Dreaming of Rhapsody Read online

  Because I’m so fixated on Rachel, I’m not looking where I’m going, I slide my tray along the counter top and I step forward just as Margo turns to ask me something. I slam into her and the large cup of coffee she’s holding splashes all over my front.

  “Oh my God, Topher!” she cries out as the liquid soaks my t-shirt and the steaming fabric sticks to my chest.

  No, no, no, no. I feel everything in me go into high alert, nerves firing like a swarm of bees. I struggle not to freak out, grinding my teeth and breathing hard. My hands are fisted at my sides, and I’m stifling a scream. My ears are ringing, my skin is prickling and raw, my head throbs, and the fluorescent lights overhead are burning into my eyes like lasers.

  “Uhnnn, uhnnn,” I make a strange grunting sound, trying so hard not to scream.

  “Toph.” Margo’s voice is quiet. “You need to get the t-shirt off, it’s hot. Will you let me take it off for you?”

  I grit my teeth and nod, scrunching my eyes shut. She gingerly takes the hem in her hands and pulls it up my chest.

  “Lift your arms,” she says softly. I do, my muscles all clenched like they have cramps in them.

  The wet t-shirt scrapes across my face and I feel like I’m going to suffocate for a moment, then it’s gone, cool air brushes across my skin, and I can catch my breath finally.

  By this time one of the cafeteria workers has come over to see if everything’s okay. She may be talking to me but I don’t really know, I can’t pick her voice out of the slew of sounds that are bombarding me. Luckily Margo is talking to her, and it gives me time to do my breathing exercises. I count to ten as I breathe in and I count to ten as I breathe out. I repeat it, over and over, and the repetition distracts me enough that my nerve endings slowly step down from high alert. The sounds start to recede, and the buzzing in my head dulls. I flex my fingers, and relax my jaw. Then I finally open my eyes, and look straight into the worried gaze of Rachel. Fuck.

  Rachel

  Topher Leigh looks like a male model. And that’s not an exaggeration. He has sun-kissed brown hair, emerald green eyes, cheekbones to weep for, a perfectly sculpted nose, and lean muscles for miles. And now he’s standing in front of me bare chested, looking as though he might turn into the Hulk or something.

  Margo told me that he has sensory issues, and is kind of awkward, so I’d been warned, and honestly, he just seemed shy when I met him, but I can see in his eyes that he’s about to completely lose his shit over the coffee spill. My sister is reassuring the cafeteria staff and they’re getting her an ice pack to give to Topher, but he’s just standing here shaking and rocking slightly as he breathes hard and mumbles things to himself.

  I’m a veterinary medicine student, so I work with all types of animals—large, small, and everything in between. And I’ve seen more than one horse or dog with the same look in its eyes that Topher has.

  “Topher?” I keep my voice soft and low. His gaze darts to mine. “There you are.” I smile gently. “Keep focused on me, huh?” He gives a quick jerk of his head, but he’s still breathing really hard.

  “You know,” I continue. “I once had an entire cup of hot chocolate spilled on my lap. I was in junior high, and my mom couldn’t get off of work to bring me new clothes so I had to go the rest of the day in jeans that looked like I’d pee’d them.”

  The corner of his lips twitch, and I notice that his breath has gotten a bit quieter.

  “Plus, the sugar in the chocolate dried and got so hard that my pants were like cardboard. For two years after that all the boys in my grade called me cocoa crispy.”

  He releases one long breath, then gives me a tight smile. “I would have hit them for you,” he says, his voice rough. And my heart skips a little beat. It’s not every day that a guy this beautiful offers to defend you.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Hey, you feeling better, dude?” Margo asks as the cafeteria worker finally goes back to work.

  Topher doesn’t look away from me but nods. “Another story,” he says, his voice flat and commanding.

  “Okay, but you have to come sit down and hold that cold pack on your chest for a few minutes.”

  He gives me another of those jerky nods and takes the cold pack from Margo. She gives me a puzzled look but follows us to the table I’d picked out a few minutes ago.

  Topher keeps standing as Margo and I take seats on opposite sides of the table, then he chooses the seat next to mine, across from Margo. After he sits, he looks at the cold pack in his hand like it’s the devil, then breathes deeply and plasters it against his chest, his jaw going hard again.

  He rocks slightly back and forth, and Margo watches him closely, her face pinched in concern. He looks up at me from under his brows. “Story. Please.”

  I nod and start talking. Two stories and ten minutes later, Topher has tossed the ice pack aside, a nurse from the front desk has brought down a scrub shirt for him, and he’s quietly eating his way through the biggest tray of food I’ve ever seen outside of an eating competition.

  “Have you forgiven me for spilling all over you yet?” Margo asks, looking genuinely concerned.

  “Why would I need to forgive you?” he asks, picking up his cookie and taking a big bite. “I ran into you, so I ran into the coffee not the other way around.”

  Margo gives me a wry smile. “See why I love him?” she asks.

  Topher shakes his head. “You don’t love me.”

  Margo snorts. “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” he mutters.

  He pops the last piece of cookie in his mouth and I can’t help but watch his profile, the perfect bone structure, the satin skin, his long black lashes framing those beautiful eyes.

  “So, Topher, what’s it like being a rock star?” I ask.

  He takes a drink of water, swallows, then glances at me. “It’s a way for me to play my bass and earn money.”

  I huff out a quick chuckle. “That’s all? What about the groupies and the travel and the parties?”

  He looks at me fully this time, and when his gaze locks on mine I almost stop breathing. Because for a moment he opens to me—his eyes, his expression, his very soul opens and I get a glimpse inside, and he’s beautiful. Stunningly, painfully, quietly beautiful.

  My breath catches in my throat, and he turns back to his tray of food, leaving my heart beating out a dull tattoo.

  “There are groupies and trips and parties,” he answers. “But that’s not why I do it. I love to play my bass, and I need money to live. I don’t want to do anything else to earn money.” He shrugs, and Margo and I laugh, because he’s so refreshing it’s like an ocean breeze just blew through the room.

  “What’s it like being a veterinarian?” he asks, mimicking my question back to me.

  “Well, I’m not a vet yet, I have two more years of school, but so far I love it.”

  “What’s your favorite kind of animal that you work with?”

  “I’m specializing in canines,” I answer.

  “Dogs are my favorite animals.”

  “Do you have one of your own?”

  His brow scrunches a touch, and I want to reach over and smooth it out, then run my hand through all that thick, shiny hair that’s the perfect length—not long enough for a ponytail, but still long enough to look tousled and wild.

  “I want a dog, but Carson keeps saying that we travel too much for one.”

  “What if you got something small that you could take with you?” I ask.

  He seems to consider that. “I usually want a Great Dane.”

  “Yeah, that wouldn’t work,” Margo says, shaking her head.

  “What about something like a Westie?” I ask. “They’re really tough little dogs, versatile, smart. You could bring it on the tour buses with you. They’re small enough to fit in a carrier under the seat in an airplane too.”

  He looks down at his lap. “Their fur is too rough.”

  I start to laugh, but then I realize he’s being serious.
I shut my mouth quickly, and clear my throat trying to cover.

  Margo glares at me from across the table.

  “So you want a dog whose fur is smooth?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Carson’s already told me that’s strange.” He shrugs.

  “Nope, not strange at all.” I pause, thinking. “What about a King Charles spaniel? They’re really popular. Small, soft fur, they love being with their human.”

  “Maybe,” he says giving me a small smile.

  “Maybe we’ll go look at some while I’m in town,” I tell him, excited at the idea of finding the perfect match for him. There’s nothing better then helping people find the pet that will complete their lives. I love helping match up people and pets.

  “Okay,” he says, smiling more.

  “Well, we should let Topher get back to his mom,” Margo says, her voice a little sharp. I jerk my gaze away from all of Topher’s shy beauty and blink at her.

  “If you can tear yourself away,” she snipes.

  Topher just nods and stands, lifting up his tray before reaching down and picking up mine as well. Without another word he walks to the bussing station and stows both trays. Margo mutters something before picking up her own tray and bussing it.

  I try to hide the smile that floats over my lips. Topher Leigh the super sexy rock star just bussed my tray for me. Suck on that junior high boys.

  Topher

  My mother dies at two thirteen in the morning Pacific Standard Time. Carson is there with me. He talked to her for a long time when he first arrived. I told him she couldn’t hear him, but he said he needed to say those things anyway and he thought that maybe she could hear him in her subconscious. It sounds like the way I feel things in my subconscious. And that makes me wonder if there is a way to talk to my mom when I’m dreaming too.

  My mom didn’t want a big deal after she died like they always show in movies. We don’t go to a church, and she’d been sick for so long that a lot of her friends from her old job and neighborhood haven’t been around for a few years. But Carson said he wanted to have a memorial service, and so I said fine.

  It takes us two days to plan, and the band’s manager, Shannon, who’s also our guitarist, Dez’s, girlfriend, helps out. Shannon’s really good at bossing people around, so it seemed like the perfect job for her.

  So now I’m standing in a small chapel on the University of Malibu campus where my mom worked for twenty years until she got sick. It’s me, Carson, Dez, Garrett, our lead singer, Blaze, our lead guitarist, Shannon, Margo, and Rachel, because she’s staying with Margo for a few weeks. Some of my mom’s friends were here earlier when the college chaplain said some things, and a few people stood up and told stories about Mom from when they knew her.

  Now we’re the only ones left, and we’re all sitting in the first two rows of pews—Carson, Margo, Rachel and me in one, Dez and Shannon across the aisle, Garrett and Blaze behind us.

  “Your mom’s old boss was a funny guy,” Garrett says, his voice kind of raspy and tired. Garrett has an addiction. He likes to have sex with women all the time, and I guess he can’t make himself stop. He’s been in Portland all summer where Blaze likes to live because he doesn’t want to slip up with a groupie here in Los Angeles. But he and Blaze came down for my mom’s service, and now they’ll stay for a while so that we can work on our next album. Blaze’s girlfriend, Tully, didn’t come. Her brother-in-law died not too long ago and Blaze said she just can’t be around death right now. She’ll fly down in a few days.

  “I remember that story he told,” Carson says. “I was fifteen or so, and my mom was so embarrassed she almost didn’t go back to work.” Everyone laughs, and I look over at Rachel to see that she’s just smiling quietly. I like how she’s so quiet. She talks when she needs to, but otherwise, she watches, and there were a few times today when I saw her watching me.

  “So, is anyone up for food?” Shannon asks from across the aisle. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel, but I have some stuff prepared at the house.” Dez and Shannon live together now. He has a house on the beach in Santa Monica. I like the ocean, but not the sand. It doesn’t feel good on my skin.

  Carson looks at me with one eyebrow raised. We can talk without using words, which is nice because I’ve heard a lot of words today and my head is starting to hurt.

  I nod at him. I am hungry, and it’s just our band now, so they know me and don’t expect me to talk a lot.

  Carson thanks Shannon and everyone gathers their stuff so we can head out to the limo that brought most of us.

  Margo and Rachel drove together, so they have to go in a separate car. I watch Rachel walk away and I’m not sure why, but I don’t like it, and I wish that I could ride with her instead of in the limo.

  An hour later we’re all at Shannon and Dez’s, and there’s lots of food. I’ve loaded up my plate and I’m sitting outside on the deck by myself eating because I really need to be away from all the voices. I can feel my agitation growing, and I learned a long time ago that when I feel this way I need to be alone. I hear the door open behind me, and I know it’s her right away. Because that swoopy thing happens in my guts again, and I smell her—some sort of citrus, like lemon, but sweeter…grapefruit.

  She doesn’t say anything, just sits down on the chair next to mine. She has a beer in her hand and sunglasses on. Her hair flutters a bit in the breeze, and I have that same urge to touch it because it looks so soft.

  I go back to my food, and I’m surprised that having her here doesn’t make me feel the way I would if it were someone else. Even Margo can give me that feeling like someone is dragging sandpaper across my skin sometimes. But apparently, just like Rachel can make me smile when I’m not planning it, she can make me comfortable even when she’s violating my alone time.

  She takes several sips from her beer as I finish demolishing the enchiladas on my plate. When I’ve finally scraped it clean, I set it on the table next to my chair.

  “Has Margo ever told you about our granddad?” she asks.

  I shake my head. I want to look at her, so I can see her lips and her eyes, but that strange feeling in my middle keeps rolling around like a marble in an empty box and I don’t want to look at her and have it get worse. I’m not sure, but I think if I vomited up all the enchiladas in front of her she wouldn’t ever talk to me again.

  “He was more like a second dad to us,” she continues, tucking her bare feet up under her legs and leaning on the arm of the chair that’s closest to me. It makes it harder for me to breathe, so I do my counting as her voice continues, telling me about how she felt when her grandfather died, how hard it still is for her to admit that she’ll never see him again.

  “It was a long time before I could really think about him at all, and sometimes I felt guilty, like I was a bad person because I didn’t think about him or cry or whatever it is people are supposed to do when they lose someone they love.”

  I nod again, but this time I do look at her, and for just a moment it’s like one of my dreams, these things are inside of me, things that hurt, things that swirl and circle and pierce, and all I can do is hold my breath until it passes.

  Her voice gets very soft, and I can tell—really tell—that she’s talking only to me, saying things that only I should hear.

  “There is no one right way to act or feel when someone you love dies. And it can change every day. Just remember that.”

  “Okay,” I say. And then I can’t look at her eyes anymore, but it doesn’t matter because she turns her gaze back out to the water.

  We sit in silence again then, as the sun sets over the water and the breeze becomes cooler. I’m aware of everything she does, every movement, every breath, but none of it bothers me like it does with most people. And in spite of the occasional gut squiggles, I feel better with her here than I would if I were alone. I’m usually comfortable with Margo and of course with Carson, but not like this. This gives me a different feeling, and it’s mixed up with the things that I know I can’t d
o like touch her hair, or ask her to suck my dick. Because, damn, I’d like to have her suck my dick. And I haven’t even been drinking.

  She shivers and I know that I should ask her to go inside with me so she doesn’t get cold. I definitely do not like the idea of her being cold.

  “Rachel?” I ask.

  She turns and looks at me, her eyes like some kind of liquid in the dusky light.

  “I want to ask you something, but I know I’m not supposed to.”

  Her forehead gets a little line in it. “Who said you’re not supposed to ask me something?”

  “Well, not you specifically, but anyone. It’s just…” I swallow and look away. It’s hard to keep looking at her eyes no matter how beautiful they are. “When I was younger, I would say things—things that you aren’t supposed to, and so my mom and the doctors worked with me to help me know the things I shouldn’t say.”

  She nods, and I keep talking even though it feels like the words are gouging my throat with their little pointy ends.

  “But sometimes—a lot of times—I still want to say those things.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “Like, can I touch your hair?” I rush out on a breath, my hand clenching in my lap, and my breathing too fast and too rough.

  She leans the side of her head against the back of the chair, watching me.

  “Topher,” she says on a whisper. “You can say those things to me. Maybe I’m not like other people or something, but I’d like it if you’d touch my hair.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe this. My eyes are glued to all those golden silk threads.

  She gives me a smile and I give her one back right away, one I didn’t plan.