Who Are You?

Row, Hawaii

Christmas in Hawaii is a big damn deal to del Marco's. None more so than this year because there are two brand new del Marco's en route to the family compound on their very first private jet ride.

Trace was released from confinement a week ago. They've spent the week in Atlanta, with Kat's family, and they will be here at the Hawaii house within minutes. We weren't sure they were coming, but when Trace texted and said Kat felt up to the trip, the whole family went into overdrive to prepare for our newest members.

I just finished wrapping the last two baby gifts—tiny baby sun hats embroidered with their names and electric guitars. I toss it to Street who puts each present beneath the tree on their newly installed surfboards. A radiating spoke of personal, monagrammed surfboards—that's how we organize our presents for an easy Christmas morning. There are eleven of them fanning the tree.

Mom. Dad. Street. Me. Bridge. Lane. Alley. Trace. Kat. Alder. Birch. The other Skid Marc's members have similar set-ups in their houses that flanks ours. For a half mile down the beach, we'll be celebrating Christmas with my dad's band family. With Trace and Kat coming for Christmas, the rest of Soundcrush has rented an impromptu house slightly inland, and they are packed to the gills with kids, but they are mostly keeping them entertained at our beach and oceanfront pool.

I survey the mounds of presents, trying to feel nothing for the fact that Riley's surfboard remains in the garage, for the second year in a row. I know that Bridge feels the same way about Dev's surfboard, but they've been broken up over so many Christmases, it's not the same. Riley was here for Christmas for four years in a row. I thought he'd be here now.

And he would be, maybe, if I had asked him to come.

The wave of ever-present sadness threatens to overtake me. It's always present now, when I think of him. It's been about five days since I heard him professing his love to Priscilla at her grave and confirming to Dev what I already knew: that I don't compare, that he will never get over her.

Part of me doesn't mind. Part of me loves him so much, that I would accept being second best. I would accept his refusal to share my stage. I would hide myself away with him in a bedroom filled with candles and our private songs, and I would pretend he didn't love her more. I would make it enough. I would love him fully and completely, even if he couldn't love me the same.

But then there's a weak but perhaps wise part of me that knows—in the long-term, I will resent him. If he had other reasons for not wanting to be in a band with me, I might accept them. But if he won't share my stage because of her, I know myself well enough to know that I will take my hurt and resentment out on him. In the worst way. I will bury my feelings in booze, in weed, in partying, in the things that trigger him. I am afraid of our love turning toxic again. I'm afraid I'll spend my life trying to make him fight for me, and we will lose ourselves in that fight.

I can't do that to him anymore. Either we have to be real and whole and healthy with one another, or if we can't do that—if he can't let her go, and I can't let my resentment go—then we have to let each other go.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Riley, of course. He texts constantly. He's accepted my request that we postpone serious talks until after the holidays, but he texts me all day long, with little anecdotes and check-ins as if we were fine. It reads:

Shit. I think I forgot to turn the electric kettle off. Would you mind very much if I burned the house down?

I would. I love our house. But the idea of Riley forgetting to turn the kettle off? Laughable. He's the most responsible person in the world. Except he's playing rather roughly with my heart, lately. Therefore, I can't help being snarky instead of earnest.

I reply: You already did.

Him: You promised to reserve judgment  about us until we talk in person.

Me: No, I promised not to freak out on you until we are face to face.

He sends me a selfie of him in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, toting a baby carrier up the driveway: Freak away. But don't scare Birch; he's sleeping.

Butterflies rise. I'm not sure if I'm excited or agitated that Riley hitched a plane ride with the Gallants.

"There here!" Alley yells. Then Lane bellows. "Oh fuck, Riley came with. Dad is going to rage!"

I slap my baby brother on the back of the head. "Language, Lane. There are kids present."

He looks around.  Soundcrush and kids are out by the pool but also out of hearing range. "Who?"

"You, dumbass!" Street catches him in the world's briefest headlock as he vaults over the couch and beats us all to the door. He throws it open. "Holy Crap, I'm an Uncle!" he whispers as he envelops a beaming and gorgeous Kat in a hug and ogles the babies. Trace grins, looking all muscly and smug at the same time, removing his sunglasses as he easily hoists one of the baby carriers and a diaper bag, while clapping it out with Street.

"Damn, he looks like you, Kat," Street peers at Alder. "And that one is dad made over," he nods at the baby Riley brings through the door.

Riley, returning every day to better balance and an easy gate, carries Birch in his carseat while walking easily with a new cane. It's not like the old one—which was metal, functional, somewhat ugly. This one is a work of art. Probably some kind of vintage piece. It's silver knob is shaped like an octopus. Sinuous, suctiony ropes wind its length, until the tentacles flare at the bottom into an eight pronged foot.

The cane isn't the only thing different about Riley. He's unshaven, scruffy, sexy as hell. He's wearing shorts and sandals that have barely noticeable foot braces built in. Most unusually, he isn't wearing glasses. I'm not sure why. I mean, he's always technically kept a contact prescription, but he hardly ever wears them, except for the very occasional red carpet at sunset where photography glare could be an issue. But now, without them, his dark blue eyes burn me up, raking me possessively as his lips part a tiny bit.

"Nice cane," I mutter.

He steps forward easily, his eyes raking me. "Hello to you, too. Nice tan."

I never cultivate a tan, but I've been lying on the beach a lot, thinking. I burned badly the first day, because my mother who would normally remind me to wear sunscreen had flown to the Big Island to emergency shop for the Gallants. And Riley wasn't here either. He doesn't remind me; he just lectures me about skin cancer as he forcefully smothers me in gallons of Bridget's expensive lotions.

I rub my shoulder, which is peeling slightly. "I forgot sunscreen."

"I see," he says neutrally. "Still, you look stunning with color." He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. His stubble tingles my cheek, his breath tickles my ear, and the accent...well, the accent does what it always does. It melts my resolve. As he lingers close, I find my hands going around his neck against my well.

What the hell, hands? Don't hug him. He can't be trusted with you. He certainly can't be trusted with the heart that pumps blood to you. He's slaying us, from the inside out. Just as quickly as they embraced him, by force of will, I draw away.

He studies me thoughtfully, but then my entire family is suddenly between us.

They crowd him and Trace and Kat, to get a peak at the babies. He relinquishes the carrier to my dad who says something I can't hear to Riley, but registers in Riley's grimace. Riley steps to my mom, who gives him a tight smile but a somewhat welcoming hug, and he intercepts Bridge who is elbowing Street out of the way of the babies. Whatever he says to her, causes her spine to straighten. She plants swift kisses on the babies and rapid, hard hugs on Trace and Kat, then stalks out the door.

"You brought Dev?" I roll my eyes at my ex-husband.

"He's waiting outside for her permission to stay, but wild horses couldn't have kept him away," he confirms. "Nor me," he says softly.

I ignore him, haul Street back by the pony-tail and rapidly unbuckle a now-fussing Birch. God, he looks just like my dad. He's beautiful. He's going to get the del Marco grey eyes, I just know it. I coo at him as he roots against my chest. "He's hungry!" I laugh, loving the way he feels like such a solid little willful bundle of primal need.

Kat smiles wanly and reaches for him, but Trace pets the back of her head and kisses her temple. "Let Row feed him, Kitty. That's why you've worked so hard to pump, so everyone can help out." He hands Alder off to Marianne and reaches for Kat's hand. "Come on. Let's find you a fancy juice drink and take five by the pool with Madam, while the family gives us a break." He winks at Marianne. "It's been a long flight, Mere."

"Of course!" she says setting the carseat down and unbuckling Alder with much more expertise than I used to free Birch. "Matt, start a pan of water to heat this milk a little! Street, set up that portable crib on the porch, will you? Alley, unpack some of these diaper supplies on the loveseat so that we'll be ready to change them. Lane, take this milk into your dad, please. Row, are you good?" She's already scooping Alder from his carrier, but he's still sleeping like an angel.

"We're great," I say, bouncing the hungry baby and offering him my knuckle while he waits for his dinner. I pace the living room and pat him, just like I used to do with Alley when I was sixteen. I'm aware that Riley follows me with his eyes. I tell myself not to, but I meet his gaze for just a brief second.

I expect to see the tender sadness flashing in him, the exchange we always feel compelled to make when we are both aware that we are thinking about my miscarriage, but to my surprise, bittersweet is not what's fixed in Riley's gaze. Instead, he's staring at me with a blatant, voracious craving, which is a fucking lot more apparent without his glasses.

I flush. Is his look for my bikini clad body? Or just some primal response to the way I look holding a baby? I'm not sure, but whatever his desire, it causes me to prickle in offense. How dare he look at me with hungry eyes, when not a week ago he was sobbing over his dead lover?

Birch's fussiness pitches up, and I escape with him to a bedroom, so that Kat doesn't feel compelled to retrieve him.

He loses interest in my knuckle, and his cry becomes so distressing, I'm nearly to the point of offering him a dry boob just to placate him for a couple of more minutes when Riley eases in the door with the bottle of pumped milk.

"Thank god!" I hiss and snatch the bottle.

Birch returns to angel status as he happily sucks. I lie down with him on the bed and nestle him beside me as I hold his bottle and examine his Mattness once again.

"He's my dad made over," I whisper.

"Lucky him," Riley drawls as he stretches out beside Birch, opposite me.

I roll my eyes. "What are you doing here, Riley?"

"You know what I'm doing here, Rowan. I'm here to renegotiate the terms of our relationship."

"Well, you'll get your commission for the press tour. After that, I think we should officially dissolve our business arrangement," I say stiffly.

"I quite agree," he chimes in mildly.

"Then we're done, here. You can go home," I keep my eyes on the baby, refusing to look at him.

"Enough games," he says quietly. "You know we're nowhere near done."

I pick Birch up again, cradling him to me protectively. "You're right, Riley. It's not a game. You said yourself, it's a negotiation. A hostage negotiation."

He smiles brilliantly at me, completely unashamed of himself. "Well in those terms, this negotiation quite easy. You can simply keep me hostage, and I'll be forever at your mercy."

"Liar. It's the other way around, and you know it." I place my hand over my heart, just above Birch's down little down head. "You are holding my heart hostage. Hostage to your love for Priscilla."

He's burning again, his blue eyes firing in earnest as he says, "It's true that Priscilla has been much on my mind since my accident. It's true that long before that, I've let guilt from the past interfere with our present. It's also true that the idea of forming a band with you scares me, Rowan. But it is not true that I love her or have ever loved her more than you. The way I loved her faded. The way I love you? It endures." He scoots closer to me, touching my face, then cupping Birch's head. "It outlasts hurt and betrayal and loss and pain and uncertainty. It's forever, Rowan. It will see us through, I know it."

Birch starts to fuss and I use the moment to cover my confusion. Riley's eyes, his touch, the tender earnest in his voice make me want melt against him. But he's said beautiful things before. And when I did something he didn't like, he one-eightied on me. He humiliated me in front of Girl Band producers. He walked off Frey's stage, leaving me alone and confused. Less than a week ago, he was crying at Priscilla's grave. I heard him say he loved her.

I pat Birch methodically, my feelings straining with his tummy discomfort. As he begins to cry, so do I. I dash a tear away as Riley reaches for him, lifting him from me, placing him expertly on his shoulder and patting more firmly.

All while calmly patting the fussing child, Riley says, "We can have everything, Row. Everything is on the table between us. Just say you love me. Say you want me to stay."

God, his eyes are burning through me and now, I'm burning in a new and entirely different way. A way I've never felt before.

Watching him with Birch, I know without a doubt that I want this man. More than that, I want this man's baby. Not now, and not to the exclusion of everything else I want, but I do. One day, I want Riley's child.

Still, I find myself saying, "You don't negotiate fairly," as I snuggle over his shoulder and cup the back of Birch's soft skull. "You look so good with him. You're fucking with my ovaries, and they are fucking with my reason."

He gives me a crooked grin. "Seriously? I thought we'd be hashing out who we want to produce a demo and calling in all Adam's Nashville favors to get us a spot at the Blue Bird Cafe-"

"What?"

"But if you'd rather talk babies instead of band names..." he continues to methodically pat Birch. The baby burps. "Nice one," Riley murmurs, kissing the baby's head, readjusting him in his arms as Birch stares contentedly up at him and coos so very cutely. Riley talks to the baby. "I think it's you who is tugging Auntie Row's heartstrings, don't you? You are quite the charmer."

I grab the back of Riley's longish hair, tugging his attention from the baby and onto me. "What did you say about band names?"

He laughs. Not his normal British scoff, but a slow, sexy, Adam-like rumble. "I said, let's dream, Rowan. Let's dream of you and me and our gorgeous sound. Or if part of your dream is a del Marco brood 2.0, we'll dream that, too. Hell, we can be the bloody Von Trapps if you want a houseful first, and the music later. Musical gifts runs strong in your family. Add my genes to the mix, I'm sure we'll have talented offspring."

I climb off the bed, staring at this man who looks different, sounds different, and says different, crazy things. The Riley I know would tell me I can't want that—babies. We are so far from solid. We don't want the same things. I'm looking forward while he's got reservations from the past. I cheated, and we are divorced, and Riley isn't sure he ever wants to marry again. We haven't even had sex in over a year. We don't even know if he can fully function. Babies are stressful, and I'm not the maternal type, and Riley goes insane with possessive worry when I fail to meet his expectations. He would say we need a five year plan for getting us back on track to the point of having a five year plan to mature towards parenthood.

"We are so so very far from little singing babies," I whisper.

He nods agreeably. "You're probably right. The music first, then. It will be our baby, until this kind comes along." He pats Birch on his little bottom and gives him another indulgent smile.

"Are you drunk, Riley?"

"Sober as a judge, darlin'."

Darlin'? Without the perfect g?

"Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" I whisper.

"Well, if you'll recall, I wasn't all that successful as your husband," he says mildly. "So I had to let that bloke go."

"Where's my manager, then?" I'm just talking shit, because Riley is scaring the bejesus out of me right now, and I don't know why. But he is. My pulse is racing. My mouth is dry. I feel panicky.

He just shakes his head at me in a very sexy way. "You don't want him, do you now?"

I snap. I frickin' lose it. "What the hell, Riley?" I whisper-yell. "Don't fuck with me. I am super hurt by what I saw at Priscilla's grave. Now you're acting like someone I don't even know—some sexy rockstar with a cool octopus cane and five o'clock shadow and where are your glasses, Riley?"

"Ironically, they were shattered in the graveyard, helping Dev out of the hedge row." he grins at me. "Thankfully, the tunnel vision I had when it comes to us was also obliterated there. I was wrong, Rowan. I was wrong to hold a vow I made to Priscilla higher than our musical union. The music we make? It's sacred."

My tears come back. "You aren't making any sense. I heard you. You were sobbing over her. You said you loved her. You said I couldn't compare."

He slides to the edge of the bed. "Come take Birch, please," he says so calmly.

The only reason I do is because I know he's not sure of his balance, rising without his cane and with the child. I turn away from Riley quickly, ashamed of my tears. Yet as soon as Birch is settled in my arms, Riley pushes off the bed and embraces both me and Birch, from behind. He crosses one arm beneath mine supporting Birch, and the other across my chest, clasping my shoulder, holding me tight against his warm, solid frame.

He feels so good. So strong. So steady, now. I clothes my eyes and swallow against the tears.

In my ear he whispers, "I know what you think you heard, Rowan. I know it hurt you. You're right. I was talking to Priscilla. I was very moved, and I did tell her I loved her. Because I was saying a final good-bye. She was...with me, there in the graveyard. I felt her. I embraced her one last time, and I let her go. She's at peace now, and I'm at perfect peace with the past. And you are very wrong about one thing. What I said to Dev was, you are incomparable. You are the love of my life. Look at all we've been through, and look at how our love has grown. I'm not afraid anymore, Rowan. I'm not afraid of losing you, and I'm not afraid of loving you too much. I'm only afraid of failing you at the music bit. But you are the bravest, boldest woman I know, and if I'm to match you, I have to push past those fears. I know that now. If you want to make music with me, we'll do it. We'll see where it takes us."

Riley is wrong. I am not the bravest, boldest woman he's ever known. I'm paralyzed with fear in this moment. The one constant that has always been, since I was nineteen, was Riley. He was utterly predictable. I knew exactly how he was going to react. With mild disapproval, with indulgent patience, with reliable advice, with sincere admiration. Later with fierce protection, with unwavering loyalty, then, with anger, with bitterness, with resignation. Always with calculation, with strategy, with smugness.

But I've never ever seen him like this.

Open. Hopeful. Easy. Like a dreamer. Like a man filled with more hope than surety.

"You're scaring me," I say to him.

His head nods against mine. He draws my hair back and kisses my neck, scratching with his stubble and licking and sucking with his mouth, as he says, "I'm scaring myself, but this is me, giving you everything I ever held back."

Birch squirms in my arms and I pull away from Riley, hoisting the baby tighter to me.

"Okay, we just need to...take a beat," I say hoarsely. "Because if you're like temporarily insane right now, and you wake up tomorrow like the old Riley, I don't know if I can take it. You're freaking me out. You're not acting like yourself. At all."

He gives me his ironical smirk. "I'm still me. I swear. I'm just...feeling a little lighter. Unburdened. And very very excited to see you," he pulls me toward him with the belt loops of my cut-offs, the baby still between us. "Why don't you hand the baby off? I think we're long overdue for our reunion, don't you?"

"Are you insane?" I whisper. "Here? Now? With the house full of my lunatic family? I mean, that's like, no pressure.... none at all!" I hiss.

"Don't be ridiculous, darlin'. How many times have I loved you in this house, packed with del Marco's? On the beach at two am? In the hot tub? In the outdoor shower—that was spectacular, remember that? And the golf cart. Next door at Jax's. One time in the ocean, and I'm sure someone from your family was watching from a balcony somewhere..." he rumbles as his hands slide up my spine and tug at the strings of my bikini. He looks down at the baby. "He's dozing off. Fabulous, just take the magazines from the basket over there, add a blanket and bundle him in like Moses, he'll sleep right through..."

"You have lost your bloody British mind!" I step back, nearly shaking with...with...I don't know what with, exactly. It's not rage. It's not only fear. It's excitement, some fear, and a whole lot of confusion. Mistrust, maybe. I don't trust this. This isn't the Riley I've always known and trusted implicitly.

Riley is giving me a look of disapproval now. Good. At least that's familiar. "Are we really going to do this cat and mouse, Rowan? I'm here, offering you everything you say you want, except now you don't? What more do you need from me?"

His blue eyes are searching mine. My throat is so tight, I'm surprised it can push out words. "I...I don't know. I swear. I don't know. Just...a little time, I think. Time to...trust in this. We've been through a lot, but this?" I gesture at the new him. "This is highly unexpected."

He presses his lips together and takes a long breath through his nose. He nods. "That's fair. Can I stay?"

I reach for his hand. "Of course. I want you here. I just..."

"Want the old me? The predictable bloke organizing the beach games and watching after Lane and Alley when your dad is too distracted on sharkwatch, and everyone else is too drunk? Fine, I told you, I'm still me, just...more." He picks up his cane and cruises toward the door, not looking back at me.

Now I feel as though I've rejected him, hurt him.

"Riley," I say anxiously.

He whirls so easily that I almost lunge forward, sure he's going to lose his balance. He doesn't. He's smirking at me as he walks backward. "Relax. Take your time. It's all good, darlin'."

There he goes again. The exacting "darling" is gone. Now he sounds like a cross between Ed Sheeran and Adam Heartley.

My mouth twitches in a smile, and I shake my head at him. He winks, whirls, tosses his cane upward in his hand and uses it to knock on the door. "Alley, step back, love, before your eavesdropping earns you a face plant."

"How did you know?" she says through the door.

He swings it open and taps the silver knob lightly against my baby sister's forehead. "Haven't you heard? I always know everything." He puts a casual arm around her shoulder. "Come along. Let's find your brother, and perhaps we should round up Darius and Luis as well. We'll need a bit more help than usual to set up the beach games. Sand is not my best terrain these days..."

As they amble down the hall, I look down at the sleeping baby in my arms and feel  just like him. Like I know nothing about brand the new world I've just been born into.