Fight For Me: A Ransom Family Novel Read online

  Fight For Me

  A Ransom Family Novel

  Rachel Schurig

  Contents

  Copyright

  Meet the Ransom Family

  1. Wyatt

  2. Wyatt

  3. Wyatt

  4. Alex

  5. Alex

  6. Wyatt

  7. Alex

  8. Wyatt

  9. Alex

  10. Wyatt

  11. Wyatt

  12. Alex

  13. Alex

  14. Wyatt

  15. Wyatt

  16. Alex

  17. Wyatt

  18. Alex

  19. Wyatt

  20. Alex

  21. Wyatt

  22. Alex

  23. Wyatt

  24. Alex

  25. Wyatt

  26. Wyatt

  27. Alex

  Epilogue

  Also by Rachel Schurig

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021 Rachel Schurig

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Paper and Sage Book Cover Designs

  To find out more about her books, visit Rachel at rachelschurig.com

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  Visit her author page on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/RachelSchurigAuthor)

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  Meet the Ransom Family

  The Grandparents

  William Sr. and Ruby Ransome

  The parents and their children

  Reed and Paige—Everly (21), Presley (18), Santana (15), Vega (13)

  Cash and Sam—Wyatt (33), Will (23), Silas (17), Cecelia (13)

  Lennon and Haylee—Lyric (16), Cadence (14)

  Daltrey and Daisy—Rose (24), River (22), Fox (19), Violet (14), Ash (14)

  Levi and Karen—Alexandria (22), Phoenix (16)

  Wyatt

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I nod for what feels like the hundredth time, sure that my face still holds the same carefully constructed neutral expression I’ve been wearing all day. A strange numbness has settled over me, everything around me taking on that not-quite-real tinge I’ve gotten used to over the last week or so.

  “Thank you,” I say, the same thing I’ve said to everyone else who came before this middle-aged woman in a black dress who I’ve never met before. “We’ll all miss her so much.”

  The stranger’s eyes fill with moisture, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. A few people have succumbed to their grief right in front of me, forcing me to comfort them. If this woman begins to sob, I really don’t know if I can handle it.

  To my immense relief, she merely pats my arm and murmurs, “she was so proud of you,” before walking away.

  “Why don’t you take a break, kid?” my dad says, his voice low in my ear. “Go get some food. Talk to Will or something.”

  I cast a glance around the somber room, at the people who still hover nearby, waiting for their chance to give their condolences. The possibility of escape sounds too good to be true. My younger brother Will is just as tall as I am, but he’s also burly and broad with a beard and a bunch of tattoos, some visible at the edges of his dark suit. He intimidates just about everyone who doesn’t know him well. Not many people will approach me if I go sit with Will for a few minutes.

  But this is your responsibility, a voice in my head reminds me. You’re her closest family. And you owe her, for everything.

  My mom eyes me from Dad’s other side, her expression even more concerned than his. “You can take a break, Wyatt,” she murmurs. “Alice wouldn’t want—” Her voice chokes off at my grandmother’s name, and my stomach clenches, nausea running through me. My mom is clearly struggling today. I can’t just walk away and leave the job to her.

  But my dad must have wordlessly communicated something with Will from across the room, because a large hand curls around my shoulder. “Come grab a plate with me,” he says, his gruff voice softer than usual, more gentle. Everyone is acting like this with me—like I’m fragile, about to break. I wish I could tell them they don’t need to bother, wish I could explain to them how numb I am without sounding like an unfeeling asshole.

  “Come on,” he says, tugging on me a little harder. “You’re pale as a ghost, man. Last thing you want to do is get dizzy or something.”

  The idea of passing out at my grandmother’s wake is enough to get my feet moving. I refuse to make this day about me. So I allow Will to steer me over to a secluded alcove. He pushes me down into the ugliest flowered chair I’ve ever seen, rock-hard with faded velvet cushions. He takes the couch across from me. A moment later, our cousin Rose appears at my side, setting a plate carefully on my knee. She doesn’t say anything, just kisses the top of my head before walking away. A stab of emotion pierces the ever-present numbness but I manage to swallow it back.

  “Not too much longer,” Will says, glancing at his watch. “Then you can get some rest.”

  I don’t tell him that there’s a part of me dreading the end of this day. Yes, standing here talking to all these people is draining and difficult, just as the funeral was earlier. And the viewing yesterday—God, the viewing may have been the worst part of this hellish week, knowing my grandmother was laying there in that box, all the warmth and energy I loved about her gone forever.

  But as hard as all this has been, the ending scares me more than I want to admit. When my grandfather succumbed to cancer three months ago, I learned that the funeral week seems to exist in a weird gap of space, where time is frozen. Your only task is to get through each day, each part of this weird death ritual we humans practice. It was after his wake, after the last of the mourners had gone home, that it all truly felt real. That was the true start of my life without him, without the numbing distraction of the funeral, and there was nothing I could do except begin it.

  I have a feeling that the end of this day—the end of the last act of duty I’ll carry out for either of my grandparents—will be even worse. The hole he left in my life is bigger now because it contains her, too.

  “Wyatt,” Will says, his voice a little sharp, and I jerk my head up, realizing that I’ve been staring into space for the past few minutes, my food untouched. God knows what my face looks like.

  “Eat, man,” he urges. Robotically, I pick up a tiny, crustless sandwich and shove it in my mouth. It feels like sawdust as I chew, the taste barely registering.

  Will lets me eat in silence for a few minutes, not pressing me. But I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s scared I’m about to lose it or something. “I’m fine, man,” I finally say.

  He sighs. “No, you’re not.”

  I don’t really have a response for that. There may be ten years in age between us, but my younger brother and I have always been close. He knows me better than just about anyone and there’s not really a point lying to him.

  “You know Dad is going to be on your case to come home,” he says, his eyes drifting over to our parents, standing in the spot I just vacated, shaking hands with yet another stranger. Mom’s eyes are glassy, and from the way my Dad’s other hand is clenched on her
back, she’s not entirely steady on her feet.

  I need to talk to her. Alice and Bruce Warner may not have been her blood relatives, but they were still her family. The only true parents she ever had. I know she’s struggling with this, know it’s hitting her hard that they’re both gone, the two deaths coming in such quick succession. My little sister CeCe told me Mom nearly collapsed when she got the call about Grandma, her grief overwhelming. If there’s anyone in this room who might be hurting as badly as I am, it’s my mother.

  But every time I tell myself to go to her, to sit down and talk, to try to grieve with her, something stops me.

  Maybe I’m just not ready to not be numb yet.

  I realize that I’ve been staring at her too long. Time is doing that weird thing again. I’ve been losing huge gaps of it for the last five days. I tear my eyes back to my plate, trying to remember what my brother had said. Right, Dad.

  “He already has,” I tell him. “He’s wanted me to have the surgery in LA from the beginning.” I flex my tight, aching hand, grateful that I’d refused when he first brought it up. I’d considered it—the idea of being stuck in my apartment in rainy Seattle without being allowed to play my piano sounded like torture. The complete opposite of recuperating in bright, sunny LA. God knows there’d be enough siblings and cousins running around there to distract me.

  In the end, I decided I didn’t want to leave Grandma so soon after Grandpa died, and put off the surgery for a few months, as hard as it was to imagine not being able to play for so long. But thank God I did—I would have never forgiven myself if I hadn’t been here for her last weeks.

  I miss whatever Will says and shake my head. “Sorry, man. I keep zoning out.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Wyatt,” he says softly. That thrum of emotion that had threatened when Rose wordlessly brought me food is back, stronger this time. My brother doesn’t usually do soft and gentle and something about that tone of his voice has my eyes stinging.

  “You should consider it. Coming home for a while,” he clarifies. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  “I do have friends, you know,” I say, managing a dry smile.

  “Friends aren’t your family,” he argues.

  I let my eyes drift around the room. Family. My dad has a big one—uncles, aunts, cousins, my grandparents on his side. The Ransome clan could fill the room all on their own. And every one of them made the trip from LA to Seattle to be here for me and my mom.

  “And most of your friends are from work,” Will continues. “Which means they’ll be out on tour, right?”

  The reminder of the European tour that I’m missing sends a curl of dread through me, the same way it has pretty much every day since I found out I needed surgery. You’d think I’d get used to the reality of sitting this one out eventually, but so far, it still stings like a motherfucker.

  And there’s no guarantee that it’s only this tour. There’s no guarantee that the surgery will work. My hand might never be the same and—

  I shouldn’t be fucking thinking about this right now. Who the fuck cares about playing piano? My grandmother, the woman who raised me until I was nine, is dead. What kind of selfish prick is more concerned with his career than that kind of loss?

  “He’s going to be relentless now,” Will is saying, still talking about Dad. “He doesn’t want you to be alone. I heard him talking to the uncles about it, so be prepared to be nagged by all four of the Ransome brothers.”

  “God knows they can’t do anything half way,” I mutter.

  Will gives me a small smile. “To be honest, I’m happy to be recruited to Dad’s cause. I’ll bug the shit out of you, even worse than the adults.” His eyes turn intense as he holds my gaze. “You should be home, man.”

  I look away. He’s right. I should absolutely go home to LA to finish my recuperation. Dad already found a world-class surgeon and a team of physical therapists to help me through the recovery when my hand has healed enough. It wouldn’t kill me to spend some time at the ocean. To spend some time with family.

  But here’s the thing about our family—it doesn’t just mean my parents and my siblings. My dad’s brothers all live within a few blocks of him. Between the four Ransomes, there are fifteen kids. I have three siblings and eleven cousins—well, technically they’re half siblings and cousins, but every one of them would kick my ass if they ever heard me say that. I was welcomed fully into the Ransome family from the moment my Mom married my step-dad Cash. That’s why all of them are here right now, my cousins and aunts and uncles scattered around the room, at this wake for a woman with whom they shared no blood. Just because they know what she meant to me.

  Movement around my mom catches my eye and I look over to see Karen Fraser hugging her. A lump fills my throat. “I didn’t think she could come,” I mutter. “Wasn’t she in Singapore or something?”

  Will shifts his gaze to see who I’m looking at. “Aunt Karen? She was in Tokyo, I think. A photo shoot for some magazine. Levi told me she was going to fly straight here if she could manage it.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  Will nods. “I know she was upset to miss the funeral.”

  Karen and her husband Levi aren’t technically related to everyone but, like me, they’re honorary members of the Ransome family. Levi has been best friends with my dad and his brothers since they were kids, while Karen and Aunt Paige are practically sisters. Levi worked for the band for years and then helped start the record label with my dad and uncles. Karen is a big shot photographer who’s constantly jetting around the world to take pictures of celebrities and is probably one of the coolest people I know. Levi has been here with their kids, Phoenix and Alexandria, since a few days ago, but I hadn’t expected to see Karen at all.

  Without much conscious thought, my gaze seeks out the Fraser kids. Predictably, Nix is sitting with several of the mid-teen cousins, who stick together like glue. Alexandria—Alex—is just as easy to find, tucked next to my cousins Rose and Everly on a couch in the corner. She’d be easy to find in any crowd.

  I sure as hell always seem to have a hard time keeping my eyes off of her.

  A pit forms in my stomach as I force my gaze back to my brother, trying to banish the thought of honey colored hair and flashing brown eyes. Yeah, maybe going home to LA isn’t the best idea.

  “It would mean a lot to Mom,” Will says, and I don’t like the cautious note I hear in his voice. Like he thinks I’m not going to want to hear this. “To have you around. She’s struggling with this, man,” he continues. “Losing them hit her hard.”

  “What’s with the cagey look?” I say, voice sharp and defensive. “You think I don’t care that Mom’s having a hard time?”

  He holds out his hands. “Of course not. I didn’t say that.” But his expression doesn’t change and a surge of guilt rises up in me. I’ve been feeling like a shitty son for a long time now, but I hadn’t realized it was obvious to anyone else.

  Will leans forward, elbows resting on his knees while he studies my face. “Look, maybe this isn’t the time to bring it up, but everyone misses you, man. You barely ever come home anymore.”

  “I have a job,” I snap.

  He’s undeterred by my warning glare. “The symphony doesn’t perform 365 days of the year, Wyatt. You didn’t even come home for Christmas last year.”

  He’s right. I planned to, even bought the ticket to Tennessee where the entire family was planning to gather at the farm for the holiday. But I’d chickened out at the last minute, right around the time I found out that my dad’s best friend was coming, along with his family.

  Will is watching my face closely. “I know there’s something going on,” he says, voice low and fierce. “You can talk to me, Wyatt.”

  But I can’t. Not about this.

  “I should probably get back,” I say, setting my barely touched plate down on a spindly antique side table. Will looks frustrated, running his hands over his beard the way he does when he’s
agitated, but he doesn’t try to stop me. He knows when to let things go.

  If only the rest of our family could be the same way.

  As I stand, my eyes catch on our younger brother, Silas. He’s sitting alone on the other side of the room, which is probably what grabs my attention. It’s unusual to see Si without Lyric, Nix, and Presley, the cousins he’s closest too. His head is hanging low, shoulders slumped.

  “He’s been having a hard time,” Will says, coming up to stand next to me. “He’s worried about you, of course. And, you know…” he shrugs his shoulders a little and when he speaks again his voice sounds thick with emotion. “He misses them, too. We all do.”

  Another surge of guilt goes through me. I’m being such a self-involved, selfish bastard. No, none of my siblings had the same relationship with my grandparents as I did. But Alice and Bruce Warner considered my mother their daughter until the day they died. Some people might not have been so generous about a daughter-in-law moving on and getting remarried, but that was just one of the many ways my grandparents were amazing. They called my Mom’s kids with Cash their bonus grandkids, and showered just as much love on them whenever they came to visit.

  “I should talk to him,” I say, already moving in that direction. Our younger brother, seventeen now, has always been a sensitive kid. He had a special relationship with my grandfather, Bruce, who used to take him fishing all the time whenever the family was in Seattle. What kind of an asshole big brother am I, to forget about that?