Chapter Fifteen #2
We may still be persona non grata in town.
However, I had to get out and stretch my legs and breathe the fresh air.
I have of course locked my social media accounts.
Though it hasn’t stopped the media. There’s an article online featuring photos from various friends’ accounts over the years.
Including some shots from school and college.
And then there are the anecdotes and opinions from acquaintances and old friends.
Given there’s nothing I can do about it, I am doing my best to ignore it. Which is obviously not going great so far. But onwards and upwards and all that shit.
What Nash and I both need right now is a taste of normal.
Along with something to take our minds off the media interest. So I am going to cook us lunch.
We shouldn’t be relying solely on Grandma to keep us fed.
She’s busy enough with her groups and Charlie.
And we are supposed to be adults. Also, the food delivery options in town are limited.
Nash’s baseball cap is pulled down low on my brow.
It’s summer so we’re having salmon and pea risotto with whatever gourmet ice cream catches my eye.
And hey, at least now I can buy a bottle of wine without any fake pregnancy guilt.
Of course, what any good risotto really needs is bucketloads of parmesan cheese and fresh lemon juice.
I’m busy throwing lemons into my market bag when I hear a voice say, “Aaron Porter? That’s his name?”
And I freeze.
“Yeah,” says a nearby stranger. He’s about middle-aged and medium height with white skin and a shaved head. And he’s talking to someone standing next to a display of watermelons. “The singer. He’s famous. You must have heard of him.”
“And you think he’s in our town?” Amy from the yarn store stares at the stranger in confusion from behind her cart. Then she turns to another local. “Mac, have you heard of some guy named Aaron? He’s a star or something.”
“He’s big in folk and rock circles,” adds the stranger. Who absolutely has to be a reporter.
Mac the mechanic mulls over the question while carefully selecting corncobs. “I don’t remember anyone called Aaron.”
“You sure about that?” asks the stranger. “I’m willing to pay for information about what he’s been doing here in town. Photos were taken of him on Main Street just a day or two ago.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just someone who looked like him?” Amy leans on her cart. “I saw this show that said we all have an exact replica of ourselves out there. Like a doppelganger.”
“You just never know, do you?” asks Mac.
“But I do know.” The reporter shakes his head. “It was definitely the Aaron Porter.”
“Hey, have you heard of this guy?” Mac turns to ask Isa.
She’s walking past with a basket on her arm. And the woman has assembled a fine selection of cookies and chocolate. “What guy?”
“The singer Aaron Porter,” says the reporter. “He’s dating a woman by the name of June. Someone said they’ve been seen around town.”
Amy cocks her head “Who told you that, just out of curiosity?”
The reporter gives them the most bullshit grin. “You can’t expect me to give up my sources. I’m not lying when I say I have cash on me right now for any information you might have about the pair.”
“Country music isn’t my thing,” says Isa.
“Have you seen him though?” asks the reporter, in a frustrated tone of voice.
And Isa says nothing, continuing on her way.
“I could use the extra money.” Mac scratches at his stubble. “Where did you drive here from? You know, your car could probably use an oil change.”
Which is when Bernie appears, carrying a gourd. “What on earth is going on here…move, please!”
“Hey Bernie, this man is after information about the singer Aaron Porter and his girlfriend named June,” says Amy.
The older woman looks the reporter over with much scorn. “Do I seem like the sort of person who socializes with drug-addled sex pests and wanton hussies?”
The reporter’s brows rise high. “No, ma’am.”
“I should think not. Who taught you manners?” she snaps. “They did a terrible job. As if I would associate with such tawdry people.”
“Wait a minute,” says the reporter. “Does that mean you’ve met them?”
Bernie marches right past me toward the meat section with her gourd in hand. “No comment!”
And there’s no way she didn’t know it was me standing there.
She doesn’t sell me out, however, which is sort of a surprise.
I thought, given her general dislike of us, she of all people would be keen to sell our secrets.
You never know, the influx of media might encourage us to leave town.
She keeps her nose high and her mouth shut though.
Rose wanders past with a bottle of soda.
Before anyone can ask, they raise their hand and say, “I already told you, I don’t know anything.
The town population is like twelve and a half people.
We’d notice if a rockstar was hanging around.
I hate to be harsh, but your behavior is giving such desperation, dude. ”
And the reporter seems so dejected, standing there with his shoulders slumped. It would seem The Bend has beaten him. No one is willing to sell us out for his promises of cold hard cash.
This knowledge makes my eyes feel hot and swollen. But I am not going cry at the grocery store. It’s just that, as justifiably upset as they are at us for lying, they’re still protecting us from the media. And it’s giving me big feelings. I really do love this small town.
“You get what you needed?” asks Rose, taking a sip of her soda as casually as possible. Like no one here is currently the subject of intense online scrutiny, and hiding from same.
“Yeah.” I smile. “Just a few more things on the list.”
“Let’s get you sorted then.”