’s been in before this one.
    She sits on the side of the sofa where Tristan tucked the six-pack of beer behind the pillow. I hope he took it in one of his cases. I don’t want to have to sneak that shit into the garbage.
    I take a seat on the recliner and lay the guitar in my lap. “What do you want to hear?”
    She shrugs. “I don’t care.”
    “Do you mind if I play something I’ve been trying to practice? It will probably sound like shit.”
    “By all means, play your shitty song.”
    I laugh and she smiles; a tight-lipped smile, like she’s trying not to. “Now I don’t want to play it because it’s definitely not a shitty song. I just haven’t learned to play it well yet.”
    “Just play the song.”
    The way she says this makes my heart race, and suddenly I’m nervous. I’m never nervous about performing a song unless it’s an audition, which I’ve only been on two of those. Crap. I’m going to fuck up this song. I know it.
    I draw in a deep breath and position the guitar in my lap. Curling my fingers around the fret board, I decide to play this one without a guitar pick.  
    As soon as I begin plucking the strings, the nerves subside and I give myself up to the song. I’ve been practicing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel since last week. Every time I’ve played it up to now, I’ve messed up on the bridge. I’m notorious for messing up the bridge of every new song I play. But this time I don’t mess up and I find myself grinning uncontrollably as I sing the last line.
    I hold my hand down on the strings to stop the lingering reverberation and I finally look up from the guitar. My mom is standing next to the sofa where Claire is seated and they’re both staring at me, unblinking. I wait a moment for one of them to say something and I’m not surprised when it’s my mom who speaks first.
    “Didn’t you just start playing that last week?”
    I nod and look back down at my guitar as that nervous feeling returns. I sense an embarrassing comment coming from my mom about how proud she is of me or how talented