CHAPTER 46 (1)

There are different kinds of famous. There’s the famous that puts asses in seats at your latest show and fan pages in your results when you type your name into an internet search bar. Then, there’s the famous where you can’t cross a street without being ambushed. Even industry insiders rush you, only they do it with air kisses and stories rather than with selfie requests. After a year of touring and an EP, I’m still closer to the first camp. But the man hosting this party will always rule the second. The patio’s decked out with high-end décor and higher-end guests. The king of rock has come out of retirement to start a label, and everyone wants a front-row seat. It’s not Eddie I’m looking for. I search the crowd for Emily, and I finally spot her at the bar. It takes a few minutes for me to get to her, as I’m slowed by industry types who try to suck me into conversations. “I didn’t think I’d see you,” I comment once I fight my way through. At the sound of my voice, Emily turns. I’ve played big stages, but the moment those golden eyes fringed in dark lashes find me, I’m a fucking newbie. At being a musician. At being a man. Her dark-purple dress hugs her figure, and I can’t stop staring. Not because she looks fantastic, though she does, but because it’s been so long since I’ve seen her in person. “I didn’t think I’d walk in on you in the pool house with a girl. Again.” Her voice is low and smooth, with a hint of self-mocking. “Somehow, that wasn’t the most awkward encounter I’ve had this afternoon.” Emily looks past me at the crowd. I follow her gaze but don’t see where it’s landed. “In that case, I owe you a drink.” “It’s an open bar.” “Fine, I’ll buy you two.” That earns me a reluctant smile as Emily orders a sparkling water and I get a ginger ale. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here, either,” she admits as she takes the drink from the bartender. “Heard you were in the studio in LA.” “I’m on a break.” “For?” She sidesteps to let a man brush past her heading toward the bar. I turn it over before answering. “Sanity.” The fabric of my dark jacket absorbs the sun, and I’m heated from that and her attention. She lifts her glass. “To sanity, then.” “Amen.” We both drink. I swore if I saw the first woman I ever loved again—when I saw her again—it would be like seeing an old friend. But as my gaze runs over her pale skin and slick lips, it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels like every scar I’ve ever had is new again. “Ooof,” comes a noise from knee height as something slams into my legs. Sophia peers up with bright eyes from under dark bangs. Her little elbows try their best to clamp around my knees. “I got you, Uncle Timothy.” “And what will you do with me?” Sophia’s round face scrunches. “Cheese.” “You’re going to turn me into cheese.” “No.” Giggles rack her little body, vibrating through my legs. “There’s cheese up there.” She points to a high top table a few feet from the bar, lowering her voice as if we’re conspiring together. Then she shrieks, delighted, as I boost her up on my hip. “Does Emily like cheese?” Sophia asks as I walk us to the table. “I have watched your sister inhale her body weight in cheese fries.” I let Sophia pick out a few chunks of cheese with a toothpick before setting her back down. “Want anything?” When I start to pass Emily a plate, her fingers brush mine. “Be careful. Timothy has an ouchie,” Sophia intervenes from around a bite of Manchego. Emily takes the plate but stares at the black rose on my hand, the vines winding down over my knuckles. “I heard it was three months before you started playing.” When she saw my hand last, it was a mess of still-red gashes. Now, it’s covered in white lines, but the ink is all most people see. “I was reduced to singing for eighty-six days. The guys I toured with mocked me endlessly. Got my first surgery when we came back to the States.” There was still pain, but at least I had more control of my fingers. I remember the hope that came from the surgery, thinking it would be a cure-all, only to realize it had made a modest difference at best. “Did you tell the band to suck it?” “Among other things.” My lips twitch at the corner and hers curve to match. Suddenly, I’m remembering the feel of them under mine. I’m thinking of the things that mouth has done to me. The things I never had a chance to do with it. I wish I could say we made it work with me on tour and her in New York, or even that we tried. But that would be a lie. She didn’t want me. Not that she said as much. But overnight, our relationship was reduced to stilted texts, rushed phone calls squeezed into the margins of our lives. The shows and the work and the relentless schedule were something I ended up grateful for because they kept me from thinking too much about what could’ve been. I was going through some shit—trauma, plus shock, chased by some depression. Some days felt fine, like cracked pieces of broken ground after an earthquake settling together over time. Some days, it was hell. “How hard was it to learn to pick with your other hand?” Her question brings me back. To the rest of the world, I’d diminish it. The long hours late at night, early in the morning, learning my craft from scratch until I was better than most, if not as good as I once was. “Hard.” Her eyes color with compassion over the rim of her glass. I’m not the same person I was two years ago. Most people would agree that I’m more, given my career, my recognition, the gold album I recorded with the help of half a dozen nimble-fingered studio musicians. But in some ways, I’m less. We’ve both moved on, and I don’t blame her for our breakup. I was impossible to be around. Still. I wish she hadn’t been so quick to ask me to leave, and so willing to accept when our schedules made it harder to connect. Because she didn’t want us as much as I did. So maybe I do blame her. My gaze drops to a chain glinting dully in the sunlight and disappearing beneath the already-low V of her dress. When she shifts, I catch a glimpse of the end of it. Instead of a ring and a rose, there’s pearl-encrusted pendant. Because it’s not my chain. And she’s not my girl. There are plenty of women who’d beg for a chance to satisfy me, including the one I met at this party who was exploring the studio with me when Emily walked in. I clear my throat. “I heard you’re writing a new show.” I haven’t been keeping tabs on her, but I get the big developments from my roommate in LA, since she and Jacob are still friends. “We’re pitching funders later this summer, but there been some problems.” A frown crosses her face. “I wasn’t sure I should come to the party at all because of my deadline. Now it turns out Haley invited me and my dad didn’t know I’d be here.” I blink. “You’re joking.” She shakes her head, her hair slipping over one shoulder as she scrunches her face in embarrassment. “No. I guess two years is a long time to be gone.” The pieces click into place. That was her other surprise today. Eddie hasn’t mentioned her to me since he and I reconnected after my tour, but I figured it was for my benefit, not because he hadn’t seen her either. Someone calls Emily’s name and she looks past me. “Looks like Uncle Rudy wants to catch up. I should go.” “It was good to see you, Six,” I say and mean it. I don’t know why I slide in the nickname. Habit. Not to see if there’s a flicker behind her eyes. “You too, Timothy.” But as she brushes past me, I can’t help thinking Emily’s the one on the outside looking in. And it feels wrong. “Congrats,” I tell Eddie after Haley takes Sophia for some quiet time. The party has started to die down, and only Eddie’s closer contacts and friends remain. I lift the glass of bourbon he pushed on me to toast him at the bar inside the house. “You have everything you could want. A beautiful family. A bourbon brand. And now a label, the great ‘fuck you’ to the studio that fucked you first.” The man of the hour has stripped out of his jacket and is now wearing a black T-shirt and black pants and cowboy boots.