Sultry Oblivion by Alexa Padgett
Nash
Isighed as I looked at my therapist, Jordan, on the screen. He’d been unable to fly out yet, but he’d cleared his schedule and would arrive by the end of the week. He spoke in a slow, almost monotonous cadence that reminded me of Peter Gabriel’s “Biko.”
“Grief is a natural response to loss,” he told me again. “Losing someone you loved can shake your very foundations.”
“Biko” was all I’d heard for...was it days? Felt like weeks.
No. Shit. We’d been on the bus for four days. It just felt like forever because I missed Aya.
I wanted it out of my head. I needed to get past my fixation. I must stop focusing on the word loss as well. I hadn’t lost Aya; she’d chosen to step away after my hurtful words met their mark. I’d pushed her like I pushed everyone. And she’d had enough, so she’d kept walking.
Because fate was cruel.
Oh, a new song. Taylor Swift crooned about lost love.
I purred in appreciation because it wasn’t “Biko.” Fuck. Now, I was back to Peter Gabriel. What the hell is wrong with me?
Everything. I’d fought for Aya. And I’d managed to hold on to her until she couldn’t stomach any more of my ultimatums. Ones I never should have made.
Because I loved Aya more than I hated my mother for her weakness. I loved Aya more than I hated Brad for his selfishness, which had left me a teen in need. And I loved Aya more than my grandfather’s need to control me. Or her mother’s clumsy attempts to protect her from her father’s greed.
I needed to tell her that. Make sure she understood I meant it.
I’d read Aya’s mother’s will in its entirety on the bus the first day as we headed up to Virginia, the first stop on our tour that would bring us down the East Coast and back to Texas. I ignored Bridger, Jax, and Maddox when they tried to engage me in their PlayStation battle. I slogged through the legalese Steve had sent me before I went on stage and belted out some tunes. I followed that with some interviews and then hopped back on the bus that rolled us toward Charleston. During that leg of the trip, I read the entirety of my grandfather’s will—somehow not shocked to find my grandfather had left me his money with the same strings as Aya’s mother. Both our grandfathers and mothers had tried to manipulate us. Yes, mine too. I swallowed down the guilt I felt about my argument with Aya, which was chased by the remorse I felt every time I thought of my mother’s death.
Hard as I tried to avoid that unpleasantness, I couldn’t. And the next morning, after a sleepless night, I pulled up my contacts and called Jordan.
“The boxing is a good idea,” he said after I updated him on my feelings. “You did best when you had an exercise regimen to follow.”
I nodded. “But what if I fill the hole in me with boxing? That’s not really fixing the addiction.”
“Coping mechanisms come in a variety of forms,” he said. “I have a client who took up sculpture, another who’s big into martial arts. If you can function in your day-to-day life and you’re not falling back into toxic substances, I’ll call your hours-long boxing bouts healthy.”
“Two hours,” I mumbled. “And I’m sore.”
“Not surprising,” Jordan said. He waited. “Do you feel like it’s becoming an obsession?”
I considered the question. “No. And it helps me focus. I feel…clearer.”
“That’s good.”
“And it’s better than making Aya fill that space, right? I mean, it’s not her job to keep me sober.”
“You’re right. She can help you, but you have to want to stay clean.”
And she’d have to talk to me for me to know if she wanted to help me…or to continue to have a relationship with me at all.I gritted my teeth. Sobriety was going to be more work than I’d thought—the cravings would continue to rear up, eclipsing my will power.
I hadn’t given my mother enough credit for her attempts at cleaning up her act. Until recently, I hadn’t considered that she might have stayed away from me in an effort for me not to model her behaviors. Still, I struggled to forgive her…and myself.
Jordan and I talked more and scheduled another hour-long session for the next morning.
After an hourof boxing with Wu-Tang Clan blaring in my earbuds—I even set a timer so I didn’t overdo—I called my grandfather’s old personal assistant, Cynthia, who’d settled outside Charleston.
“Nash, my boy, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she said in her thick, syrupy drawl.
“Hi, Cynthia. How are you liking retirement?”
“It’s boring as all hell. The days are running together. I thought Charleston was supposed to be filled with culture and interesting things.”
I chuckled. “It’s not?”
“Not enough anyway.”
I smiled. Such a Cynthia answer. “So, I’m in town and wanted to stop by—if you have the time.”
“Didn’t you hear me? My days are running together. And anyway, I’d make time for you, Nash.”
My chest warmed. I needed to add Cynthia to my list of loved ones—and I definitely needed to find something for her to do.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She chuckled. “That sure of me, eh?”
“Hopeful,” I responded with a smile.
“See you soon, sweetie.”
I hung up and pocketed my phone.
“Let’s go,” I said to Brandon.
He nodded and slid out of the parking spot in the hotel’s underground lot. We sat in companionable silence. I never regretted hiring Brandon; as Chuck promised, he was easy-going and personable with a sharp gaze and ingrained professionalism. He was also from Cam’s former tactical team, and I respected him for his years of service as well as his continued dedication to his former unit. He’d been thrilled to get this gig because it allowed him to hang out with Chuck and some of the other guys on Cam’s team when we were all in Austin.
“You good?” he asked me, shooting a side-glance that I caught from behind his aviators.
“You mean do you need to worry about booze or pills?”
He nodded.
I shook my head. “I’m pissed off, not stupid. And I’m not falling off the wagon again. Ever.”
I refused. I would not make the same mistakes again. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted a shot at happiness. I winced, sure I didn’t deserve it. Not after what I did to Aya—what I’d done in my past.
“Good. If that changes, I need to know.”
I leaned back against the seat cushion. “You will.”
We arrived at Cynthia’s house, and she stepped out onto the wide, white wraparound porch. She was a bit thicker, a bit grayer, but her eyes were alight with intelligence and her smile wide. I turned to Brandon.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer to have this conversation with her privately.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait here.”
I climbed out of the vehicle and headed toward her, sinking into her embrace like a long-awaited bath. It was warm and soothing and a balm to my confused heart. She wore the same perfume, and her linen dress was well-tailored to her generous figure.
“Good to see you,” she said.
“Same.”
“Want some iced tea?”
She gestured toward a pitcher and glasses arranged on a tray, along with a variety of little cookies nestled on linen napkins. I smiled. She’d always be a Southern lady.
“Sure.”
We settled onto the large white swing, and she handed me a glass—I knew better than to reach for the pitcher myself. She leaned back against the cushions.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.
“I read Pop Syad’s letters and his will.”
“Finally,” she said, raising her face and making a gesture toward the sky. She turned to me once more. “Does his crazy overprotectiveness make sense?”
“That’s why I’m here. According to that first letter, my mother started drinking when she was fifteen.”
I stated it as fact, but it came out more as a question, and Cynthia answered it as such.
“I guess so. That was before my time, of course, but Mr. Syad didn’t know what to do about it. That’s why he left such a big chunk of money to those rehabilitation facilities.”
“The one I went to received five million dollars.”
She nodded, her face set in solemn lines. “That’s part of why Cam sent you there. He called Steve, who called me to see if I knew of a good place. I guess the ones Cam’s friends had gone to were nice, catering to whims, but didn’t always stick.”
I shivered as I remembered how I’d felt after the bottle of Whistlepig earlier this week. In some ways, waking up from a blackout with my bed mere feet away had felt worse than drying out in the facility. Maybe that was the whole point: the pain kept me from repeating the stupidity, but I had to be sober enough to feel the pain.
“Do you know why Mom started drinking?”
Cynthia took a deep drink of her tea as she stared out over the grounds. Her large cottage sat on about twenty-five forested acres, though the acre or so surrounding the house was cleared and groomed into Syad Estate garden perfection. This had been one of my grandfather’s homes, and Cynthia’s favorite, which was why Pop Syad left it to her.
“Probably for the same reason you used. She’d just lost her mother, she’d been very sheltered, and the modeling career was demanding.” Cynthia sighed as she settled the glass against her slightly rounded belly. “Your mother was beautiful, Nash. So lovely and fun, but she was insecure. She never felt like she belonged in that world. Then she met Brad, and he made those insecurities much worse. Your grandfather was against the marriage from the beginning—everyone could see Brad Porter was a junkyard dog. But he flattered Carolina in the ways she needed it. He also got her in the family way within a couple of months—otherwise I believe Mr. Syad would have been successful in parting the two. But the trust fund opened with Lev’s birth, and that’s when the situation devolved.”
She took a sip of her tea. I did the same, mostly because I didn’t know what to say.
“Your mother shared the Syad stubborn streak, so I could be wrong. Or that could be why she stuck it out with Brad even when she knew he was screwing everything and anyone he could sweet-talk into it. Your mother might have used sex to deflect from her other issues, but make no mistake: Brad cheated first and often.”
“Brad made it sound like she had many affairs, like she had a sex addiction.”
“Doesn’t that help him sleep at night,” she muttered.
“But that doesn’t explain Pop Syad’s need to control my mother, then me, through his will.”
She sighed. “He worried you’d turn out like her.”
“I almost did.”
She waited.
And the light dawned. “That’s why he left so much of his money in a trust to my heir via Aya Aldringham.”
“He made that change after he saw you with her. Well, he’d planned to do so from the time you called that very first day she arrived. Remember? You asked Steve to deal with some snot-faced little shit, and then called Mr. Syad that evening to ensure the brat never returned to Holyoke.”
I smirked, pleased with her description of Lord Prescott. Yeah, I still hated that guy.
“Anyway, Irwan Didri, Aya’s Jeddi, kept us up to date on your relationship until his death. Then Aya’s mother took over the task.”
“And I was calm, grounded with Aya.”
“It was like watching two perfect pieces click into place. You two balanced each other. She was quiet, bookish, enjoyed being home. You were loud, brash… Full of life. A performer from the day you were born. But you were also filled with the same self-doubt your mother struggled with. You need Aya to give you the confidence to believe in you. Not the music you create, but in your self-worth.”
“Yeah, I do. And Pop Syad saw that, too.”
“He was a Draconian old coot. I miss him.” She raised her eyebrows. “Now what’s this I heard from Steve? Did you push Aya away again?” She shook her head. “You kids sure make a happy-ever-after hard. For hell’s sake. You love her.”
I nodded. “She’s everything.”
Cynthia’s index finger waggled an inch from my nose. “Then fix it.”
“I plan to. That’s why I’m here. To understand. To…well, it sounds stupid, but to let go.”
“Not stupid at all.” She kissed my cheek. “Important.” She peered at me. “Do you feel better?”
I smiled. “I do.”
“Now, sit with an old woman and give me every single detail.”
I settled next to her on the swing, and we rocked until I had to go to the venue.
Cam had been right. The weight of those years had held me back, held me down. But I didn’t have to carry them. I could acknowledge them and set them aside. They weren’t solely my responsibility. I rose from the swing, feeling taller. Stronger. Determined.
I loved Aya, and she loved me.
We’d had a fight—a terrible one—but we’d fix it.
My shoulders relaxed, and I breathed more fully than I’d been able to before. A new melody began to play. Once I settled in the back of the SUV, I closed my eyes and listened. Yes…it was lovely. Like Aya.
All about her, really. About the life I wanted with her.