Page 3 of Delta

It's a text from Teddy, Zero's mom: a photo of Zero and me from this day a year ago, when we were touring the Pacific Northwest of the US with his band; the photo is a selfie taken by Zero. We're side-stage in Portland, and he has his mandolin in his hand held across my front with his arm around my shoulders. We’re grinning ear to ear, and so, so happy. So in love.

TEDDY: Miss you, darling. Don't be a stranger.

I heart the photograph, but hesitate on what to say back. I love Teddy to bits. I was over the moon excited to have her as a mother-in-law. She taught me how to make lasagna. We spent several memorable evenings together getting wine-drunk and telling embarrassing stories about Zero. We're bound together by the grief of his loss, so suddenly and so senselessly—a car accident. No one's fault. Just a wet road, a patch of black ice, and a head-on collision with a cement truck. He was dead instantly.

That was nine months ago.

I’m having a grief baby, I guess.

And yes, I've been to therapy. All sorts of it. Mama and Dad flew in an A-lister-approved therapist from LA, and she spent a week with us in the Keys, helping me process my grief. I did horse therapy. EMDR. Ketamine. But at the end of the day, I think you just have to grieve and be sad and try to move on.

I've got the first two down; I’m still working on the moving on part.

Cal, Killy, and I spend the day skiing; Cal and I race a few times. He wins twice, and I win three times, although Killy says the last one was a tie. Bullshit—I won.

When even the seemingly-tireless Cal says he's ready to call it, we pile into one of the SUVs and let Roger drive us back to the hotel. We spend the late afternoon and early evening napping, snacking, and watching TV in our respective rooms in the penthouse suite. Around seven or so, we head down to the hotel restaurant and have a long dinner, during which we chat idly about nothing in particular.

After dinner, the boys head for the elevators. I'm antsy and restless and in need of distraction.

"You guys wanna hit a club or something?" I suggest.

"Nah," Cal says. "I'm beat. I plan on hitting the slopes early tomorrow."

"Same," Killian says. "And also, you shouldn't hit up any clubs either, Brynnie. Remember what happened last time?"

"That was not my fault. I was behaving myself."

He arches an eyebrow. "There's a photograph of you dancing on a bar. Wearing a skirt so short, I’m still traumatized after seeing the photograph once for five seconds."

"Okay, well first of all, fuck you,” I say. “I don't dress for your approval so you can fuck all the way off. Second of all, that photo was taken out of context. There were like eight other girls dancing on the bar. It was a dance-off. Which I won, by the way. They just only published that picture of me."

"Gleason had to carry you inside," he answers. "Because you were obliterated."

Gleason, behind us, does his best to look invisible—good luck with that one, buddy—he's a six-foot-eight former NFL linebacker who can bench press entire Volkswagens. He and Uncle Thresh often have arm wrestling competitions, and he can give Thresh a real challenge, which says something, seeing as Uncle Thresh is the strongest human being I've ever met.

I look at Gleason. "Was I obliterated, Gleason?"

Gleason looks frightened. "Um. I believe you passed out that night, ma’am."

I glare at him. "Sellout."

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Whatever." I sigh, wave a hand. "Fine. Be lame-ass losers. Go to bed even though it's barely midnight and we're on fucking holiday, by ourselves, with no parents."

"Right, because these guys are definitely not reporting our every move back to the parentals," Cal says, jerking his thumb at the six massive humans forming a wall of Brooks Brothers-clad muscle between us and the hotel foyer.

I look at Gleason. "Are you?"

"Am I what, ma'am?" he asks, endeavoring to look innocent.

"Reporting back to our parents."

He shifts his monumental weight from one foot to the other. "Erm. In certain cases, yes. Every move, no."

"So, when I met up with that guy from the bar in Berlin…" I say, leading. "Did you report that?"

"No, ma'am. I knew where you were, and I did a brief look into your…date. But I did not say anything about it to your parents."