MY FATHER MADE IT A POINT to never miss my performances when I was a child. I knew even then that it wasn’t because he was so proud of me. It was because he needed to make sure I did well. I made a lot of money for our family, and as soon as I was old enough, my parents made sure I grasped the significance of that. But this one time, my father had pneumonia, and doctors said he couldn’t travel to Munich for my concert.

It was the worst performance of my life.

I missed notes. I rushed passages. I played with no emotion. Something was missing, and I knew it was my father.

And as I sit by his bed in this cold, sterile room, I realize that he has been missing. I’ve convinced myself that he doesn’t matter. That I don’t want his approval. That I don’t love him.

But he does. And I do.

I drop my head to the metal bar flanking his bed. He’s drifted back into unconsciousness, and they say when he wakes up, he may not be able to talk much or right away, but I’ll wait. If nothing else, he’ll be able to hear. If nothing else, he’ll hear me say I’m sorry for the bitter words we hurled at one another over the dinner table like javelins across a battlefield. If nothing else, I’ll empty myself of this acidic regret ulcerating the lining of my stomach.

At an unexpected touch, I raise my head. My father’s big hand brushes my hair back like he did when I was a little boy. His eyes, so like Grady’s, stare back at me, glazed and drugged with meds and pain, but with a clarity I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. And he steals all my thunder when his chapped lips open just barely over a word my ears aren’t sure they hear, but that land on my heart.

“Sorry.”

I JUMP WHEN THE FRONT DOOR slams shut downstairs. Voices drift up the stately staircase of the Grays’ home. I pick out Rhyson’s husky baritone from the trio of voices below, Grady’s and Bristol’s accompanying him. They talk for a few minutes at the base of the stairs. I can’t decipher what they’re saying until they make it to the landing.

“We’ll see tomorrow,” Rhyson says, right outside his bedroom. “Good night.”

The door opens, and he stops on the threshold.

“Kai.” He eyes me sitting on the edge of his bed for a second before glancing at his watch. “I thought your flight already left.”

So Bristol actually did what I asked her. She didn’t tell him.

“I asked Bristol if there was a later flight that would still get me back to L.A. for my call time. The time difference helps.” I stand up, brushing my damp palms over the chinos Bristol bought me from the GAP. “I thought you might need to talk after you saw your father.”

It’s only half the truth, but the other half scares me to death, so I keep it to myself for now. Rhyson just stares at me, questions hiding behind the cumulus clouds in his grey eyes.

“So you stayed back to ask me about my dad?”

“How was it? How is he?” I fix my eyes on the intricate pattern in the rope rug under my feet, wishing I could disappear into the tiny fibers. “Are you okay?”

Rhyson slips off his jacket and tosses it toward an armchair across the room. It misses, falling to the floor, but neither of us moves to pick it up. He runs weary hands through the burnished hair flopping into his eyes. I sit back down on the bed, patting the space beside me.

“Come tell me.”

He hesitates for a moment before taking me up on my offer. The bed dips under his weight, and his shoulders occupy much of the space between us, making me aware of how much smaller I am than him.

“I’ll never forget seeing him like that.” Rhyson flops back onto the bed, linking his hands under his head. “There were tubes everywhere, and he looks like he’s aged a hundred years in just a day.”

“I know how it feels to see your parent debilitated. Weaker than you’ve ever seen them.” I lie back too, tucking into his side. “It shakes everything up. Makes you question everything.”

“He couldn’t talk.” Rhyson fixes his eyes to the ceiling like the hospital scene replays there for him to see again. “Well, just a little. He said . . .”

Rhyson clamps his lips over the words he may not be ready to say.

“What’d he say?” I press, knowing if I don’t no one will. As much as his friends may love him, I don’t get the sense that anyone ever forces Rhyson to do anything, much less deal with emotions that will fester if he keeps stuffing them.

“He said sorry.” Rhyson clears his throat. “He said that he was sorry. I don’t know if he meant for the argument we had at Christmas, or . . . or for everything.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Before I left, he said, ‘Let’s try.’ I think he wants us to try again.” Rhyson smacks his lips. Derision, maybe for himself, maybe for his father, marks his face. “Grady wants us to go to family counseling once my dad is well enough.”

“And you think that’s a bad idea?”

“I think a heart attack doesn’t necessarily change your heart.” Rhyson expels a hard breath. “This made me want another chance, but I have no idea what to believe.”

“A brush with death can change people.” I subtly wiggle a few inches closer until the heat from his body touches me. “If Grady thinks—”

“Grady thought at Christmas, but Grady was wrong then, and he might be wrong now.” Rhyson presses his lips together and closes his eyes before opening them again, as if he’s hoping the view will be different. “It’s just Grady wants to reconcile so badly with my dad that it may color his perspective. He’s still looking for the kid he grew up with, the twin he was close to years ago. That kid may be gone forever.”

“Maybe.” I nod and cross my feet at the ankles. “But if your father legitimately wants to try again, to make things right, maybe it’s worth the risk.”

Rhyson flips onto his side to face me, head propped in his hand.

“Am I worth the risk?” His deep voice caresses my senses in the semi-dark of the room. “Is that why you stayed? Why you’re still here? To tell me I am? Or that I’m not?”

Even knowing this was coming, knowing this is the conversation I stayed for, his questions make my breath come faster. This must be how skydivers feel just before they fall.

“We were talking about your father,” I say, my words barely a breath.

“And now we’re talking about you. About us.”

As much as my fears urge me to scoot away from the subject, unsure if these steps are wise, I only have my gut to rely on, and it propels me closer to Rhyson.

He pushes my wild hair back. After the blessed shower I finally got to take, I didn’t bother blow drying it, and it fans out behind me on the bed.

“I know you want to make it on your own, and you’re afraid people will think I got you where you’re going,” Rhyson says. “And I know your dad left you with a shitload of trust issues, and that you don’t want to depend on me.” He pauses, leaning in to nuzzle his nose into the sensitive skin behind my ear, sending shock waves over my nerve endings. “But I ask again, am I worth the risk?”

Those pictures are coming out. We won’t be able to stop them, and soon everyone will be speculating about who I am to Rhyson. I want what Rhyson wants. I’m his and he’s mine. I’ve been overthinking it. So afraid that Rhyson is a hazard to my heart that I hadn’t acknowledged how much he’s been healing it. I’m not actually sure that I’m ready for what being in a relationship with Rhyson really means, but the alternative—being without him—is no choice at all.

“You’re worth the risk.”

The words barely make it past my lips before Rhyson is hovering over me, supported on his elbows to spare me his weight.