Chapter Ten
Ten
It’s the dead of night when my alarm serenades me with a jarring, electronic jaunt.
Molly’s practically comatose and I’m pretty sure there’s a beefier lump from Boston beneath her covers, too, but I don’t squint to further investigate.
I shower with my eyes closed and nearly fall asleep against the tiles before a shoddy blow-dry and some very rudimentary concealer.
Regret nearly hollows me out: I should not have stayed up until three rehearsing with Indy.
I may know this duet like I wrote it myself, but I also just put my shoes on the wrong feet.
That wakes me up far better than the hot sludge in my to-go cup.
I pull out my phone to text my mom:
Clementine: If you’re awake at six put on the Morning Show with Joe Jennings!
Then I swing open the town car door and find one very bleary-eyed Irishman.
“Good mornin’ to ya,” he says, as I scoot in beside him and buckle my seat belt.
I try in vain not to memorize the broadness of his jaw or the way his dark hair has a slight reddish tint to it when the first rays of sunshine slip through the car’s open window.
We’ve never been this close: only the empty middle seat stretches between us.
He smells divine, like showering in forest rain.
His eyes are the green of a sea under generous sunlight, and just as breathtaking.
I must shiver, because he rolls up his window in courtesy and then leans forward to ask the driver to blast the heat.
Before I can thank him, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mom Clark: Is my BABY going to be on TV??????????
I can’t help my snort as I write back to her.
Clementine: More question marks please, I can’t hear you
Clementine: (yes!)
Halloran scrubs his face in exhaustion beside me. I wonder if I’ve annoyed him somehow.
“That was my mom,” I announce for no reason.
Though he doesn’t say anything, he breathes out evenly as if my words have actually soothed him, rather than irritated.
“She’s very excited about the morning show,” I add. “Thank you again. For the opportunity.”
“As I said, it’s you I should be thankin’.”
His face is immaculate this close up. My eyes roam the thick widow’s peak at his hairline. The few freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. His pale skin practically glows in contrast to the beard that sweeps down past his ears, over his full lips, and across his chin.
“What’s she like?” he asks. “Your mam?”
A much-needed shove back into reality. My mom. The person I’m doing this for. The reason why I cannot and should not get loopy over Halloran.
“She’s my best friend. And the greatest person on the planet.”
Halloran’s eyes warm. “That’s really sweet.”
“I’m not even kidding. I miss her a ton. This is the first time we’ve ever been apart.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. I sound like a freak. “Not in a weird way, or anything.”
But he only cocks his head. “Why do you think that would be weird? I miss my parents, too. They’re some of my favorite people.”
Something in my chest constricts and I imagine what it would be like to offer him a hug. I imagine he’s the kind of person who would warmly accept, even if he didn’t really want one.
“How does your dad feel knowin’ you favor your mam?”
“I never met him, actually. My mom had me at sixteen. It’s always just been us two.”
Halloran nods, but doesn’t say I’m sorry nor how brave of her , which are my two least favorite responses.
“I don’t mean only us like my mom’s my only friend,” I add.
“I have friends.” The brakes on this train are failing.
I don’t know how to stay on the tracks—I want to tell him things.
I want to study his reactions, see what he deems interesting or boring or salacious.
Halloran looks to be fighting a smile, which doesn’t help anything at all.
Stop talking. Just stop talk— “ You met my friend Everly, actually. The one who got me this job.”
“Right.” He nods in memory. “Kudos to her. Gabby’s a sensational performer.”
“Yeah, she’s over the moon about it.”
“Dropped me right quick.” He fake-scoffs. “The nerve of herself.”
“But you got me instead.” I make phony jazz hands as if I’m some very exciting prize.
Halloran laughs hard, exposing all his gorgeous teeth, and I laugh, too, because I can’t believe how silly I keep allowing myself to be with him.
“I’m actually quite indebted to her for that,” he says. “Remind me to send your Everly an Edible Arrangement.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the small-town hick. She’s never stayed in a hotel and doesn’t know the name of the Washington Monument .”
Halloran raises a brow at me. “That how you see yourself?”
I shrug, and then greatly wish to move on from the bit. “Mike’s a good friend, too, despite everything.”
“Mike…?”
I could have gone anywhere with this runaway train and I conducted it to Mike ? I’m sending myself to death row. “The sexting fiasco.”
“Ah. Your ex.”
“But it’s been years. And we’re just friends now.”
“…With benefits.”
“Not anymore, I suppose.” The car rounds a bend and I sway into my seat belt. “I have some work friends and some old school friends, too. I’m normal, is what I’m saying.”
“Very normal.” He nods. “The most normal.”
I purse my lips at him but can’t help how my heart continues to race. The car turns onto the freeway and I settle farther into the sticky pleather.
“What kind of work do you do, Clementine?”
His low voice and my name are a deadly combo. I’m too aware of my clothes against my skin when he speaks to me like that.
“I’m a waitress. How’s that for normal?”
But every time I expect pity or judgment, Halloran surprises me. “I was a shite waiter. Far better as a barman, I think. Less talking.”
“I forget you were a regular guy before you were famous.”
“Sure, I worked all the odd jobs back in Dublin. Groundskeeper, golf caddy, futile guitar tutor to a handful of dispirited teens.”
Man, if I’d been a high school girl learning guitar and got to spend my afternoons under the careful tutelage of Tom Halloran…He’s watching me intently as my chest flushes at the thought. I look away from the simmering potency of his stare.
The respite only offers me a chance to study his outfit. Navy slacks, brown tweed coat with elbow patches, a white button-down beneath. My eyes travel down the length of his arm and find him casually toying with a loose thread on his pants. No sleeve has ever been too long on this man.
“I like your literature professor clothes.”
“My God.” Halloran swipes a hand down his face. “Is that what I dress like?”
“Yes, but it’s great. Never change.” Never change? What am I, signing his yearbook?
“I won’t,” he murmurs, “just for you.” He’s begun to lean toward me, and I realize I’m doing the same. Both of us sinking into the comfortable intimacy of this car ride. Before I can catch my breath, we pull into the parking garage and our driver opens Halloran’s door.
“See ya,” he says, and then he’s ushered into an elevator by a Morning Show PA.
The pre-show buzz around the studio is familiar and energizing me. I can hear a comic warming up the studio audience on the other side of the wall. I’m brought into the fitting room first for hair and makeup, both of which I find oddly soothing. It’s almost showtime—a space I feel most like myself.
When the lovely hair and makeup team is finished with me—and I look less like I rolled out of bed and more like I sing professionally for a living—I’m brought into a viewing room with a beige couch and some refreshments. Lionel, Jen, and Indy are in here, too.
“Holy hell,” Indy chirps. “You look gorgeous. ”
I peer into a framed mirror on one of the walls. She’s not entirely wrong: the professional winged eyeliner has made my round eyes mesmerizing. And surely my skin has never looked this dewy or clear.
“Pretty,” Jen says, eyes on her phone. “And I like the black, very slimming.”
“Camera does add ten pounds,” Lionel says, as if letting me down gently. I don’t allow myself to hiss at him.
The flowing black dress they put me in has a sort of mournfully folksy vibe, which is only improved upon by the dangling earrings and black cowboy boots.
As an ashy blonde I don’t wear a lot of black unless I’ve got a decent tan going in the summer, otherwise I can veer into ghoul territory.
But this lace dress is dramatic and gothic, and if I were the stealing type I might just take it home with me.
“Shh, they’re starting,” Indy announces.
Joe Jennings is a clean-cut, well-manicured TV man. The kind of person you can’t imagine being six years old. He was born in a suit and tie, and his first words were “We’re live .”
“So please give a warm welcome to our guest,” Joe says, wrapping up his introduction, “Halloran!”
The crowd cheers and Halloran lopes out from behind a curtain, waving to the audience and pressing his palms together in a show of gratitude. He sits across from Joe and crosses, then uncrosses his legs. He’s too long for the chair and it’s painfully cute.
It dawns on me that the brooding, intimidating Halloran that sings about devils and crones and corpses in bogs is at almost inextricable odds with the kind, gentle man I’m currently watching through the monitor.
“We’re thrilled to have you,” Joe says to him.
“I’m feckin’ delighted to be here.”
“Fuck,” Jen says. “Already?”
Lionel groans and begins feverishly texting someone. “I’m on it.”
Halloran doesn’t seem to realize he’s cursed on live network television, and Joe moves past the gaffe like a pro.
“It’s been five years since your first album, To the End , was released.
The hiatus before Kingfisher seemed to only fuel the mystery that surrounds you and your music. Is that why you made your fans wait?”
“I— Sometimes songwriting can have a timetable of its own, and for me, as an artist, I think—”
“Well, to your fans, you’re less of an artist and more of an ethereal bog creature.” Joe pauses so the audience can laugh and cheer. “Where do you think this lore stems from?”
Halloran chuckles, bracing his hands on his knees. “Yeah, my spectral form and Druid’s cloak aren’t doin’ me any favors, are they?”
The audience roars their laughter but Joe doesn’t appear too amused.
“Well.” Halloran scratches his beard softly. “Ireland is unlike many other places. We’ve got these mirrored lakes and forests thicker than a blanket. It’s very old land. Haunting. Mystical…I employ a fair bit of that imagery in my music.”
The way Halloran’s eyes light up when he talks about home is at diametric odds with how hideously bored Joe looks. It makes me want to backhand him.
“So you can talk about Ireland all day long, but you’re famously private about your personal life. Does that add to the mythos, if you will? Is that a marketing strategy?”
My eyes cut to Jen. For as much as I find her callous and self-serving, she’s good at what she does. And the way she’s gripping her phone is telling me Joe’s tone is bothering her, too.
“Jesus, I wish I were that smart.” The audience laughs and I exhale a little. “I’m elated when folks know me through my music. That interpretation of me is far more exciting than anything else I have goin’ on.”
“But when asked about, let’s say, your romantic life, is there a reason you avoid those questions?”
Halloran twists his fingers into his palm. “I don’t think it necessarily helps people connect to the work, to know the intricacies of my—”
“Can I just ask you point-blank if you’re seeing anyone?” Joe presses. “Or if you’re recovering from heartbreak? This album seems to say so.”
“You know,” Halloran says coolly, “it’s something I’ve just chosen not to really speak on.”
“All right, all right,” Joe says, hands up in mock defense. My hackles rise at his tone. He’s making it sound like Halloran is being difficult.
“One song on your album, ‘Halcyon,’ is a tragic tale of a love lost. Can you tell us about the woman who inspired it? Was Halcyon her name?”
Halloran chuckles good-naturedly, but now that I’ve seen him really laugh—the way he practically glows when his joy radiates outward—I can tell this one is just masking irritation.
“You may be disappointed to learn no person I dated directly inspired the song. Halcyon is actually a term that means—”
“Person!” Joe quirks a brow at the audience. “That’s something new, isn’t it? Is your fan base wrong to assume you’re straight?”
Jen rolls her eyes. “I’m going to string this fucker up by his balls.”