The Ballad of Darcy and Russell

Chapter 15

I stood by the door of the guesthouse, an impatient Great Dane next to me, feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu as I looked around, trying to remember if I’d forgotten anything.

After I’d woken up, I’d collected my—fully charged!—phone and saw an email from my dad. He had sent a picture of a giant fish he’d caught with my uncle, and told me he was planning on being home by three, but he’d call when he hit the road. He also mentioned that he hoped I’d gotten home okay last night, and that he couldn’t wait to hear about the show.

My heart was hammering as I typed out a reply—well aware that as far as my dad was concerned, I’d arrived last night and had just been home this whole time. I kept things vague and upbeat, saying I was good and looking forward to seeing him later this afternoon. Then I’d found the bus terminal and looked up departure times from Vegas to Union Station. I was relieved to see they left almost every hour, but just to be safe, I knew I wanted to be on an early one—nine was probably the latest I could push it if I wanted to beat my dad home. I wasn’t worried about missing my red-eye to New York—I didn’t need to be at LAX until ten tonight, and that was probably even a little earlier than necessary.

Once I felt like I had a handle on what needed to happen—an Uber to the bus station, bus to LA, arrival home before my dad—I set my phone aside. Of course, there was a second part of my itinerary that came after I got home. I had to finish packing, and then my dad and I had a plan. Dinner at Town, our favorite pizza place, the one we’d been eating at on Friday nights since I could remember. Then back home to load up my bags. And we’d swing by the In-N-Out in Raven Rock for milkshakes for the drive to LAX. We’d park and my dad would go into the airport with me as far as he was allowed, to see me off. And then… I would get on the red-eye that would take me to the East Coast, and college.

I took a quick shower and got dressed (mentally thanking Chloe for the incredible luxury of clean clothes). Then I packed my things, grabbed a banana and a little bag of almonds from the basket in the kitchen, and dropped them, along with my charged phone, into my canvas bag. I picked up my duffel and tent, and gathered up the clothes Chloe had loaned me. Then I headed for the door, the dog trotting along with me.

I turned and gave the guesthouse one last look. I was still amazed that it somehow conjured up New York for me so easily, despite the fact that I’d only been there once in my life. And even though this shouldn’t have been a surprise, it hit me that starting tomorrow I would be living somewhere that was only an hour from New York City. And as I looked at the city’s iconography all around me, I felt a little excited thrill in my chest thinking it.

When Tidbit started to whine quietly—it seemed like the canine equivalent of clearing one’s throat—I headed out and closed the door to the guesthouse behind me. Then I walked across the damp grass, Tidbit practically prancing as he led the way toward the main house. I’d leave a note on the counter, saying goodbye—and I’d just cross my fingers that the security people would be working this early and would see me when I waved, to open up the gates.

I pulled open the glass door to the kitchen, then closed it immediately once Tidbit and I were inside. He made a beeline for his food and water bowls, and I smiled as I realized this was probably why he’d been so eager to get indoors.

“Morning.”

I jumped, turned, and saw that Wylie was sitting at the table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee. “Oh,” I said, looking around. Moana was playing on the giant TV, but silently. I didn’t understand why this was happening until I took a step closer and saw that Astrid and Artie were sitting side by side on the couch, sharing a bowl of dry Cheerios, watching the movie with headphones on and rapt expressions.

“It’s our deal,” Wylie said, and I turned back to him. “They can watch Moana as long as I don’t have to hear it.”

“I thought it was good,” I offered, then a second later wondered if I should really be giving my opinion about a musical to a professional musician.

“I liked it too,” he said with a grimace. “The first fifty times. It gets old after that.”

I smiled. “I bet.”

“You’re up early,” he said as he stood up from the table and padded into the kitchen. This morning, he looked halfway between the dad I’d seen last night and the rock star who’d first answered the door. He was wearing black jeans and a white tank top with a gray, soft-looking cardigan over it. He was barefoot, with a single necklace—the one that looked like a shark’s tooth, edged in diamonds—and only three rings. “Sleep okay?”

I’d put on my now-clean jean shorts, a tank top I’d tie-dyed in Didi and Katy’s backyard at the beginning of the summer, and over it, the long-sleeve Silverspun T-shirt I’d paid an exorbitant price for. But as I looked at Wylie, pouring himself more coffee, I was immensely relieved I wasn’t wearing my Nighthawks sweatshirt, and we weren’t having to have this conversation while I wore a garment with his face on it. He looked at me expectantly, and I realized a beat too late that he’d asked me a question.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I did.” Tidbit shook himself and wandered away, and I was suddenly very aware that there was nobody else here—well, except for the two small children currently considering the coconut. That it was just me and Wylie Sanders, having a conversation.

“Early bird, huh?” Wylie asked as he opened the hidden fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. “I wish you’d give my kids some pointers. Well,” he amended as he opened the milk and nodded toward the couch, “not these two. They’re up at the crack of dawn every day. But these days you’re lucky if you see Russell before noon. Coffee?”

“Please,” I said, realizing as he said it just how good it sounded. I was also heartened to see the milk out—I liked my coffee about half milk and half coffee, and when I ordered at Starbucks, I was a sucker for the seasonal, pure sugar, no-coffee-required kinds of drinks. I set my things down by the door and crossed over to join him in the kitchen.

Wylie nodded and pulled a mug down from a cabinet. “I’m not really an early riser most of the time,” I said, not wanting to take credit where it wasn’t due. “I just needed to get moving—I have to get to the Vegas bus station so I can catch my bus back to LA.”

Wylie’s brows drew together as he poured me a cup of coffee, too fast for me to tell him to only fill it halfway. “Do you want to ride with us? We’re flying back to LA tonight.”

“Oh, really?” A moment later, I realized what he meant. He wasn’t offering me a seat on a Southwest flight. He was offering me a seat on his private jet.

We call themPJs, Katy said, her tone blasé.

We really don’t,Didi retorted, sounding appalled.

“That’s—so nice of you. I wish I could,” I said, really meaning it. I had a feeling it would probably be the last time a world-famous rock star was going to offer me a ride on a private plane. Or, if I was feeling optimistic about the kind of crowd I’d be running with in the future, the last time for a while. “But I actually have to get back sooner than that. I’m taking a red-eye tonight.”

Wylie nodded. “Ah. I see. Milk?”

“Thank you,” I said, crossing over to the counter to pick up my cup of coffee. He’d left the milk out, and I used the moment that he turned to open the fridge as my opportunity to pour some—okay, half—of the coffee out and fill the rest up with milk.

“What time is your bus?”

“I was thinking I’d get the eight o’clock? But I could probably also make the nine.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me see how long the Uber’s going to take.”

“We can get someone to drive you.”

“Oh—thank you so much,” I said, surprised. Were all rock stars this generous with offering up forms of transportation? Between this, the plane offer, and the helicopter, it really was above and beyond. “But I can just get a car.”

“It’s not a problem,” Wylie said, shaking his head. “Honestly, we try to limit the Ubers that come to the house—trying to keep the address under wraps.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding like this was just a normal thing. I thought about the gates, the WS three feet high. “I mean, I guess you could pretend it was someone else’s house? Like…” I racked my brain for a celebrity. “Will Smith? Um… Wallace Shawn?”

Wylie grinned, and there was suddenly a flash of the rock star I’d seen onstage yesterday, like he’d just flipped a switch or put on a costume. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll start spreading the rumor that Wallace Shawn has a spread outside Vegas.” I laughed at that. “But in all seriousness, it’s a bit of a trek, and I’d feel better about you not riding in a car with a stranger. If anything happened, your mom would never forgive me.” He opened the secret fridge and emerged with a glass bottle of orange juice, the kind that looked fresh-squeezed. His smile faltered as he looked at me. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I said quickly, wishing my face hadn’t betrayed me. Usually it was only people who knew me well who were able to read my expressions—it was why Didi always wanted to play poker with me. “I just—my mom isn’t exactly…” I took a breath. “She lives in Connecticut.” It was one thing to tell Russell all about my tangle of feelings about Gillian. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to burden a literal member of the Rock Roll Hall of Fame with them. “So I’m not really sure she’d be weighing in on Ubers. That’s all.”

“Got it,” Wylie said, but he gave me a look that meant he’d clocked something and was putting a pin in it. “But we’ll get you a ride to the bus station, deal? And this way you’ll have time for breakfast. Are you hungry?” He set the orange juice on the table and then opened a different cabinet—one that, to my complete shock, contained a second fridge. How many fridges did this kitchen have? And why were they all disguised as something else?

“Um.” I didn’t know what the breakfast protocol was in a place where dinner was eaten at ten at night. I also didn’t want Wylie Sanders to feel like he had to sit here and talk to me, just because I happened to wander into the kitchen before anyone else. He probably had much more important things to do. But the truth was, I was pretty hungry. “I am, actually.”

“Great.” A second later, he was setting the table—two plates, glasses, linen napkins, and forks. I sat down as Wylie headed back to the kitchen, pulling a carton of eggs out of one fridge, then crossed to the other fridge and took out the milk and butter. “Anything you don’t eat?”

“I eat everything. Well, except oysters.”

“Great,” he said, huffy, as he picked up a dish towel and then threw it down again. “There go my plans for breakfast oysters. Thanks a lot.”

I laughed. “Sorry to mess up your plans.”

He pulled a spatula from a white ceramic crock of them sitting on the counter and pointed at me with it. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t,” I assured him. “Can I help?”

“Hm?” Wylie asked, turning around. “You say something?”

“Oh—nothing,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. “Never mind.”

“This ear’s not so great,” he said, pointing to his left one with a fork, and I remembered he’d done something like that when I’d first come into the house—back when I’d been trying to leave it immediately. “Blame three decades in front of terrible drummers. Just give me a second.”

“Sure.” As though they knew food was incoming, both dogs wandered into the kitchen, looking hopeful. I picked up Andy and gave him a scratch under the chin. Tidbit let out a huffy sigh, so I reached over with my free hand and gave his velvety ears a scritch too. Then I took out my phone and scrolled through my texts.

Didi

Happy Monday! It’s justifiable homicide when your roommate is totally unreasonable, right? No jury would convict me. I’m feeling good about my chances.

Katy

NO. Also don’t put this stuff in writing, because what if your roommate gets in an ACTUAL accident and then you have these incriminating texts? Haven’t you ever heard a podcast?

Also Darce, we need to hear all about the festival!

Didi

We really do. Was Romy as bad as we’d predicted?

Katy

Was she even WORSE?

Didi

Oh god, was she?

I was about to reply, my hands hesitating over the keys. But then a second later, I locked my phone and set it down. There was no way I could go into everything—not here, not right now, while Wylie Sanders made me eggs a few feet away, humming what I was pretty sure was the bass line from “Saturday Night Falls” under his breath. This was a much longer conversation, and definitely not a text conversation—I’d have to get a FaceTime date on the books with them.

“Here we go,” Wylie said, coming over to the table with a skillet. I set Andy down, and he and Tidbit immediately crowded around Wylie, looking up at him expectantly.

He spooned what looked like a scramble onto my plate—eggs and tomatoes and onions and… mushrooms, maybe? It smelled delicious. He served himself some as well, then returned the skillet to the stove and came back a moment later bearing butter, jam, and a plate stacked with toast.

“This looks amazing,” I said, placing my napkin on my lap. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s no trouble. Happy that you could stay over, Darcy.” He paused, and it was like I could practically see my name lingering between us for a second. “It really is something that you’re named after that song. It’s one of my favorites, you know.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure if he meant the name or the song. “I’m sure lots of people were named Darcy because of it, right? Like how after it came out, all these girls were named Jolene.”

“You’re too young for that reference.”

“My dad told me about it. He’s the one who picked Darcy.”

“He’s a fan?”

“The biggest,” I said as I grabbed a piece of toast. For just a moment, I wished he could have been there. I knew it wasn’t possible, but I would have loved it if he could have somehow just appeared at this kitchen table, getting to have eggs and toast with his idol too.

“What’s his name?”

“Ted Milligan. Technically Edward, but he goes by Ted.”

“And what does Ted do?”

“He’s in advertising. Milligan Concepts.”

Wylie nodded and raised his mug to me. “Well—tell Ted I appreciate the support.”

“I love your music too,” I said, all in a rush, like maybe I shouldn’t be saying this. Was it breaking some kind of unspoken social contract? Did this only work if we pretended that he wasn’t a gigantic megastar? “My dad played the Nighthawks all the time, so I just grew up on it. And I feel like I would have loved it even if I hadn’t been named for the song, but since I was, it just made it so much more special.…” I felt my face get hot and I looked down and concentrated on buttering a piece of toast.

“Well, I appreciate that. Darcy.” He smiled, then leaned forward. “If you want—I can tell you something. But only if you promise to only tell your dad, and nobody else.”

“I mean, I did sign that NDA,” I said, my voice faux serious. “Should we add an addendum?”

“I’ll call C.J.,” he said, matching my tone. “So.” He speared a forkful of eggs but didn’t eat them yet. “It’s about the song, and where the name Darcy came from.” He took a bite, then rested his fork across his plate. “If you’re sure you want to know. This is real privileged information here.”

“I do want to know.”

“Okay. But this is just between you and me. And Ted. Right?”

“He won’t say anything,” I said, meaning it. Partially because I wasn’t actually sure I was going to be able to tell my dad about any of this. I couldn’t go into part of it without going into all of it. But was I really going to be able to keep this from him? That I’d not only met Wylie Sanders—which, twelve hours ago, would have been miracle enough—but that I’d talked to him, and stayed in his guesthouse, and eaten his very good breakfast scramble?

Wylie nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and then a deep breath, like he was preparing himself. “So it was about this girl—this was after Paula and I split, but before I got together with Kenya. I wrote the song all about what I was feeling for her, and I wrote it with her name. But at the last minute, in the booth, I changed my mind. It didn’t seem fair to her—to say in a song what I hadn’t yet told her in person. To put it all under a giant microscope.”

“That makes sense.”

“So I’m in the studio, I have the song, but I need a new name. And Laura, the sound engineer, was reading while she waited for me to get my act together—Pride and Prejudice. And I looked at the book, and just like that, there it was—Darcy. We did three takes, and had it in the can.”

“So… it came from Mr. Darcy,” I said, feeling like I needed to clarify this. “As in… Fitzwilliam Darcy?” I was a huge fan of the book and movie adaptations, but it had literally never occurred to me that this was where my name was from.

Wylie laughed. “Yep. You don’t meet many Fitzwilliams these days.”

“Sure don’t.” I kept my voice light even though my head was spinning as I tried to synthesize this information. It turned out, in the end, that all the people who asked if I’d been named after an Austen character had actually been right. “Wow. That’s—not what I was expecting.”

Wylie’s brows drew together. “Should I not have told you?”

“No,” I said after a moment. “I’m glad I know.” As I said it, I realized it was true. How often do you get the origin of your name from the person responsible for it? And I did like the story behind it—that it had been created out of Wylie’s integrity, wanting to shield this woman from too much scrutiny. And that the song had been more than just a love song, like I’d always assumed—it was a message in a bottle, intended for one recipient.

And I couldn’t help liking that I was one of only a handful of people in the world who knew the truth about the song—and, in turn, my name. In the future, when people would inevitably ask me where my name came from, I would just tell them what I’d always told people—that it was from the song. But I would know the real story, from the only person who could have given it to me. “I feel like someone just told me who ‘You’re So Vain’ is about.”

Wylie laughed, shaking his head. “Your dad raised you right, that’s for sure.”

“He would very much appreciate you saying that.”

“Feel free to pass it along.”

I speared some eggs, then set my fork back down. “Wait, so what happened? With the girl who wasn’t Darcy?”

Wylie leaned back in his chair, holding his mug. “Nothing really ever happened. We had one night—one of those epic dates.” He smiled, and it was like I could sense that he was leaving this kitchen, this table, Nevada—and going to wherever this memory was located. “It was one of those dates that goes all day, and into the night, and you just have so much to say…”

“Um.” I rolled up the corners of my napkin and then flattened them down on the table. “Right.”

“But then…” The faraway smile that had been on Wylie’s face dimmed out. “I don’t know. It was almost like we couldn’t move on from it. Like we’d had this perfect moment, and we didn’t want to do anything to mess it up. Which is what I wrote the song about—the wonderful date, then followed by nothing.”

“Oh.” That was not how I’d expected the story to go, honestly. I sat with it for a moment. Wylie was staring down into his coffee cup, and in the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the lines on his face. I somehow knew that he was no longer on that epic date with the girl, but back here, in the aftermath of what might have been.

“It’s always better to know,” he said after a moment. “You can’t keep something on the shelf just to look at it. Even if it’s not going to work—it’s better to find out.”

“Did she ever know? That ‘Darcy’ was about her?”

Wylie looked up from his mug and gave me a sad smile. “I thought it was going to be my big, grand gesture,” he said. “But when I gave her a copy of the song—and told her—she’d moved on. And that was that.” He shook his head and gave me a slightly forced smile. “Sorry—I thought I was just going to tell you the story of your name. I didn’t mean to go into all that.…” He took a sip of his coffee, and it was like he was trying to shake himself out of this. “It all worked out for the best.” He looked around, and it was like I could see him taking it in—mansion, dogs, two kids watching Moana. “Because if something had happened with us, I wouldn’t have met Kenya, which means no Wallace, and probably not any of the rest of the monsters, either. But still…”

“What’s that quote?” I asked. It was one of the ones that Katy really wanted to use for her senior yearbook quote, when she was in the throes of a breakup, and Didi and I had forcefully talked her out of it. “About how the saddest words are It might have been.”

Wylie smiled. “Well, it’s certainly true. I don’t know the quote, though, but I bet Russell does.”

“He does love his facts.” I smiled as I thought about it—about how much I’d liked the way his face had lit up when he had one to share.

Wylie gestured to the table, and it was like we were turning a page, changing the subject. “Need anything else?”

“No,” I said, snagging another piece of toast. “This is all great. Thanks so much.”

Wylie leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “You said you’re taking the red-eye? Tonight?” I nodded. “Where are you going?”

“New York,” I said. “Well—Connecticut, but I’m flying into JFK. I start school—orientation is on Wednesday.”

“Where are you going?”

“Stanwich College.”

“Like Montana’s ex!” He nodded, then shuddered. “She was kind of a nightmare, actually. You’re not studying physics, are you?”

“Not planning on it,” I assured him.

“Oh, good.” He leaned back in his chair—or tried to, but Tidbit had placed both his paws on the arm of Wylie’s chair and was staring at him with a forlorn expression. Andy was jumping up and down next him, clearly trying to achieve the height Tidbit had. These were two dogs who’d clearly waited what they thought was an unacceptably long time for food. “Okay, you beggars.” He placed some eggs on the floor and the dogs snapped them up. “Too bad you’re not driving.”

“To Connecticut?”

My horror must have been apparent on my face, because Wylie laughed. “What? There’s nothing better than a road trip.”

“I guess?” I’d never really been on one, unless you counted driving up to San Francisco or visiting my uncle in Fresno. “That just seems like kind of a long one.”

Wylie shook his head. “The longer the better, as far as I’m concerned. There wouldn’t be the Nighthawks without a road trip.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s where we first started talking about what a band could be—on a drive from Colorado to Chicago. And we were so excited, and so fired up, that once we got there we turned around again so we could keep the conversation going. It’s the trip that changed all our lives.”

“Well—maybe you and Russell can drive to Michigan?” The second I said it, Wylie’s face changed, and I remembered, a moment too late, that this was not an uncontroversial topic.

“So you know… about Michigan.” He studied me over the rim of his coffee cup. “I guess Russell told you?”

“He told me that he wrote a musical, but maybe that it needed more work? That he didn’t get into any of his BFA programs.” I looked at him and took a breath. “And… he mentioned the donation.”

“Yeah,” Wylie said with a deep sigh. “Probably I went about that the wrong way. He’s really talented, you know. But he’s the only one of my kids who’s interested in music, which also makes it harder.”

I nodded toward the couch and the three-year-olds. “Well—I mean, so far.”

He gave me a ghost of a smile. “It’s a good point. I don’t know. I was trying to help, but clearly I made things worse.”

“I think,” I said, after I’d verified that Russell wasn’t lurking in the doorway of the kitchen, listening in, “that the whole thing made Russell think that you didn’t believe in him. Like you didn’t trust that he would get in on his own.”

“Of course I didn’t think that.” Wylie looked so alarmed by this, I knew he was telling the truth. “He’s such a smart kid—”

“But now he’ll never know,” I pointed out. “If he could have done it on his own.”

“I never thought of it like that—that he would think I didn’t believe in him. I guess I just…” He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, his rings glinting under the kitchen lights. “It’s stupid,” he muttered, a flush starting to appear in his cheeks, which was truly shocking. Wylie Sanders, rock legend, was embarrassed to tell something to me?

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“It’s just… Russell’s so smart—all my kids are. They get it from their moms. But I was always terrible at school, I never went to college.… I thought that this was my way of contributing something. So that I would almost get to be there too, the only way I could…”

I shook my head. “It’s not stupid. I just think that maybe… you should be telling this to Russell.”

Wylie flashed me a smile. “I always knew you were smart.” He shook his head. “I know I messed up. But I’m a parent. And you start out protecting your kids from everything—baby-proofing the house and making sure their laces are tied tight. And it’s not like that goes away, even as they get older. And if you can step in—it’s really hard not to.”

I suddenly flashed back to the note Gillian had attached to the Stanwich College brochure—the way she’d reached out to me, extended a hand for a fresh start.

Maybe it hadn’t been a bribe, or a trap. Maybe it had been a gift, imperfectly wrapped.

Wylie looked down into his cup. “Want another?”

“Um.” I glanced at mine. “Yes? But just fill it halfway? I like a little coffee with my milk.” He laughed at that and picked up my mug, navigating around the ever-hopeful dogs as he made his way back to the coffee maker.

I glanced outside, to the day that was dawning over Nevada, the light starting to stretch across the pool. Wylie returned to the table with a half-filled cup of coffee and a bottle of whole milk. I poured some into my cup as Wylie sat back down at the table.

“I do need to make sure I talk to him, so we can clear the air before he goes home,” Wylie said, and I didn’t have to ask which he Wylie was talking about. “You never leave a fight unresolved, you know?”

I nodded, even though I was thinking about Gillian and the things I’d said to her over the phone, the way I’d hung up on her.

“What?” Wylie asked, mug halfway to his lips as he looked at me.

“Oh—nothing,” I said quickly, wishing once again that my expressions weren’t quite so easily read on my face. “I just… kind of had a fight with my mother last night. And we didn’t—you know, resolve things. That’s all.”

“Ah.” Wylie sipped his coffee. “Is your mom in advertising too?”

“Oh—no. She’s in HR. She wanted to be an actress, but it didn’t work out. And she and my dad are divorced.”

“That’s hard,” he said softly, turning his mug in his hands.

“I know. But I promise I’m fine.”

“No,” he said, looking up at me. “I mean—I’m sure you are.” He gave me a quick smile. “I don’t doubt that. You seem more than fine, and with a stellar musical education, to boot. I just meant…” He took a big breath, then let it out. “It’s hard not to achieve your dream.”

This was so unexpected that I just blinked at him for a moment.

“I’m the lucky one,” he went on. “And I know it. I get to do what I love, and I’m thankful every day. But three steps in the wrong direction, a missed alarm clock, a bad show…” He snapped his fingers. “Poof. Just like that, all this never happens.”

“But it did happen.”

“But it doesn’t for most people. Just think about all those songs we never got to hear. My first bassist—”

“Dustin Henry,” I said automatically.

Wylie grinned at me. “I bet my own kids wouldn’t have been able to make that pull. I knew I liked you, Darcy.”

“Call me Fitzwilliam.” He laughed at that. “Dustin Henry?” I prompted.

“Right! Dustin quit the band before we hit. He wanted to sing his own songs, thought we were holding him back.” Wylie shrugged. “But then he was never able to make it happen, and I saw it eat him up. If you go off and chase your dream, the longer it doesn’t happen, the harder it gets. And then to go home and admit you failed—that one is hardest of all, isn’t it? To accept you can’t do the thing you want to do the most.”

I shook my head automatically, already starting to push back against this in my mind. But even as I was trying to deny it, I realized I’d never once thought about this from Gillian’s point of view. “It’s just…,” I started, as I heard loud, clompy footsteps from upstairs.

“Where is my towel?” someone yelled.

“The hordes descend,” Wylie said, shaking his head.

“Thank you for breakfast.”

Wylie smiled at me. It was the smile I’d seen last night, the one that seemed real, not a trace of rock star in it. He raised his mug to me. “Thanks for the conversation.”

“Is there coffee?” Connor asked, coming into the kitchen. He was followed by Sydney, who was trailed by a yawning, dark-haired kid who still looked half-asleep. I was startled by the presence of yet another Sanders—like this house was a clown car that was just going to keep discharging people long after you’d thought it was impossible—until I remembered that I had heard about Sydney and Connor’s son.

“Dashiell!” Astrid yelled. She paused Moana and yanked off her headphones.

“Morning, Aunt Astrid,” Dashiell said with a yawn, and Astrid grinned.

“Want to go swimming? Want to watch a movie?”

“Listen to the dream I had last night!” Artie yelled as the kids—who were, somehow, aunt, uncle, and nephew—convened on the couch.

“Morning, all,” Wallace said as he sailed into the kitchen, wearing a robe with a sleep mask pushed up on his forehead. “Who made coffee?”

“What’s for breakfast?” Chloe asked as she followed behind Wallace, in workout clothes, her hair up in a ponytail. Andy hurled himself at her, tail wagging wildly, and she scooped him up. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said to the dog. She glanced across at her children. “They’re rotting their brains, I take it?”

“Moana,” Wylie replied.

“Again?”

“There will never be anything else. I’m just resigned to it.”

“Morning,” Kenya said as she came into the kitchen through the sliding glass door. She was wearing a cover-up over a bathing suit. “Anyone want an early swim? The water’s perfect.”

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Wallace said, pushing himself up to sit on the kitchen island. He yawned hugely. “I was up late trying to talk to Alyssa.”

Kenya sighed. “You two need to get on a better schedule if you’re going to make it work.”

“Of course we’re going to make it work,” Wallace said, but I noticed that a worried expression had crossed his face, a flicker of doubt he was clearly working to keep at bay.

I put my plate and mug in the sink—considering the fridges had been a mystery, I wasn’t even going to attempt to locate a dishwasher—and then pulled out my phone to check the time. Wylie, clocking this, gave me a nod.

“Let me see about finding you a ride,” he said, getting up from the table. “You have all your luggage?” I nodded toward the stuff I’d left by the door. “Good.”

“Um,” I said, looking around, not exactly sure who to address this to, “if one of you could tell Russell goodbye for me?” I thought about saying I could text him, only to realize with a shock that I didn’t have his phone number. Or email address, for that matter. “Or I could write a note…”

“Go tell him yourself,” Chloe said, nodding upstairs.

“Really?” I looked down at my phone again. “It’s kind of early.”

“I know he wouldn’t want to miss you,” Wylie said, giving me a smile. “Third door on the left once you hit the top of the stairs.”

I thought about protesting, saying that it was okay, that I didn’t want to wake him up. After all, we’d had a nice goodbye last night in front of the guesthouse. But would this seem bizarre to everyone else here? Or even insulting to these people who’d offered me so much hospitality? And then a second later, I realized that I did want to see him one last time.

When I reached the top of the staircase I noticed this floor had a homier feeling—the downstairs might have been more impressive, but this was clearly where people actually lived. There were shoes and sweaters and dog-eared books on the couch in the little living room, and a scuff along one wall. The art here was less grand—more family portraits and drawings that looked like they’d been done by the younger kids. I paused in front of a large, framed black-and-white picture.

It was a family portrait. Everyone was wearing white, posed on a beach somewhere. Nobody seemed to be looking in the same direction, or at the camera, but somehow, despite that, you could feel the love and fun and chaos practically jumping out of the frame. I was a little taken aback by the sheer number of people in this picture—all these adults, all these kids—and how many of them I recognized. My dad and I had never had a formal family picture taken, I realized as I looked at it. Maybe because there’s no point when your family portrait can fit in a selfie.

Or, you know,Katy said. Not.

Youdo have more family than just Ted, Didi pointed out.

I looked at the picture for a moment longer, finding Russell in the bottom right of the frame. He was standing next to a striking-looking woman—she had dark hair with a silver streak running through it. His mom, presumably—as the picture had been taken she was reaching up to flatten his hair.

I smiled, then headed down the hallway, stopping in front of the third door. I knocked, but nothing happened—no sound from inside. I pressed my ear to the wood, but all I could hear was the faint sound of ocean waves crashing. I knocked once more, this time pushing the door open as I did and just hoping this wasn’t some giant violation of his privacy.

“Russell?” I called quietly as I stuck my head in. I blinked, trying to let my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room.

It was a large space, the blinds drawn against the morning sun. Not that I’d had a ton of experience seeing boys’ rooms, but this one seemed neater and more picked up than I would have expected. There was an armchair in the corner, with the clothes Russell had been wearing last night—the shorts and button-down—draped over the arm of it. On the wall, there was a large framed piece of art—as my eyes adjusted I could see that it was a vintage-looking poster. A Little Night Music, it read. On the dresser, I could see a framed picture of Russell between two guys, one tall and one short—and I smiled as I realized that these must be the aforementioned Bens.

All the furniture in the room was dark wood, and there were rugs scattered artfully across the wood floors. The whole thing seemed really pulled together—sophisticated and adult, and I was suddenly embarrassed about my bedroom back at home, with my floral print comforter I’d picked out at Target when I was twelve and then never changed. I still had boy band and movie posters tacked up on my walls, and my mirror was crammed with Polaroids of me and my friends.

There was a king-size bed pushed against the far wall, with a blue-and-white-striped blanket on top—and Russell asleep underneath it. He was sleeping on his side, his back to me, facing the wall. The covers were pulled up around him, his breath rising and falling steadily.

As I looked at him, at his chest gently rising and falling, I knew I was seeing a part of him that was private and personal. This was Russell as his unguarded self, the person he was when he just was. I tried to tell myself that I needed to say something now, to break this spell, wake him up so this didn’t seem creepy and Twilight-esque. But his name was caught in my throat.

I saw a white sound machine on Russell’s nightstand, and I reached over and turned it off.

It was jarringly quiet in the room now that there was no artificial ocean being piped in. I hoped that maybe this would do it, that Russell would wake up and I could tell him goodbye and head back downstairs, job done. I was just about to say his name again when Russell sighed and rolled over, facing me. I took a step back, my heart beating hard.

He was shirtless, the blanket falling off one shoulder, his eyes closed, his lashes long on his cheeks, his expression peaceful. I could see now that he had white foam earplugs in—and I realized this, along with the fake ocean, explained why I’d had such a hard time waking him up.

For just a second, I had the strongest impulse. I wanted to reach over and brush his hair back from his forehead. I wanted to trace my fingers across his cheek. I wanted him to look at me the way he had yesterday, before everything had gotten wrecked.

But then I shook my head, trying to clear it. Russell and I were going to be friends. I’d decided it last night, and he’d agreed. These were just vestigial feelings from the day before, that was all.

I’d taken a breath to say his name again when Russell’s eyes opened. He smiled lazily as they fluttered shut again, and he burrowed his head deeper into his pillow. I could see now that he had a crease across one cheek, making him look like a very cute pirate. “Darcy,” he said with a yawn, smiling as he did so. “Hi there.” His voice was slow and easy, like maybe he was on the verge of tipping back into sleep again. “What are you doing all the way over there?”

“I…” I blinked, trying to figure out what to do with this. What did that mean? I took a step closer and wiped my hands on my jean shorts. “Um…”

Russell’s eyes snapped open again, and his happy, lazy expression was gone. “Hi,” he said, sitting up. He took out his earplugs and raked a hand through his curls. Then he leaned over to the nightstand and picked up a pair of glasses—tortoiseshell, with rounded frames. He slipped them on, and I tried to hide my surprise. He looked different in them—younger, somehow, and more serious.

I tried not to stare at his chest or his stomach muscles, despite the fact that this was very challenging. “Darcy,” he said again. His voice was still sleep-fogged, but it was sharper now, the languid earlier tone gone.

“Hi, sorry,” I said quickly, feeling like I needed to explain my uninvited presence in his bedroom. “So—”

“That was so weird,” Russell said, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I was still in my dream, and we were just continuing our conversation.”

“So I was… in your dream?”

“Yeah… which is why this is so strange. Like I’m going from a dream and into reality, but without a break between?”

“Or maybe this is just another dream? And we’re in some kind of Inception situation.”

“That seems likely.” He leaned over and looked at his bedside clock, and his eyes widened. “It’s early.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to wake you up. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Russell sat up even straighter. “Goodbye?”

“Yeah, I’m going to go to the bus station and then catch the bus back to LA. I was going to get an Uber, but your dad said he’d arrange a ride for me.”

“You have to go this early? We’re flying out later.”

“I know, but I need to beat my dad home. He’s getting in at three, and as far as he’s concerned, I rode a bus with absolutely no issues home from the festival last night.”

“Right.” Russell nodded a few times. “Got it.”

I took a big breath, not really sure what I wanted to say. “I just—I hope you have a great time next year. And that Michigan isn’t too cold. It’s…”

“I can drive you,” Russell said.

“Oh—that’s not—”

“I’ll just run you over to the bus station,” he said, talking faster now. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. And I could see that he was in long basketball-style shorts that sat low on his hips. After a moment, I made myself look away, concentrating on the poster on his wall. “It’ll be no problem.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said simply. “It’s what friends do, right?” He held my gaze for a moment, and I nodded.

“Thank you. That’s really nice.” I was relieved I wouldn’t have to ride with Kendrick or Bella—and that we wouldn’t be saying goodbye like this, in his bedroom with its rumpled sheets where he’d just been sleeping—and dreaming, apparently, of me. Better to say goodbye outside, with other people around. And the fact that he’d have to drive me to the bus station meant this, right now, wouldn’t be the last time that we saw each other.

“Of course.”

I headed for the door, and I’d just reached it when I turned back. “What was your dream about? The one—I was in?”

Russell took a breath. “I—”

“Russell!” Artie was pushing past me in the doorway, Andy at his heels. Andy raced across the room and jumped onto the bed, climbing up on Russell and trying to lick his face. “You have to go downstairs! Doug said he’d make his special pancakes and Tidbit fell in the pool!”

Russell laughed. “It’s been quite a morning, huh, kid?”

I pointed to the door and stepped out, and Russell nodded. “Want to play a game?” I heard Artie ask as I headed back down the hallway.

I reached the landing, hearing the sound of laughter and conversation floating up from the kitchen. As I started to head down the stairs, a wave of sadness that I hadn’t been expecting washed over me. The thought that I’d never see Russell—or any of these other people—again suddenly seemed both impossible and unfair.

You hadn’t evenmet Russell this time yesterday, Didi pointed out.

But yesterday was a long time ago,Katy chimed in. A lot has happened since then.

As I walked down the staircase, I decided that Didi was right. I’d known Russell less than twenty-four hours. So, really, it shouldn’t be that big a deal that I wouldn’t see him again after today. I shouldn’t be acting ridiculous—I’d done enough of that yesterday. And it was time to go.

I pushed my hair behind my ears, let out a breath, then took the rest of the stairs down to the first floor two at a time.