Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
HENDRIX
We start just outside the hotel where we are staying at the Four Seasons, which is situated along the Mississippi River. It’s a typical day in May for New Orleans, hot and humid, but thankfully not unbearable, and a slight breeze helps cool everything down.
Or at least it should.
But walking next to Zara seems to raise the temperature at least ten degrees. Because the heat between us is off the charts. Every time her hand brushes against mine, I feel my pulse spike. I want to hold her hand, but I don’t know if that’s weird or even if we’re there yet.
Zander, my self-proclaimed dating guide, said physical touch is important, especially outside of the bedroom. It creates intimacy and trust.
Big words coming from a guy whose whole relationship was based on a lie.
Zander met Elena right after he signed an NDA with Manic.
He was required to keep it quiet until the band decided to make the announcement.
For the first few weeks of their courtship, she had no idea she was falling for an up-and-coming rock star.
As we make our way to the French Quarter, we grab iced coffee and chai from a street vendor and pass by a musician playing jazz on the street. I drop a twenty in his case. On the next block, there’s a guitarist.
Another twenty goes in his case.
By the fourth block, I’ve dropped nearly a hundred dollars, and I’m happy to do it.
There is some incredible talent on these streets.
But the world seems to go on around them, barely stopping for a moment or two before wandering off again.
This kind of art should be treasured. Appreciated. Preserved.
Zara has been quiet for most of this time, but she finally turns to me. “You really love music, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I really fucking do.”
A church bell rings in the distance as a streetcar passes. “Have you always wanted to be a musician?”
“Not always, no,” I answer, taking a sip of my coffee. “At one point, I was like any other kid and wanted to be an astronaut or a fireman. But that Creed DNA eventually kicked in, and I found my way to the bass.”
“So is everyone in your family musically inclined?”
A large tour group is headed our way, and I grab Zara’s hand and pull her close. “No. Well, yes.”
“Which one is it?” She laughs.
“It’s both, I guess you could say. We all have the ability, but not all make use of it. My older brother, Cash, for example. He’s an incredible pianist, but you’ll rarely see him play.”
“Why?” she asks, not seeming to mind that I haven’t let go of her hand. I keep it there. It’s nice.
“I don’t know, honestly. He once told my mom he fell out of it because he was simply too busy. He’s got a demanding job, and being a single dad…”
“But you don’t think that’s the reason.”
I shrug. “Seems like an excuse. If you really love something, you find the time. You make the time.”
Her expression falters, and I know, without asking, that my words have somehow affected her. It’s like watching the light in a room dim. I hate knowing I made her sad. But what I hate even more is the asshole who gave her a reason to be sad.
Fucking Tanner.
She hasn’t mentioned him much, and I wonder how he’s taken to the news that she is going on tour with someone he despises.
I round the corner into the kitchen but stop short when I hear a familiar laugh.
Fucking Tanner Price.
Last time he was here, I had to listen to him brag about how he fucked another one of his TAs. When I told Edwin I didn’t want him over here again, he said, “He’s my friend, Hendrix. We go way back. I can’t just cut ties with him. Our parents hang out.”
That was several months ago, so I was sort of hoping he’d reconsidered my request and kicked the guy to the curb.
Guess not.
“Why do you even put up with him, Edwin?” Tanner says in that condescending tone I can’t stand.
“What do you mean?”
“You could be living with us in the house my parents bought, but instead you’re slumming it with Hendrix Creed?”
“I’m not slumming it,” he snaps. And just when I think he’s gonna defend me, he says, “My parents bought me this house. It’s twice as nice as yours.”
“And you choose to share it with him? He shouldn’t even be allowed to shine your damn shoes, let alone share a kitchen with you.”
Damn. You’re hurting my feelings. I roll my eyes and walk away. I don’t need to hear what else Tanner Price thinks about me. Edwin and I have plans. Big plans, and nothing he says is going to get in the way of that.
We’re going places, and in a few years, I won’t even remember his name.
Can’t say the same for him.
Neither of us has forgotten the other’s name. I sneak a glance at Zara.
Definitely not for the reasons I expected, though.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood. “Did you always know you wanted to be a doctor?”
“I think I always knew I wanted to do something in STEM,” she replies, her voice already sounding lighter.
We pass a magic shop with a sign that boasts the best tarot readings in the city.
I’ve seen the same declaration three times in five blocks.
“But it wasn’t until I was in high school and I saw this guy collapse in the middle of the mall that I knew I wanted to be a doctor. ”
“Does every doctor have an origin story like this?”
She laughs. “Some, yeah. Others…others just want the prestige.” My guess is Tanner falls into that category.
“So was the guy okay?” I ask, tugging on her hand so we can turn the corner. So far, we have been just sort of strolling down Bourbon Street, too busy talking to really stop anywhere. But I have a destination in mind that I think she’ll like.
“Well, that’s the whole thing. He wasn’t okay.
God, it’s been two decades, and I can still remember exactly how my heart felt when I saw him fall.
It was like a tree crashing in the middle of a forest or like that game you play where you have to close your eyes, fall back, and hope someone catches you. ”
“A trust fall?”
“Yeah, exactly. It was super crowded that day cause of the holidays, which was a blessing. He fell into a startled group of shoppers, and they broke his fall. Anyway, it was the first time outside of a TV show I had heard the words ‘Is anyone a doctor?’ And then this woman shouted, ‘Here!’ The crowd split, and she ran and kneeled at his side.”
“And little Zara was hooked.”
“Yup, and it wasn’t even about the heroism or the honor of it. I just kept picturing that man collapsing and thinking, what if that had been my dad or my mom…or someone else I loved? And I just knew I wanted to be the one who could raise my hand in a crowd and know what to do.”
I keep walking, but I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the chest.
This woman is too good for me.
Here she is explaining how she became a doctor because she couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing how to care for and save her loved ones. And my current life goal is to what? Get my chance in the limelight so I can finally one-up Edwin? Prove to the world I’m more than my last name?
“Oh! Is that an art gallery?” she asks, pointing to a building a bit further down the street. I hadn’t even realized we had reached Royal Street.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Actually, that’s where I wanted to take you. There are a bunch on this street.”
“Really?”
She’s beaming up at me, and damn, if that isn’t the best feeling in the world—like sunshine or playing a brand-new bass for the first time. It feels like…something I can’t quite define yet. “Yeah, I remember you loved art back in college, so I thought I’d take a chance that you still did.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
I remember a lot of things.
I remember how she used to doodle on her notepads during our tutoring sessions.
I recall the day when I finally asked her about it and saw her face turn red.
I’d never seen her embarrassed about anything before.
When she finally showed me the doodles, she admitted she loved art but was a terrible artist. I, in turn, told her I loved to sing even though I couldn’t carry a single note.
She drags me down the street, and for the next two hours, with a break in the middle for lunch, we explore every art gallery we can find.
I don’t think I realized how different each one would be.
Neither did she, judging by the way her eyes widened when we entered the one with the neon-colored modern art, complete with matching frames.
It was so damn bright in there. They should consider giving sunglasses at the door.
Every gallery we go to, I feel like I am learning something new about Zara.
She loves watercolors and black-and-white photography the most. She will stand in front of a candid photo of an old man playing chess and say something insightful, like, “What do you think his life was like?” and suddenly I will find myself staring at him, wondering the same damn thing.
She is so curious. It’s infectious.
Everything about her draws me in, and there are whole chunks of time that pass where I simply watch her move from one canvas to the next, soaking up every detail.
As if she were a priceless piece of art.
Because that’s what she’s starting to feel like.
Priceless.
“You ready?” she asks as we step out of a small photography studio. She actually bought a few prints to put up in her new room when we get back to LA. I remember her apologizing for the lack of furniture and the bare walls. At the time, I just assumed she hadn’t moved everything over yet.
I didn’t realize that was all she had after the divorce.
“Here.” I hold out my hand. “Let me take your bag.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” she protests and then motions to my right hand. “I saw you rubbing your wrist when we were in there. Is it sore?”