“Bye.” I say to Rhys in the parking lot. He smiles and I reach up to kiss his cheek before clambering into my sweet convertible and reversing out of the parking lot and driving blissfully all the way home.

Mom is in the kitchen, on her cell, “Yes, but I don't want to do a swimwear shoot. You know my schedule is packed anyway. I have to make time for my family. I have a young daughter! I don't care if it's important for my career, I'm happy I just have one. My family is more important and I need to spend time with them.”

I smile at Mom encouragingly. She nods, her eyes twinkling at the sight of me.

“Well, I don't know. Look, I'm saying this for the last time. I appreciate what you're doing for me and my career, but I'm a mother now. It's not like I'm really in need of the money. I wouldn't even mind stopping modelling now. But I want a good future for my daughter. To do that, I need to spend time with her as well. I'll call you later, but this discussion is over.” Mom ends the call and I sit down opposite her.

“How was school? Did you talk to Rhys about things?” Mom asks, clasping my hands.

I nod, smiling, “We worked it out. He's not perfect, none of us are, but he's what I want.”

“I knew you'd say that.” Mom giggles, “Your dad was all set to go and find Rhys to give him a big Daddy lecture about how to treat his daughter but I stopped him.”

“Thank you.” I nod, “You might have just saved my life.”

Mom laughs, “I remember my dad when I brought boys home. He'd insist on showing them his hunting room. You know, Granddad's hunting room? The one where he has all the stuffed animals he's killed and all the guns?”

I nod, beaming happily at the memory of my eccentric grandfather with his young yet weathered face and long curly ginger moustache.

“Well, he would take him in there and give the boy a warning. 'Hurt my daughter and you will end up being added to this beautiful collection'. So I didn't bring many boys home, only ones who I was sure wouldn't be intimidated by your Granddad.”

I laugh, “Oh, Granddad.”

Mom laughs alongside me and then sighs, sitting back in her chair, “Only one boy matched my Dad's idea of the perfect partner for me. That was your Dad. When we first started to date, it was difficult because of our schedules. But we made time for each other.”

I settle in my chair. This is the story I love. The saga of my parents.

“When I took him home for the first time, my dad looked him up and down and he asked the usual questions. Then he surprised me. He didn't even mention his hunting room. He just took your dad straight to the dining room and fed him until he couldn't stand straight.”

I smile, imagining my granddad and Dad meeting for the first time.

“We continued to date for a year and then suddenly, I was pregnant. Dad was furious. He wanted me to have an abortion. My career was hanging by a thread. The press was going crazy. I was locked in my own house. But your grandma stood by me. She wanted me to think about what I wanted and then decide what I want to do about the baby growing inside of me.”

The baby was me.

“The first time I felt you kick, I knew. I wanted you badly. I couldn't wait. I told my mom and dad and my dad sat and he cried. He told me he didn't want to let me go. He didn't want me to grow up. He wanted his little girl to stay just that. Little. But he supported me.”

I smile through the tears. This always gets to me.

“He told your Dad to come over and he gave us a huge lecture on how to be responsible parents and how hard it's going to be for us. He bought us this house and he told us to make our family flourish. He got me a modelling contract with a certain maternity modelling programme. Your Dad continued work as usual. Whenever I felt you kick, the need to have you in my arms grew more intense.”

Mom pauses to smile at me, her eyes warm and all-seeing.

“I was at a shoot with your dad when my waters broke. We were doing a 'Perfect Parents' shoot. Despite my heavy weight and my writhing, your dad carried me all the way to the next block, where he hailed a cab. Five hours later, you were in my arms.”

Mom looks down at her hands.

“You were finally in my world. Your dad was so proud. He kept walking around the corridors, showing you off to anyone he could find. He'd say to expecting women, 'Wait until yours comes. You'll feel like the strongest person alive. Holding this baby in my arms, I know I've missed out on a lot.' I think he was popular amongst the nurses for more than his compassion, even though he had just turned seventeen at the time.”

I giggle as Mom waggles her eyebrows at me.

“You were so tiny. Just like a doll. When we took you to our home, we got a little portrait done of you. Life-size. We hung it in your bedroom so when you woke in the morning and we faced you to the opposite wall, the only thing you would see was your face. But then your toddler years came and you scribbled on anything you could find. The portrait was ruined before we realised.”

I rest my chin on the balls of my palms.

“Slowly, you began to grow up. You were five when you decided to become a pop star. We took you to music lessons and you did nothing but bang on the drums. So we got drumming lessons for you. Once you knew how to get the beat going, you wanted the guitar and then the bass and then the piano. We had a whole orchestra for you.”

Mom chuckles.

“Then, at seven, you dropped the whole idea. You packed your instruments and you asked me to organise a trip to the poorer parts of Africa. I didn't know what you wanted to do but I organised it anyway. We got to the slums and you ordered my bodyguards to begin unpacking the instruments.”

I smile as Mom shakes her head at me.

“As I watched from the sidelines, you gathered everyone around you and you began to play the drums, giving each person a different instrument and telling them to play along. For two days, you taught each and every person how to play their individual instrument. You would dance and sing around with them, adopting their culture for your own. They grew so fond of you.”

Mom wipes a sentimental tear away.

“We stayed there for two weeks. By then, you had them all wrapped around your little finger. They would follow you everywhere and they were happy. You gave them a lot. You gave them the gift of music. When the private jet came to collect us, you cried and cried along with them. You didn't want to leave them. You gave them your instruments and with those, a little piece of you.”

Mom sniffs and looks at me with pride.

“A woman came up to me that day. She said to me, 'Take care of that little one. You are lucky to have conceived such a beautiful child. She is like my own child. I don't want to let her go, but she has a home to return to. Give her all the love and pride that she deserves. You have been blessed with an angel.' I knew that I had raised you right at that moment. That woman was right. I have been blessed with an angel.”

Little does she know...

“Back in America, you told your friends all about this fantastic place and these amazing people who don't have much in terms of wealth, but in terms of love, they're the richest people alive. I remember you telling me one day when you were old enough, you were going to go back and you were going to do more than give them an instrument. You were going to give them something to live for. To say something like that at the age of ten, was incredible. I couldn't believe my ears. I was so proud of you.”

Mom's eyes brim with tears of pride.

“You started high school and you were so full of energy even though you came home dog-tired. You played guitar for two years, making your own tunes, improvising existing ones. And now, whenever I look at you, I see my daughter. Still sensible, still compassionate, but with more to give. When I look at you today, I know I couldn't have wished for a better daughter.”

I stand up, my eyes overflowing and stand behind the idol I call my mom and bend down, joining my head with hers, my arms locked around her neck. Mom holds my arms and tilts her head to mine. “I love you, Mom.” I say.

“I love you too, honey.” Mom says.

On my bidding, Mom and Dad are in the basement, rooting through piles of things we don't need any more. Dad holds something in the air, “Found it!”

He jogs up the stairs to me and hands me the object. I look down at it. My guitar, back in my hands.

Mom smiles and together, the three of us retreat to the lounge. I run my hands along the guitar, caressing it's long neck, smoothing the strings, feeling the contours of it's shaped body.

My guitar is shiny black with a calligraphy font at the bottom which reads my name as if I've autographed it. I take the plectrum out and settle the guitar on my lap in the right position. I strum a few notes, “I'm a little rusty.”

Mom and Dad sit opposite me, leaning forward with anticipation. “Darling, you'll be amazing. Play for us?”

I nod at her and straighten the guitar on my lap. I strum an introduction to a slow, lilting tune and bow my head, closing my eyes. The tune proceeds to get warmer and slower and then it picks up speed with a lighter tone. I end the tune with a series of twangs from the lower notes.

I look up at Mom and Dad who stare at me, their eyes twinkling. Then they begin to clap.

                                                                                           ***

I pick up my bag and get out of my car, walking across the parking lot to where Rhys is waiting.

“Hey.” He calls to me, “Crystal Weathers is looking for you.”

“Crystal Weathers?” I frown, “The girl who cried when she found out we were dating last year?”

Rhys fights a smile, “That's the one. She was looking for you. Although, it could have been that she was just finding an excuse to talk to me.” He stands a little straighter.

I peak my eyebrow, trying to not to laugh, “I think we need to drain the air out of your head.”

Rhys looks down at me, mock anger painting his face. “Air in my head? Don't you be swapping us around, Donna!”

“I'm not an air-head!” I protest, “My grades are way higher than yours. You better watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” Rhys leans in playfully.

“Or...” I lean further in until our noses are touching and  blow in his face. Then I laugh gleefully and run back into the parking lot, swerving between cars, Rhys hot on my trail. He laughs and I giggle, turning to look and seeing him close. Too close. I pick the speed up, squeezing between two cars and running across a row and backing up to the row we just passed, basically doing a U-turn to make it harder for him.

Rhys cuts across the row, coming dangerously close. I stop at a car, out of breath, watching him cautiously. We both circle the car, assessing each others' moves with gleeful smiles pasted on our faces. Then Rhys bounds over the bonnet and I squeal and head in the opposite direction, crouching low seven cars down. I press my face to the ground, seeing his shoes as he walks around.

As he nears the car, I crawl backwards around the back of the car. Then his shoes disappear.

I look around, frowning. Where's he gone? I stand up and look around. I can't see him anywhere. He wouldn't give up; Rhys never gives up a good challenge. I walk out from behind the car and look around, shielding my eyes from the harsh sun. The parking lot is empty of students and fallen angels alike.

“Gotcha!” The whisper hisses in my ear from behind.

I laugh and press myself forward, running even though my lungs are burning. But I'm too slow and he's got me by my waist, lifting me up into the air and spinning me around. I squeal with laughter and I feel his breath flush on my neck as he laughs with me.

As he puts me down, I fight to catch my breath, “Okay, you win. You win. Let's get to class.”

“I don't know.” Rhys leans against a car, shrugging nonchalantly, “I kind of feel like skipping the day.”

I look at him, a mischievous smile forming.

“Hey, that's mine!” I say as Rhys reaches for the fourth cookie.

He takes a bite from it, “Not any more.” 

We're at the Tower. It's lunch and we just got back from the coffee house after getting a light lunch to go.

“You shouldn't talk with your mouth full.” I protest and snatch the cookie away, scarfing it down before he has time to protest. He narrows his eyes at me and then settles for taking my soda.

“Hey!” I frown. I reach up for the soda but he stands up from the sofa, holding it out of my reach.

“That is not fair! You're taller than me!” I object, standing on the sofa and reaching out for it. Rhys steps forward and I lean out too far. I almost fall but instead, I end up wrapping my legs around Rhys' waist and one arm around his neck as I wrestle him desperately for the bottle.

That cookie was dry.

Fighting my weight and balancing his own, Rhys wobbles and we both go down, the bottle rolling away. But it's forgotten as I roll off Rhys and we both break into rockets of hysterical laughter. Rhys hauls me into a sitting position and hands me the bottle, “Since you fought me so well, you deserve it.”

“Thank you.” I take it gingerly and throw it down my throat, relieving the demanding thirst from both the dry cookie and my previous exertions.

Rhys hauls himself on to the sofa and I sit facing the plasma screen, too lazy to get back up, sandwiched between his legs. We watch a movie for the rest of the afternoon, passing the popcorn between the two of us when we felt like it.

At three thirty, we drive back to the school and I say bye to Rhys before getting in my car and driving home.

“Good day at school?” Dad asks.

“You have no idea.” I beam before rushing up to my room to get changed. On my dresser is a blooming blood-red rose. I pick it up, smiling, and smell it's desirable aroma. I have no doubt who sent it; it's clear to me.

                                                                                            ***

“Mom, can I get an early night in? I'm tired.” I say.

Mom nods at me, kissing my forehead before resuming watching a documentary on supermodels.

Apparently she is supposed to be mentioned in it. I head up the stairs and into my room. I open the window and then undress, clambering between the sheets and falling asleep...

I'm at the tower. Rhys has his back to me, hanging a painting up of a sun-kissed, beautiful girl. Eliza. She has almond shaped, dark eyes framed by long lashes, model-like high cheekbones, naturally pink lips and sweeping brown-black hair.

“What do you think?” Rhys turns around. At first, I think he's talking to me. I'm about to reply to him but then a girl steps nimbly in front of me, her back to me. She's wearing an elegant, sheer gown that sweeps to the ground and she walks regally over to the picture. She gazes up at the painting, her head tilted upwards, her mane of dark hair tumbling down her back beautifully.

Then she turns to Rhys, her eyes warm, a slight smile playing at her flawless lips, “I love it.”

I see her profile. Dark hair, dark eyes... It's Eliza! Rhys smiles at her and takes her hand in his, “I'm glad you liked it.”

They both stare into each other's eyes and a shard of jealousy rips through me.

“Rhys!” I say, “Rhys, what are you doing? How did Eliza get here? She's supposed to be dead! She is dead!!”

In front of my very eyes, Rhys leans down and their lips join. He's kissing her. I cry out desperately, horrified at my boyfriend, “Rhys, stop it! What – Rhys!” 

I claw at him but my hands go straight through him as if he's nothing more than a ghost. A presence no longer with us. Eliza pulls away, “I'd better get going. Father doesn't know I'm here.”

“Is there a time when he does?” Rhys asks playfully and kisses her again. Seeing him kiss her so gently and with so much adoration, their lips melding together, it makes me want to rip her eyes out and scratch her face until she's disfigured. I want to punch Rhys until his eyes pop out, until his lips are so swollen that he can never kiss anyone ever again.

“Rhys, stop it!” I sob, trying to make him pay attention to me. I'm supposed to be the one he loves, that should be me. He should be hanging up my portraits!!

His girlfriend, the one he swears he loves, who he would give up anything for. In front of my eyes, he is kissing another girl!! How could he do this to me? Why would he do this to me? 

Eliza pulls back again, “I'll come again tonight. Promise. I have to go now, it's nearly time for Father and I to go to the ball.”

“I wish I could see you all dressed up for a ball.” Rhys mutters, burying his head in her neck, gently kissing the hollow between her shoulder and neck. I see a raw desire flash across Eliza's face and when Rhys raises his head to meet her eyes, she blushes demurely and then backs out of the room, her presence lingering in the air for longer than I could suffer through.

I stare at Rhys, repulsed, “How could you do this to me?” He ignores me completely, staring after Eliza with a love-struck smile on his face.

“You're supposed to love me, Rhys!” I remind him stubbornly, tears streaming down my face. Rhys sighs happily and turns to the painting, stroking it with his long fingers...

The picture is of Rhys and Eliza :) And this is dedicated to BadMotherClucker for her awesomeness!