14. Avery
Avery
“ T his is ridiculous. I don’t need to come out in every outfit,” I say, examining myself in a mirror. The denim jumpsuit has a heart cut-out in the back and snuggly hugs my ass without feeling like it restricts my movement.
“If you can’t show me, then how are you going to show a crowd?” he asks, his voice still clear, despite the velvet curtain separating the dressing room from the seating area.
The main difference between him and thousands of people? History? The way I can hide from them and he always sees through me.
I steel myself and step out. Besides us, it’s empty, other than the man at the counter waiting for us to finish.
Technically, the place was closing for the day when we arrived, but Wes flashed the owner a thousand dollars and like magic, we have the store all to ourselves for an hour.
“What do you think?” I climb onto the pedestal in front of the mirror and turn, stopping when I face him.
Wes is sitting with one arm draped over the back of an orange couch, with a pink boa around his neck that he somehow manages to make look good. He holds up a whiteboard that he got from who knows where with 10000/10 scribbled on it. It’s silly, but it does something for my confidence.
“I’m a fan. But the more important question is, how do you feel?”
“Good.” I nod. “I think we might need to do some tailoring around the bust,” I say, picking at the loose fabric around my boobs.
When we were making the bucket list, I never actually thought clothes would make such a difference.
But Wes bringing me here reminds me of when I would choose my clothes the night before going to Dave’s and I felt good.
My outfits were an extension of me, and anytime someone walked into the bar when I was singing, I wanted them to know exactly who I was.
“I doubt that will be a problem. This is our show, Ave. There’s no need to bring in any baggage you want to leave behind.”
“What’s your angle with this, Wes?”
“I don’t have an angle. I just don’t want to waste any of the time I have left with you.”
His words hit me in an odd way. The more we are around each other, the more I realize how differently we see this situation. I’ve felt like we’ve been out of time for years, but he seems caught in the middle, standing in the hourglass as the sand sweeps out from under him.
“If that’s all, you better make the most of it. Go find something to try on. You’ve been sitting on your ass while I’ve been putting in the work.”
“Oh, I’m in.” A smile stretches across his face as he rises to his feet and heads toward one of the neatly arranged racks of clothing.
I change again, this time into a black dress with sheer lace paneling. It’s flowy and light, the fabric catching on the faint breeze coming from the fans.
There’s a swish next to me as Wes goes into his dressing room. I wait for him outside and he doesn’t take long. With a dramatic sweep, he pushes back the curtain to reveal his selections.
My hand flies to my mouth. “No. There’s no way.”
Leather pants. Same pink boa. And a cropped purple concert shirt that shows off the dusting of hair on his lower stomach.
My fingers twitch with a desire to reach out and touch him, run a knuckle over the exposed skin and see what reaction I can draw out of him.
But I snap out of my daze when I see what’s screen printed on the fabric.
It’s merch from my first tour—and has my face on it.
“I know, right? Who would want to get rid of this? A classic.”
“Wes, you need to put that back.”
“This treasure? I’m wearing it in front of everyone to let them know exactly who your biggest fan is.” He pulls off his boa and steps closer to me. In one swift motion, he wraps it around me and pulls me to him so our hips lock together.
My hands land on his chest as a delighted laugh rockets out of my throat. “You didn’t need to do all of this.” The air crackled between us, and my fingers shift over the soft fabric, inconspicuously exploring the ridges of his body.
“I wanted to. It might seem silly, but this is a big deal to me. You’re a big deal to me.”
When was the last time someone prioritized my happiness without any ulterior motives? I haven’t even done that for myself.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to step back. The boa floats to the floor as he releases it and me.
I carry these thoughts with me as we change back into our regular clothes and carry everything we’ve selected up front. I try to pay, but Wes has already put his card down. Another gift from him.
His car is parked outside but as I pop open the passenger door, I spot something.
“You can go on ahead if you want, I can call a car. I’m going to check out that bookstore.” I cock my head toward the low stucco building with windows full of shiny new releases and posters for upcoming author signings.
“I have time, I’ll come with.”
With our bags in the car, we cross the street.
“Welcome in. Just so you know, we close in fifteen minutes. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” says a bookseller straightening up a shelf of thrillers near the front.
I head toward the “Fiction” sign at the heart of the shop. When we reach the wooden shelves, my eyes trail along crisp, unbroken spines until they land on Hudson Sloane.
Using my index finger, I slide out the first of the three titles, more than I’m used to seeing. It’s worse when there are none of his books, like he’s slowly being erased. If he was any less popular of an author, his work would be out of print by now.
As always, for Avery and George, reads the dedication page.
“Here, can you take this?” I ask Wes, thrusting the book in his direction.
He takes it, and I fish in my purse for my phone.
I use it to take a picture and send it to George and my grandparents.
I still haven’t heard from them since the Jamie scandal, and honestly I’ve enjoyed the reprieve, but I like to think they like seeing evidence of Dad still out in the world the way I do. “Thanks.”
“Do you visit bookstores a lot? It seemed like you knew exactly where these would be shelved.”
“If I have time. It’s nice to see his name and that people still get to know him. I think he’d like that, he always loved meeting new people, and he still gets to.”
“That’s your last name. Oh my gosh, is this your pen name? Did you write these?” I jump at the stranger’s voice and find a girl looking at Wes and me from around the corner of the shelf. She can’t be more than seventeen.
“Yeah, I wrote it when I was ten,” I say flatly. The book was written in 2002 when we were in Paris. We were sitting at a café outside of Basilique du Sacré-Coeur when he scribbled “The End.” Her brows furrow, and I sigh. “My dad wrote it.”
“He’s a writer?”
“He was.”
“Is this one good?”
“His best. Here, take it. I have copies at home.” Stacks and stacks of them.
She takes it gingerly from me, like the book is precious. Part of me wishes I could have just had this moment here alone with Wes and the books. That I could have one uninterrupted moment, but seeing how she cradles it in her arms melts the ice around my heart.
“Thank you.” She beams then darts toward the register to buy it.
“I haven’t read that one, is it really his best?” Wes asks.
“I don’t know… I haven’t read any of them.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because I’m terrified it would be like seeing his ghost. And it’s not the ghost part that scares me.
I wonder if he’d be proud of me, you know?
He never got to see any of this, and maybe that’s for the best. He didn’t have to see me become someone who was willing to marry someone to become five percent more famous.
” My eyes sting, my throat tightening with every word of my admission.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to read one of his books.
” I reach down, shuffling the remaining two books into better positions like as if I’m rearranging flowers at a grave site.
“I guess that’s why I haven’t gone back to Caper either. ”
“You could, though, if you wanted to,” he says as his face softens.
“That’s your home, Wes. George is your mother. I have plenty of other places I can be.”
There have been times I’ve thought I was ready to go back.
But ever since what happened between us, it didn’t feel right.
That’s his home. She’s his family. What right do I have to march in and hope I’m still welcome?
Sure, George and I are on good terms, but phone calls and texts are different than staying for dinner.
“It’s not the same without you.”
“So sorry, but we need to lock up for the day. Can I help you with any purchases?” the bookseller asks, her mouth in a plastic smile that lets me know she wishes she didn’t have to interrupt us.
“We were just about to get going,” I tell her, stepping away from the shelf.
We leave and ride together in silence. It was such a good day, but talking about Dad and Caper is just a reminder of how much has changed.
“He’d be proud of you. What you’re doing now, finding yourself again… He’d be so proud,” Wes says when we pull to a stop in front of the single-story white house I’ve rented for my time in LA. “I don’t know if me saying that counts for anything. But I can’t imagine a world where it isn’t true.”
The day sticks with me even as rehearsals start and Wes and I rarely see each other beyond when my time is about to end and his is about to start.
Because our sets are separate, beyond a joint finale number each night, our rehearsal times are also separate.
In those moments I feel his eyes on me, watching every move, cocking his head to take in every note that falls from my lips.
It doesn’t make me feel judged, but that he truly appreciates it no matter how many times he listens to the same song.
I don’t know what to make of him. I want to believe he’s changed, but I can’t. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to give me a reason not to trust him.
“He’s. So. Infuriating.” Each word is punctuated with a sharp inhale.
My lungs burn as the heels of my boots thud heavily against the rapidly rotating belt of my treadmill. It’s tucked in the back room of my rental, facing a window so I can see the sparkling skyline of LA against the starless night sky.
“I could have told you that.” Evelyn’s voice comes from the headphone plugged into one ear. The other earbud whips around wildly between my body and the treadmill's digital dashboard. “I’m not sure why you’re expecting him to be any different.
“You’re right.” I hesitate to tell her more. She wasn’t exactly a fan of me going on this tour in the first place. And keeping my hopes for the future locked in my head feels safer, like if I don’t say that I’m excited out loud, then it’s less likely I’ll be hurt if Wes does disappoint me.
“Are you good? I can call back later.”
“No,” I pant. “This is good. If I wasn’t calling you, I’d be singing while doing this.
” The exercise is supposed to help with building stamina and stability so while I’m moving on stage my voice remains smooth and not like my entire body is bouncing.
Plus, this is a great way to break in the new pairs of boots I bought with Wes, so they mold to my feet and won’t give me blisters after performing in them for hours.
“Because you haven’t done enough of that today. You’re just going to tire yourself out and be too exhausted for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. We’ll be working on our first finale number together. I’ll be singing with Wes, and I’m both excited and terrified of what old feeling may come to the surface.
A sigh gusts from my lips. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Sleep. Call me tomorrow to tell me how it went.”
“You too, it’s late.” With a three-hour time difference it’s close to midnight for her.
We say goodbye, and I turn off the treadmill, wiping sweat from my face and heading to my kitchen to get more water.
A knock sounds through the empty house. I want to ignore it and go to bed like Evelyn suggested, exhaustion finally seeping through my aching legs, but I also know that with the security measures in place, not just anyone would be able to come to my door.
Setting my glass in the sink, I head to the front, pausing to look through the peephole. Wes stands arms crossed over his chest, head swiveling to take in my house.
A zip of excitement shoots up my spine. All it took was a few weeks for my body to forget itself. I can’t trust him yet, no matter how my heart seems to pound faster at the distorted view of him through the door.
He raises his fist again, but before he knocks, I undo the lock and yank it open. For a moment he pauses, hand hovering mid-air, like he can’t believe I actually answered the door.
“I feel like I’m missing something here, a new fashion trend maybe.” Wes quirks a brow as he scans down the length of my body. His gaze sends sparks against the exposed expanses of my skin. Besides my knee-high boots, I’m only in a sports bra and shorts that cling to me.
“I was going for a run.”
“As one does in four-inch heels,” he says matter-of-factly, but his lips twitch as he fights a smile.
I prop a fist on my hip and lean in the doorway. “They do if they don’t want to sound like a wheezing mess on stage. What are you doing here?”
“The rest of the dancers and band members are throwing a party on a private beach. I was headed that way and wanted to see if you wanted to join.” He twirls his key ring around a finger, showing off the fob of his Honda.
“Wes—”
“Of course, I could leave and go by myself, but I remember you explicitly said you want to have fun.” He shrugs. “But I guess not everyone is a fan of a good old fashioned beach bonfire.”
“Threatening me with a good time?” If everyone else is out, what’s the harm in joining?
“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”