Influence (Modern Jane #1)

1

She had been forced into prudence in her youth, She learned romance as she grew older.—Persuasion

My ex-boyfriend—let’s be honest, the only man I have ever loved—steps on stage and the crowd goes wild, so does my heart.

I bought the cheapest ticket possible. Because, yeah, I am a total chicken and am terrified of seeing him again or rather him seeing me. The last time I saw Freddy–well, let’s just say... I don’t think he’s forgiven me, and I don’t blame him. I don’t blame myself either; I was young and confused. I know better now, but the damage is done.

From this distance, I can’t really see his face. But I’d recognize that silhouette anywhere, starting with his signature thick, wavy black hair, his chin tilted up in defiance, his improbable wide shoulders and long, powerful legs. From my place in the cheap seats, he can be seen sauntering on stage, wearing a T-shirt and jeans—exactly what I’d expect from Freddy West, low-key, authentic. The same laid-back surfer who rescued me six years ago. He strums his guitar, and the music reverberates through the air. I shiver with anticipation.

I can almost feel his large hands under my own that Sunday afternoon in my garden, when I placed his fingers on the frets of my guitar and taught him how to strum his first chord. He plays a riff, thousands cheer and stomp their feet. I recognize the tune, one of several hits from his debut album: Shipwrecked. Yet, from this far away, he doesn’t seem real. He is merely a man on a stage, a concept, Freddy West, rising star. It’s hard to believe he ever held me in those muscled arms. That we whispered promises to each other.

He begins to sing. His rich tenor with a pleasing rasp pours out from massive speakers, making every cell in my body tremble with recognition. The sound pierces my soul. I close my eyes, and tears start flowing. So many sweet memories, so many bitter regrets. I cry through the entire song even though everyone around me is dancing.

Freddy ends with a flair and yells, “Good evening, San Diego! What a night!” The crowd roars. The sun just dipped into the bay behind the white amphitheater, leaving the sky layered in shades of blue, pink, and gold. “Thank you, thank you. I find it hard to believe you all paid hard cash to hear me play.” His face is large on the jumbotron. I can see new crinkle lines by his brown eyes when he smiles. “This is where it all began. Five years ago, I was studying for the bar.” He pauses, then chuckles. His laugh echoes through the evening air. “I should have been studying, but it was a struggle. I was recovering from a broken heart. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. My only comfort was this guitar.”

I’ve watched every interview, read every article about Freddy’s meteoric rise to fame. You better believe I’ve followed every step of his rapid climb to success and done what I could (behind the scenes, of course) to help him. So, it comes as no surprise that our breakup inspired his career. But to hear him tell the story in person, even if it’s to an audience of thousands, well, it makes me wonder: did Lettie tell him I’d be here? But that’s impossible. How would she reach him? He starts another song, Lucky Day. There’s a line about a rising tide and a girl in a wet sundress. That girl was me.

I had just finished recording my third album and desperately needed a break. I wanted to go somewhere on my own. But my dad and half my team insisted on coming along with me to San Diego, which made what was supposed to be a vacation an extended work trip. We stayed at The Lodge at Torrey Pines—my dad was going through a golfing phase.

I snuck out early one foggy morning. The air was chilly, and I wished I’d thought to wear a cardigan over my yellow sundress. I wandered empty trails, breathing in air smelling of eucalyptus, sage, and ocean. It was such a relief to be alone. I followed a sandy path down to the beach.

I spotted a large flat rock just offshore. Perhaps, I was drawn to it because it looked like a stage. Once I took my wedges off, it was an easy climb with lots of hand and foot holds. On top, I found several small tide pools filled with sea anemones and a much larger pool about the size and depth of a bathtub. Kneeling for a closer look, I was soon lost in the mini-universe living below me. I laid down flat on my tummy, sending a slew of crabs skittering into the water. Silver minnows darted in and out of long green sea grass while a purple starfish reigned over a cluster of black mussels.

I walked to the edge of the rock to dangle my feet over the ledge, savoring the feel of the ocean mist spraying my legs and dress. The sun rose higher, warming the air and turning both sky and water a pale pearly pink. Watching a row of pelicans fly low over the water, I felt a mounting gladness that I had made my escape. This freedom was well worth mucking up my favorite sundress. I turned back toward the shore and gasped.

The tide had rolled in. The narrow strip of sand between my rock and the cliffs lining the beach had turned into a channel of water. Would the water soon cover this rock? Perhaps. How else had the tide pools beome filled with sea creatures? But maybe the water wouldn’t be that high? I peered down at the swirling ocean. I didn’t like the idea of jumping in. I crossed to the far side, facing the horizon. With the tide rising, the waves had grown in size and force. They slapped the rock with such power that the spray crashed over my head. I paced back to the cliffside. The distance wasn’t far. But it lengthened every minute as the tide surged. I could swim that distance. What scared me was jumping off the rock into the unknown. I decided to simply stay on the rock; maybe the tide would never reach it. Only to save my life, would I take the leap.

I scanned the shore and water for help, feeling stupid for rebelling against my father and ditching my security team. Harold would be punished for allowing me to get away, and it really wasn’t his fault. And then I saw him. At first, I thought the black smudge on the water was a seal or a dolphin and then I realized it was a man paddling on a surfboard. My first thought was pure relief. I would not have to swim along the coast until I found a safe spot to come ashore. But as my rescuer, who had been paddling flat on his board, pushed himself up and his sculpted bare chest came into full view, my next thought was, “Holy guacamole! This guy is hot.” As in wonders-of-the-world hot. His black hair reached his broad shoulders, and even wet I could see that it had some curl. To add to his overall attractiveness, it was clear that he thought about his looks as much as the nearby cliffs contemplated their strength and beauty.

“Need a lift?” He hollered over the crashing surf. He had just the slightest hint of a smirk, the closest he ever came to asking what the heck I was doing stranded on a rock in a sundress at 7:30 in the morning.

“Yes please!”

He quickly directed me to the safest spot to get off the rock and slide into the water. And in a flash, he pulled me up with his strong arms onto his surfboard.

“How did you know how to do that?” I asked once I was safely in front of him, straddling the board.

“I’m a lifeguard.”

“I didn’t think lifeguards were out this early.”

“I’m not on duty. I was catching some waves.” He reached over me, his golden-brown torso keeping me warm as he paddled us to shore. “I’m not sure why I stayed out. The surf is trash.”

I turned to look at him. For a moment, I was taken aback by his beautiful face, the perfect blend of strong and tender. Firm jawline, soft full lips, traceable cheekbones, and soulful eyes. “I guess it’s my lucky day,” I said.

His half grin became a full-fledged heart-stopper. “No, it’s my lucky day.”

He sings about our first meeting from the stage, and the whole crowd joins him. “Lucky day, lucky day.” I shouldn’t have come to his concert. It’s exquisite torture. I’m not sure why I am submitting myself to this, two hours of watching him, besieged by his voice, drenched with memories. I am reliving every sweet moment, deepening every regret. I guess I had to know. I was curious how much progress I had made. The answer is: none. I’m not over him. Not one little bit. And though he talks about his broken heart. I’m fairly sure that’s just part of his schtick. If he really cared, he could have found me. I suppose... he could say the same about me. And here I am, hiding in the cheap seats. But that’s different. He’s the star now, and I... I am the nobody.

I stay for the whole concert. By the encore my tears have dried, and I am singing and dancing with thousands of my new best friends. My blood surges with some sort of cathartic bliss at sharing this moment with Freddy, even if he doesn’t know I’m here. He is absolutely killing it. And even with all of my regret, I am so very proud of him. I know how it feels to be on stage. I love watching Freddy soak up the crowd’s energy and channel it all back out with his music. He is magnetic, magnificent, ecstatic. For his final encore, he takes the mic. The lights dim, the spotlight is on him. “Every musician has a song or two we wish we had written. For me, one of those songs is ‘Romeo and Juliet’ by The Dire Straits. This is my heart.” He laughs at himself. “A bit cryptic, but true nonetheless.”

I know this song. It’s about a guy who cannot get over the girl who broke his heart.

He belts out, “All I do is miss you...” Could this line be about me? I really, really want it to be.

“I’ll love you till I die...” Oh, please let this be about me. He finishes, the crowd cheers. He again thanks everyone. The audience screams and stomps. He bows and waves. For a minute, he looks out into the crowd as if he is searching for something. Then walks off, head bowed and shoulders hunched as if he is carrying the weight of the world.

I’m no longer crying. I feel way too much for tears, too much to smile or laugh. I keep reminding myself that this excess of emotion is the natural effect of a great performance. The last song was an act, not a glimpse inside Freddy’s heart. No matter what he said. He has no clue that I’m in the audience. But I can’t help but wonder. Could he? Is it possible... after all this time, that he cares as much as I do? I stand perfectly still. Maybe I should go backstage? If I give my name, security might let me in. My star has faded, but I’m still famous enough to open some doors. Would he want to see me? That song!

I can’t think straight. I realize I’m still wearing my stupid oversized sunglasses, and it is full on night. I take them off to see better.

“OMG!!!!” A woman nearby squeals. “Are you April Rain?” Before I can even answer, another fan spies me.

“April Rain!!!” A knot of people surrounds me, asking for my autograph and a selfie. Perhaps I’m not as much of a has-been as I thought.