He shook his head, unexpectedly sad that he didn’t have a great-aunt Edna to inherit from. Rebekah crossed the room and snuggled against him, craning her neck to look at him. “What’s the matter?”
He shook his head again. He’d never felt lonely in this house until now. And for once, he wasn’t even alone.
“Why don’t you give me a tour?”
He guided her through all three floors, showing her his storybook house with its perfect furnishings and its perfect decor, and for the first time, recognizing his house for the fantasy it was.
She was sufficiently impressed and even insisted that she loved the place. They ended up in the huge family room filled with the musical instruments he owned.
“Can you play all these?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Really? Why so many?”
“I like them all.”
“Eric?”
He looked up but stared over her head.
“I thought we weren’t going to lie to each other,” she pressed.
“It’s not a lie. I do like them all.”
When she didn’t say anything for several minutes, he lowered his gaze to meet her eyes.
“I just realized I don’t know anything about you,” she said.
“You know all the important stuff.”
“I don’t think so. This house, it’s perfect—like a fairy tale—but there’s nothing personal here. Where are the pictures of your family? Your memories?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What do you mean? Do you have amnesia?”
He’d have laughed if he had any air in his lungs. Eric clenched his teeth, flexing a muscle in his jaw until it ached. “I mean, I don’t have a family.”
“No one?”
He shook his head.
“Did they die?”
“What’s with the third degree all of a sudden, Reb?”
“When we’re on tour with the band, it’s easy to think of you as Eric Sticks, the famous and sensationally talented drummer of Sinners, but here, you’re just a man.”
He scoffed. “Just a man, huh?”
“Just the man I love. I want to know more about you, Eric. Tell me.”
He sat on a piano bench and leaned his forearms on his thighs. He clasped his hands and stared at his thumbs as he considered how much he should tell her.
She sat beside him and nudged his knee with hers.
“No one knows who my father was. My mom was a junkie. She left me when I was four. She’s probably dead.”
“She left you?”
“Yeah, left me. I was put into foster care.”
“So you’re adopted?”
He shook his head. “No one wanted to adopt me. I got into a lot of trouble. They moved me around a lot—one home after another. And if they didn’t move me, I ran away.”
Rebekah slid a hand along his lower back. “That explains this house.”
“I guess.”
“But not the music.”
He glanced around at the various instruments he cherished. “I had an inspiring music teacher in elementary school. Music came naturally to me. I think I’m hardwired for it. She saw that talent and encouraged me. I’d have done anything for her praise. She doted on me when I played music, so I became obsessed with it. I was only in her class for a few months, but after that, I sought music. Each time I started a new music class at a new school, I lied about what instrument I knew how to play and picked a new one until I could play everything I got my hands on. Most schools loan instruments to poor kids. Did you know that?”
“They used to. I think a lot of schools are cutting their music programs for lack of funds.”
Eric made a mental note to check on the programs at local schools and offer a huge donation of musical instruments if they needed them. “I don’t think I’d be alive today if it weren’t for those programs.”
“So music was the only constant in your life?”
He contemplated her question. “Yeah, I guess so. Even now, with Sinners.”
She reached up to touch his face. He expected pity when he looked into her eyes, but saw only tenderness. “I want to be a constant in your life, Eric.”
“Are you sure?” He grinned. “I’m kind of a pain in the ass.”
“I don’t think so. Everything you’ve ever done to my ass has felt really good.”
He laughed. Rebekah accepted him. His past. Relief hit him suddenly, and he laughed some more. Eric fell off the piano bench, gripping his stomach with both arms, and tried to catch his breath between laughs. Eventually, he rolled onto his back and looked at the tray ceiling. “This house is pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Rebekah climbed off the bench, snuggled against his side, and laid her head on his heaving chest. “No. It fills a hole inside you. And the car does too. Are you sure you want to finish fixing it?”
“Of course. I can’t wait to see you covered with grease.”
“It won’t make you sad to see it complete?”
“Maybe a little, but that’s where the Camaro comes in.”
“And after that?”
“You pick our next project.”
“I want you to meet my parents,” she said unexpectedly.
Eric’s heart skipped several beats. “That’s a bad idea, Reb. Parents don’t like me. Not even my own.”
“You’re important to me, Eric. I want to show you off.”
“Trying to get back at your father for repressing you as a teen?” he teased.
“Well, my dad is a minister, but he’s never been repressive. My mother, on the other hand…” She laughed. “That’s not why though. I love you, and I want them to love you too.”
Was she seriously offering the one thing he thought he’d never have? A family?
“Okay,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He nodded.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing that I know of.” Thanksgiving was a week away. It would give him time to get used to the idea of meeting her parents. Between now and then, Reb could teach him which fork he was supposed to use for salad.
“We always get together and help serve at the local homeless shelter before our family dinner. Will you come?”
He smiled. He actually enjoyed doing community service. He’d gotten into enough trouble as a youth that it had been required of him several times. Even though he kept out of trouble most of the time in his old age, he still liked to help.