Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-five
CASSIDY
“Are you sure you don’t want a beer with your lunch?” I ask Dillon, placing his plate in front of him on the table.
In each city, band members have selected local microbrews. Many have found their way into our refrigerator.
“Nope. Sober for going on eleven years,” he responds, biting into his sandwich.
“I didn’t know that. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Miss Cassidy. Some days are harder than others. But it’s worth it.”
“I make a mean mocktail. Any flavors you prefer?”
Some evenings, if Aria goes to bed early, I have an extra few hours on my hands and whip up snacks for after the show. I’ve worked in a kitchen since I was a teen and think I’m conditioned to make appetizers.
“This lemonade’s just fine. You don’t have to dress it up. I like nothing fancy.” He lifts his cup.
We’re on a two-day stop, camped overnight outside an arena. I underestimated how close cities were in the northeast and how many country fans lived above the Mason-Dixon line. Isaiah has performed multiple consecutive shows in several states, mostly over the weekends, but there’s always the exception. A Tuesday or a Wednesday at a coliseum or at the field house at a large university. Flying to Texas or Tennessee on Isaiah’s off days doesn’t make a heck of a lot of sense. In between, we sneak in and out of rural America where folks do double takes, shaking their heads that an Isaiah Roomer lookalike is in their small town. Sometimes they approach him bewildered and ask for an autograph, but overall it’s more likely our presence goes unnoticed and we’re a random couple out with their baby.
I’m not alone in my road-weariness and I’m cautiously optimistic about the upcoming reprieve when we arrive in Nashville. Although my fingertips prickle with unease at the thought of sautéing at Isaiahs’ house there. It feels like we’ve traveled non-stop as Dillon navigates at the head of the caravan of buses through Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore. I’m glad I don’t have his job. The congestion on the highways scares me.
At this location, there’s a mammoth Whole Foods nearby. My hair pulled under a baseball cap and a blanket draped over the baby carrier on my chest, Monty pushed the buggy while I went a little nuts shopping. Lunch today is peach and Prosciutto sandwiches on crusty baguette loaves with melted white cheddar, leaf spinach, sliced tomatoes and a tangy mustard dressing. My mouth is watering and I can’t wait to eat, but I have to fix a basket of food that’s going inside and the last batch of homemade potato chips is in the air fryer.
I don’t cook every day for Isaiah’s entire entourage, nor do I feed them every meal, but I enjoy the days that I do. It keeps me busy, and it makes me feel useful. Everyone from the bass guitarist to Dillon has offered their gratitude, so that helps. My cooking is one less meal they have to eat that comes out of a greasy fast food bag.
Maybe I’m also trying to win them over. Aside from Isaiah’s viper, no one is unkind to me. But someone took our sweet moment, when Isaiah brought the baby with him and surprised me with his new song, and tipped the press off. I’ve had my privacy invaded. Under a microscope, every fissure is my fault. When I set foot outside of the bus, the media circus makes the weight of posing as Aria’s mother daunting. I’ve had to reassure my parents that I know what I’m doing by not speaking up and correcting the assumption that Aria’s my child and not Isaiah’s, like we led them to believe. I’ve had to remember I was never the other woman because the real issue is there was another man. I love Isaiah and how protective he is of Aria and me. Except, I don’t think I’d have the stomach to lie if I didn’t love her so much. If I didn’t want to protect her from the ugliness out there so that she grows up healthy and with a strong sense of self.
When we’re alone, it feels like I expect having a family would.
When we’re alone, my mind wanders, wondering if she’ll be front toothless in her first grade picture and if I’ll drop her off at dance class or gymnastics or if she’ll prefer riding horses.
Aria is playing in the hallway. She climbs in and out the lower bunk with ease, scattering her toys in front of the closed bedroom door. The familiar thumps, clicks and jingles let me know she’s okay. The tactile crinkle sound of a stuffed dog she likes to chew on catches my attention.
“Mmm,” She hums, with the dog dangling by its ear gripped between her tiny pearl teeth.
Everything goes in her mouth, especially when she’s hungry. And almost always it’s the same toy. She’s pulled herself up to standing and is using the bunks to maintain her balance as she cruises toward the banquette. Her proud smile around the fabric is adorable and makes my heart swell.
“Are you ready for lunch, too?” I kneel far enough away for the baby to be daring and close enough that Isaiah won’t miss her first steps and hold my hand out to her.
I worry about her first hard tumble when she starts walking. Inevitably, that morphs into her first skinned knee. Learning to ride a bike. Suddenly, I’m jumping the hurdle of helping her mend her first broken heart.
Aria’s first birthday is so close. Isaiah and I plan to keep it small. Outside of the people the baby sees daily, we’ve only invited Rhiannon. My cousin is photographing Aria with her smash cake. I’ve pulled the exact Chantilly cake recipe I want to use from the Benita’s box. I’m keeping the frosting white and dying two of the layers pink to make a checkerboard pattern, and intend to decorate it with strawberries and bananas, which are Aria’s favorite fruits. I’m not sure how I’ll top her birthday cake next year and I know thinking about her next birthday is getting too far ahead of myself.
The longer I pretend to be her mother, the more I want to believe Aria will always be ours. Some days I’m hopeful and other days worry about who will care for her and keep her safe stops me from eating.
I lift her to my hip, offer her a homemade chip in exchange for the dog, and check the remaining time on chips still baking. Aria squirms, pointing her chip at the container of cajun ranch dipping sauce that belongs in the picnic basket. I spoon out a bit on a plate and let her poke her chip into the creamy puddle.
“She sure is a healthy baby. A healthy eater.” Dillon says.
“I lucked out. Aria’s not picky.”
“Were you?”
“I’ve never asked my mom. I’m apt to say I wasn’t, since I’m all about food now.”
“What about her father?”
My natural inclination is to say Isaiah is a member of the clean plate club. Between his workout regimen and two-hour performances multiple nights a week, the man eats non-stop. But biologically, there’s no connection. “I don’t know. Her father hasn’t been a part of her life.” Through murky shades of gray, I tell the truth.
When Dillon nods, I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet. We’re in our driver’s company a lot. Dillon is a nice guy who lends a hand whenever I need it. There’s a level of comfort I have with him around that mirrors the comfort I have with Monty and Steve. Except, knots form in my stomach over this humble exchange. Was Dillon prying for information about my relationship with Isaiah, attempting to get me to admit we were involved before Kylie passed?
Aria’s seat is ready at the table. I keep her in my arms and push the under-the-counter trash back into place with my foot. The barrel is brimming from food prep and I used the last of the sandwich wrap. The long rectangular box keeps popping the cabinet open. I offer another chip for her to suck the dip off of. It’s surprising what you can accomplish with a baby glued to you.
The door to the bus opens and Ben trudges up the stairs.
“I had to step out of the meeting to take a call. Somehow that made me the man who drew the short straw, and I was told to check on the status of lunch.” He wiggles his cell, dropping it in his pocket and rolling back on his heels.
I’ve gotten to know Ben’s voice over speakerphone. He’s shown up on the road more than once. He’s here today to check up on Isaiah because Will is on his honeymoon.
“Your timing is almost perfect. I was just packing it up to send over,” I say, scooping the hot final batch chips with a spatula and covering the container.
As I try to snap the lid on the ranch dressing, Aria lunges, fussing that I’ve taken it away from her.
“Jeez! Wait, kid.” Ben attempts to catch the baby as she slips down my side. He winds up holding her, facing outward. “I think I got her.”
“Thank you… I’m so sorry!” Aria’s ruddy-faced. Unamused that she can’t have the entire container of dip, she’s a bomb I need to diffuse. “This’ll keep her occupied and hopefully keep her sticky fingers off your suit shirt.” I snag another chip off of my plate. Aria wrestles it from my grip, plunging it into her mouth. “Do you mind? Just while I put everything else in the basket?”
“That’s fine. I’ll charge Isaiah for my dry cleaning,” Ben replies in a joking manner. He regards Dillon and sighs. “You know, Cassidy, it’s difficult not to feel like a traitor saying this, but you’re good for him. I know Kylie was… It’s my turn to be sorry. I can’t speak poorly of the dead… Maybe what I’m trying to express is while I was on her team, I understood they weren’t ever on the same wavelength and maybe the vows they took meant something different to each of them.”
Ben’s face flushes. Initially, I take his reaction as embarrassment over what he’s saying in mixed company. After all, both men on the bus were more than acquaintances with Kylie. Dillon was her driver. Ben managed her career. But Ben clears his throat and I’m certain it’s more. He slept with her. Ben slept with Isaiah’s wife and he’s assuaging his guilt by telling me I’m the better choice.
Stilling as I place the last of the lunch in the picnic basket, I codfish.
Oh, God. What if Ben’s Aria’s father? I feel possessive of her. Defensive of Isaiah. How could Ben? How could Kylie? How many times did she cheat on her husband with her manager? Will searching for every man Kylie slept with, who could possibly be this little girl’s father, be like finding a needle in a haystack?
I’ve never hated Kylie for breaking Isaiah’s heart. For Aria? This child deserves so much better than the lot she was dealt.
Ben sees the moment I read between the lines and his eyes go wide. “They wouldn’t have worked out is all I’m saying. Kylie wasn’t ready for kids. Isaiah clearly can’t get enough of your daughter. So, don’t beat yourself up over the tabloid headlines. Don’t let the fans get to you and let them undermine a good thing.”
“Is your advice because you need me to keep Will’s client happy?”
We hastily switch the baby for the lunch basket.
“He’s on top of his game. I’d be stupid not to want a client to stay there as long as possible. But I mean it sincerely. Isaiah, he had white knight syndrome, and I think her death made him realize he’d never save Kylie from her demons. I’m glad he moved on. I’m glad he found someone worth scaling the wall for. You balance each other well.”
“Did you really draw the short straw?” I ask pointedly.
“I was headed in this direction.”
I tilt my chin toward Aria and brush my lips over her forehead. She shoves a huge hunk of my hair in her mouth.
“If you have everything you need, I have to get her fed.”
“Yeah, sure. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The response is automatic.
Ben exits the bus. I strap Aria into her high chair and give her chopped pieces of spinach, tomatoes, cheese, and some more chips. Dillon sits opposite me at the table. He’s finished his lunch, but neither of us seems to know how to break the tension.
“Ben’s not off the mark.” Dillon finally speaks. “She wasn’t a bad person. But every one of us who saw them together knows it’s different between you two.”
“Mmm-a-mmm.” Aria grabs my attention, holding a chip for me the way she makes Isaiah eat puffs.
“You need a bath after this!” I take the chip and tickle her.
Aria wiggles and giggles and hums some more.
“She certainly loves you,” Dillon says as a glop of drool runs down the baby’s chin.
“So messy,” I say, making the baby squeal and giggle. “So messy!”
Our life is so messy. Our life is so blessed. Am I supposed to tell Isaiah my hunch about Ben and Kylie? Will it make a difference if Ben’s affair with Kylie doesn’t coincide with Aria’s birth? Is it worth hurting Isaiah? Can I let Aria go with Ben? Someone who looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin holding a baby?
“Ah, here. Lemme get a clean napkin for you.” Dillon unrolls the paper towels on the tabletop. He rips off several, and I use them to wipe Aria’s face. She finds it hysterical and spits some more. What’s she going to be like with that smash cake on her birthday?
Dillon picks up his plate and brings it to the sink. “Anything you need before I go?”
“Steve’s outside. Would you mind asking him to take the trash out?”
“I can do it.”
“Thanks, Dillon. And for what you said, too. I don’t want you to think I was ignoring you.” Maybe accepting the compliment is easier from someone I’m around often.
“I only spoke the truth.”