This Lullaby

This Lullaby

From the award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of Once and for All   She’s got it all figured out.   Or does she? When it comes to relationships, Remy’s got a whole set of rules.   Never get too serious. Never let him break your heart. And never, ever date a musician.   But then Remy meets Dexter, and the rules don’t seem to apply anymore.   Could it be that she’s starting to understand what all those love songs are about?   “Remy and Dexter jump off the pages into the hearts of readers, who will wish for a romance like this of their own.” — Booklist   Sarah Dessen is the winner of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for her contributions to YA literature, as well as the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award.   Books by Sarah Dessen: That Summer Someone Like You Keeping the Moon Dreamland This Lullaby The Truth About Forever  Just Listen Lock and Key Along for the Ride What Happened to Goodbye The Moon and More Saint Anything Once and for All "A winning story about coming to terms with the fact that loving someone requires a leap of faith, and that a soft landing is never guaranteed." - School Library Journal Sarah Dessen is the author of thirteen novels, which include the New York Times bestsellers The Moon and More , What Happened to Goodbye , Along for the Ride , Lock and Key , Just Listen , The Truth About Forever , and This Lullaby . Her first two books, That Summer and Someone Like You , were made into the movie How to Deal .    Dessen’s books are frequently chosen for the Teens’ Top Ten list and the list of Best Fiction for Young Adults. They have been translated into twenty-five languages. Sarah Dessen is the recipient of the 2017 Margaret A. Edwards Award from the Young Adult division of the American Library Association.   Sarah Dessen graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with highest honors in creative writing. She lives in Chapel Hill with her husband, Jay, and their daughter, Sasha Clementine.   Visit Sarah at sarahdessen.com. CHAPTER ONE The name of the song is "This Lullaby." At this point, I've probably heard it, oh, about a million times. Approximately. All my life I've been told about how my father wrote it the day I was born. He was on the road somewhere in Texas, already split from my mom. The story goes that he got word of my birth, sat down with his guitar, and just came up with it, right there in a room at a Motel 6. An hour of his time, just a few chords, two verses and a chorus. He'd been writing music all his life, but in the end it would be the only song he was known for. Even in death, my father was a one-hit wonder. Or two, I guess, if you count me. Now, the song was playing overhead as I sat in a plastic chair at the car dealership, in the first week of June. It was warm, everything was blooming, and summer was practically here. Which meant, of course, that it was time for my mother to get married again. This was her fourth time, fifth if you include my father. I chose not to. But they were, in her eyes, married—if being united in the middle of the desert by someone they'd met at a rest stop only moments before counts as married. It does to my mother. But then, she takes on husbands the way other people change their hair color: out of boredom, listlessness, or just feeling that this next one will fix everything, once and for all. Back when I was younger, when I asked about my dad and how they'd met, when I was actually still curious, she'd just sigh, waving her hand, and say, "Oh, Remy, it was the seventies. You know." My mother always thinks I know everything. But she's wrong. All I knew about the seventies was what I'd learned in school and from the History Channel:Vietnam, President Carter, disco. And all I knew about my father, really, was "This Lullaby." Through my life I'd heard it in the backgrounds of commercials and movies, at weddings, dedicated long-distance on radio countdowns. My father may be gone, but the song—schmaltzy, stupid, insipid—goes on. Eventually it will even outlive me. It was in the middle of the second chorus that Don Davis of Don Davis Motors stuck his head out of his office and saw me. "Remy, honey, sorry you had to wait. Come on in." I got up and followed him. In eight days, Don would become my stepfather, joining a not-so-exclusive group. He was the first car salesman, the second Gemini, the only one with money of his own. He and my mother met right there in his office, when we came in to buy her a new Camry. I'd come along because I know my mother: she'd pay the list price right off the bat, assuming it was set, like she was buying oranges or toilet paper at the grocery store, and of course they'd let her, because my mother is somewhat well known and everyone thinks she is rich. Our first salesman looked right out of college and almost collapsed when my mother waltzed up to a fully loaded new-year model, then poked her head inside to get a whiff of that new-car smell. She