Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
Even though my mom called to tell me she was finally coming out of her flare-up, I told her not to push herself tonight to make the show.
Mike and Everly both couldn’t get out of work, but I didn’t even mind.
Bowing to a sold-out crowd in Austin is a check off a bucket list I didn’t know I had.
Even without my friends or family there, somewhere among that whooping, dazzled audience were likely folks I know.
Kids I went to elementary school with. Happy Tortilla regulars.
Guys who dated and then screwed over my mom—I smiled extra brightly for them.
I’m thrumming with a different kind of energy when we leave the venue and Pete informs us we’re going to Dime a Dozen, a divey spot well-known by local musicians and celebs looking to keep a low profile.
I’ve missed Texas more than I realized. The drive over Lady Bird Lake this afternoon stole the breath from my lungs—the multicolored boats like rainbow sprinkles atop a swath of wide blue sorbet.
The scent of leather and wild sage in the balmy evening air.
I’m electrified by the familiarity as we stand before Jen in the front lounge.
“Two last things and then you’re all free,” Jen tells us. Molly and Wren are already a bit buzzed. Pete’s playing Kendrick Lamar on the speakers. The whole bus is itching to barrel out those doors and into the bar.
“I know it’s been a long few weeks, but we only have three shows left, so let’s make sure to give them our all, okay? There’s no curfew in these final cities, so we’re adding ‘Under a Silver Sun’ to the set list in between ‘Meadowlark’ and ‘Consume My Heart Away.’?”
“The fans are going to be so stoked,” Indy tells Tom. “They’ve been requesting it on every one of your platforms.”
“Good, yeah,” he replies. “That’ll be really nice.”
I quirk a brow at him. He sounds genuinely happy to be adding a song to the set list.
“Tom,” Jen continues, “we’re going to have you take that Rolling Stone piece in LA before the Bowl. It’ll be a warm room, just a handful of musicians talking about process and life on the road.”
Grayson pales across the room. “What?”
“Sure,” Tom says easily. “Sounds right.”
“Great. Now you’re all free. Have f—”
“Are you kidding?” Grayson slams his beer down on the kitchenette counter. “What the fuck, Jen?”
“C’mere to me lad,” Conor warns. “Don’t make an eejit of yerself.”
“It’s fine,” Jen says. “Grayson, I get your disappointment. But Tom’s just a more enticing subject for the publication. You have to understand that.”
“What I fucking understand is—”
“Let’s talk about this in private.”
“That was my article. My shot to become an enticing subject of my own. I’ve been working—”
Jen’s nostrils flare. “I said , in private.”
Grayson doesn’t say more. The entire band avoids any meaningful eye contact. Rhythmic music thumps in the bus speakers as he pushes past Jen and out into the night. I exhale a sigh of relief as the rest of the group moves for the doors as well.
“God, he’s obnoxious,” I say to Tom, who’s kicking off his boots in the front lounge, leather notepad and pen already in hand.
Tom shakes his head. “I’ll be glad to be rid of him in a week.”
A week. That’s all we have left. “Do you want to join us?”
“Nah. You go on,” he says with warmth. “Your next Christie novel and I’ll be waitin’ here for you.”
But this is one of our last nights together.
And he said himself he’s trying to connect more with the band…
I cut my eyes to the bar doors outside and the soft twang of banjos and harmonicas whistling out.
“Pete says this is the perfect bar for you. Nothing fancy about it, no paparazzi, just good people and good music.”
Before he can open his mouth to say no, I add, “For me?”
It’s lonesome going out without him. Molly gets hit on by half the club until Pete saunters over and sticks his tongue down her throat.
Indy makes a new friend and ends up giving them advice on their failing marriage in the corner while Lionel tries to hand out his business card to strangers.
Grayson—who I’m more than happy to avoid—finds his next willing sex partner, and while Conor and Wren always offer to include me in pool or darts or whatever they’re playing, we all know how bad my hand-eye coordination is.
What was once novel has become routine and I blame a certain ladder-length Irishman for that. Everything is just less fun without his lyrical commentary and soulful wit nearby.
Tom studies me, and with a plaintive groan, yanks his leather boots back on. I grin my delight and bop from foot to foot until he follows me off the bus with a begrudging grin.
“You got Halloran to come out with us?” Lionel asks loudly into my ear once we’re inside. He’s clearly a few shots deep already. “You must be really good at having sex.”
Molly makes a face. “Ew, Lionel. Nobody wants to hear you say sex .”
Lionel nods as if she’s made a fair point.
Tom stands behind me like a lengthy shadow. Someone points at him and guilt pricks at my joints. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
At the bar Tom pulls his baseball cap on, which I gather is more of a safety blanket for him than any real disguise. I get us two soda waters and a Guinness for Conor.
“And a beer please,” he tells the bartender. “Cheers.”
When I turn to him in surprise he says over the din of the crowd, “I’ve heard some folks drink for pleasure, and not solely to drown their sorrows.”
But his eyes hold some kind of appreciation. Like something new has developed that allows him to feel differently about the stuff. He takes one sip of the foamy beer, and then a larger gulp when a rambunctious patron knocks into him.
“Slow down there, partner,” I say with a southern drawl. “I can’t carry you to bed like you did for me.”
Tom laughs a bit but stays pretty quiet. A gaggle of women across the bar are staring at him. He turns his back to them and takes another sip.
“We can go back,” I say, my voice competing with the catchy bluegrass song.
“Lad’s fine,” Conor says, sidling up to us and taking his Guinness from me. “Cheers.” He downs it in three long gulps and then smacks Tom on the shoulder. “Gargle’s a sound start. Another?”
“No, no,” Tom warns. “One’s plenty.”
Tom’s shoulders have relaxed a bit. I remind myself these two have known each other since they were kids. If Conor isn’t worried about Tom, I shouldn’t be, either.
Conor snorts. “Don’t be troublin’ yerself o’er Jen? She’s not even here, like.”
Briefly I pride myself on how well I’ve come to translate Conor’s brogue.
“Nah.” Tom’s mouth curves down. “Jen’s given up on me. I told Brad I wasn’t after doin’ the record.”
Conor claps Tom hard on his back. “Good on you, boyo. Feck ’em, right?”
I smile, watching Tom and Conor clink their glasses.
“Cara’s goin’ta be fair delighted to see ya,” Conor says. “What a show that’ll be. The old gang together again.”
For some reason my brain tells me, Don’t puke . “What show?”
Tom loops his arm around my waist, loosening up just as I’ve turned stiff as a board. “She’s got a show in Los Angeles same weekend as ours. She’s going to open for us, and then we’ll surprise everyone with ‘If Not for My Baby.’?”
“First time they’ll be singin’ it live together since the original tour,” Conor adds.
“No way,” I say, even though my throat might be closing up. Can you develop anaphylaxis? I think I’m allergic to this information. “Our last show—the one in a week at the Hollywood Bowl—will end with you and Cara singing our so—your song?”
Tom nods like this is pretty straightforward.
“That’s great! So great. Really cool.” I need to be medevaced from this conversation. “Excuse me one second,” I say. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”
It’s possible Tom says something like Sounds good but my ears are ringing and the banjo sounds like a death knell and I just need some fresh air.
I push through the crowd until I’m outside and remember it’s July in Austin and the air is even warmer than all the human breath stored up inside the bar.
I have no clothes to shed—I’m in a black tank top, cut-off denim shorts, and my cowboy boots—so I pace around the back parking lot of Dime a Dozen until I can’t hear anything but the buzz of cicadas and hum of fluorescent streetlamps.
The lot is empty, aside from the wide stretch of pitch-black sky and the freckling of stars.
I sink against the wall and close my eyes, breathing in night air.
So what if Tom and Cara are going to be reunited in LA? Why would I be affected by a man I’m casually sleeping with hanging out with an old flame? I never wanted to care about trivial things like that. I’ve been working for weeks—a lifetime, really—to avoid this exact feeling.
A mosquito lands on my upper arm and I slap it hard enough to sting.
I look at my palm and find it bare. Too late.
It’s too late for me. I never wanted to care, but…
I do. And now all I can think is what I’ll do with the scraps that are left of me when this is all over.
This is why we don’t talk about the tour ending soon.
It’s not a game of who-cares-less chicken as I’d once thought—it’s because we’re both so frightened.
A sickly, unfamiliar horror seizes my gut deep and low—what if I’m never the same? How could I be, after Tom? Maybe I’ve already made the same mistake my mom did. Let some man change me for the worse. Stamped as damaged goods for the rest of my life.
“Damnit,” I say on a mighty exhale, slamming my head into the wall behind me. “Goddamn it.”
“Bad night?”
I look up to find the last man I want to.