Chapter 9
“Y
ou don’t have plans for next Saturday evening, do you?” asks a voice from the kitchen doorway.
I look up from my phone to see Hannah, hands clasped in front of her chest, shoulders back, hair pulled forward over one shoulder. Her eyes are bright, face glowing, exactly like they were the day she raced to our apartment clutching the Bob Dylan album she’d picked up at the thrift store for two dollars—a live MTV Unplugged session from the nineties. She couldn’t have been more excited or proud to show me her find.
A flutter scuttles around my lower chest at the memory…as well as at the sight of her in black skinny jeans that cling to her thighs and the long-sleeve fitted white T-shirt with the coffee stain right between her boobs. Almost every inch of her body is covered—just her hands and her head exposed—yet somehow she’s sexier than any naked woman I’ve ever set eyes on.
But those are thoughts I need to snap out of, and fast.
I look down at my brother’s face on my phone. “Got to go, Walk. I’ll call you back.”
“Oh, shit, sorry.” Hannah moves toward where I’m sitting on the sofa at the opposite end of the room from the kitchen—the end my aunt refers to as the snug—with my feet up on a stool in front of the crackling fireplace. “I didn’t realize you were talking to Walker. I thought you were just listening to music.”
“It’s okay.” I take out my earbuds. “We’re just arranging a get-together with all of us. Haven’t seen them since I got here.”
I saw Maggie and Jim’s three sons, Max, Connor, and Elliot, and my brother, Walker, while I was here for the wedding in December, but it was a short trip and we didn’t have much time to catch up.
“Why do you want to know if I’m busy Saturday?” I set the phone and earbuds on the arm of the chair. “Asking me on a date?” I add on impulse and instantly want to punch myself in the head. That joke will go down like a lead balloon.
Sure enough, she stops in her tracks halfway toward me and shoves her hands into her back pockets, an action that thrusts her chest forward and makes me struggle to keep my eyes on her face.
“Not funny.”
Fair point.
Interestingly, however, she doesn’t leave.
Must try harder to be professional. “Is there a problem with the résumés?”
“The what? Oh, no. I set them aside for a minute to focus on a different project.”
A different project? I’ve given her only one so far—didn’t want to overwhelm her straight away.
“Well, if you did have plans for Saturday,” she continues, “cancel them.”
“You can be very commanding.”
“You’ll be pleased why,” she says.
“What do you have in mind?”
“You’re going to see Divine Justice.”
“I thought the gig I missed was the last one in Boston for a while.”
“It was. But they’re playing in Portsmouth, which is closer and less traffic, easier to park and everything.”
Impressive. “Nice work.”
“And I’ve lined up a couple other bands for you to see too.”
If anyone else had arranged for me to see a bunch of unknowns, I’d make sure to wriggle out of it. This is my territory, something I research myself. Other people’s taste is usually shit. But this isn’t anyone else, it’s Hannah, so…
“Fantastic. I like the initiative.”
And I do. I like it very much. Along with how much I like the dimple that accompanies her proud smile.
“Who are they?”
“Not telling you,” she says. “I want you to see them cold without looking them up first. I’ll email you the locations when you get there.”
And suddenly there’s no one in the world I want to check out new bands with more than Hannah.
But is it sudden?
Hasn’t she always been at the back of my mind, nodding her head or screwing up her face whenever I’ve seen a new artist? Whether I was in a grimy pub in the north of Scotland or a colorful, sunny square in Rio?
I’m going to risk it. “I have a better idea.”
“Oh, yeah?” she asks as if I’m challenging her organizational abilities. “What?”
“You show me where they are.”
Her brow crinkles into deep, puzzled lines. “On a map?”
“No. In person.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Is she pretending to avoid the question? “I mean, come with me, Hannah.”
“What? No. Why?”
“Because I value your opinion. And because looking at bands is more fun not alone.”
“No. I’m still not sure about living under the same roof as you, never mind working for you. So I’m certainly not going out scouting bands with you too.”
“Did you have fun organizing the evening?”
“Yes.”
“Working for me isn’t so bad, then.”
“The work is fine. It’s the ‘for you’ part that bothers me.”
“When was the last time you went out for the evening? To a bar. With music. And beer.”
For a microsecond, she looks like she’s struggling to remember, then snaps out of it. “Irrelevant.”
Her defiance, her independence, her fuck-you-for-breaking-my-heartness is intoxicating. And now I want to stand in a dark, sticky bar drinking beer and critiquing musicians and singers with her more than I want to take my next breath.
“If my last effort at getting myself to the right place at the right time is anything to go by, I’m not sure I can be trusted to even get to them by myself.”
“I’ll book you a driver,” she says, as if she’s always been around people who drop cash on a private chauffeur whenever they want. She’s taken to this job like a duck to the pond at the end of Maggie and Jim’s enormous garden—when it’s not frozen over, that is.
Maybe honesty would be the most effective tactic. “Okay. The real reason is that I’d appreciate your input, your thoughts.”
“Uh-huh.” She tips her head. “Suuuuuure.” She smears the word with skepticism.
“Truly.” I hold my hands out wide. “It was you who got me into music, remember? It was you who played me your dad’s Bob Dylan and Ramones albums and taught me the difference between blues and soul.”
Her face softens around the edges. She can’t deny the truth. But, unwilling to give in completely, her mouth and eyes remain steadfastly firm.
“Seriously,” I continue. “I might not have ever started the business if you hadn’t gotten me interested in all that.”
She shakes her head, like that’s a ridiculous suggestion. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”
Looking down, she plays with the hem of her shirt. Another of those signs that she badly wants to do the thing she says she doesn’t want to do.
When was the last time anyone praised her for her work? For her ideas? For how goddamn brilliant she would be at anything she turned her hand to if only she’d been given the chance?
“And it’s you who should have been in the music biz. It’s you who should be in one of the bands I’ve signed. Or as a solo artist.”
“Pfft. Sure.” She blows out a breath. “Having a kid with a dad who disappeared faster than an ice cube in hell, then a boyfriend who liked me to stay home, wasn’t exactly conducive to a career involving late night gigs and travel.”
What the hell does she mean, the last guy liked her to “stay home”? “Why did he like you to stay home?”
She folds her arms tight across her chest as if attempting to form a wall around herself, and all the joy that was on her face when she entered the room fades. “I came here to tell you I’d gotten you in to see Divine Justice.” Her voice is deflated, her eyes downcast. “It wasn’t easy. I had to stretch the truth a little.” She digs her socked toe into the rug. “And that I’ve found a couple others for you to see to make the most of your time. That was all I came to talk about.”
Shit. I must have crossed a line I didn’t know was there. The line right in front of the reason why her last relationship ended so suddenly.
“I wouldn’t ask you why your wife left you,” she adds.
I rest my elbows on my knees, leaning a crucial few inches closer to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She shrugs with one shoulder. “But in case you do want to know, it was me who left her. Or kicked her out. Or however you want to put it.”
“Oh.” She looks at me for a second with an expression suggesting she’s never considered that scenario, then turns away.
I assume she’s going to head for the door to leave, but she moves in the other direction and ambles toward the wall of windows looking out over the wintry garden. She stops, shoves her hands into her front pockets this time, and stares out. Her gaze roves the sparkling white patio, leafless plants, lawn, and trees.
“Enjoy the snow while you can.” I get to my feet and follow her. “There’ll be no more of that once you’re in California.”
I stop behind her. Close enough to reach out and touch her, but not close enough for her to feel my body heat.
Although, right now, my insides are warming at a rate probably detectable by satellite. And that’s not okay. That’s very not okay. I’m here to recover from the stressful end of my marriage, for God’s sake. Not to develop body temperature issues for my high school love. Or for anyone.
I swore I wouldn’t date for a year. “Cleanse your relationship palate,” Hugo described it as. A bit rich from the man who lurches from woman to woman with barely a meal in between.
She nods, recognizing this is her last winter in New England.
“Everything I said was true, Hannah. I might never have been into music without you. I might never have started the company without you. You’re a part of my business already. Always have been. Whether you knew it or not. Whether you liked it or not.”
She stands motionless and silent.
As if acting on its own, my right hand slowly reaches toward her shoulder. “I honestly would value your opinion on Saturday.”
My fingers stop inches away from her and hang in the air, as if there’s some final force field they can’t quite break through. “Please come with me.”
“What about Dylan?” she asks the snowy landscape.
“I’m sure Mom would look after him.”
Hannah’s shoulder twitches. And my outstretched fingers itch to touch it. Shit. Is she crying?
I drop my hovering arm right before she turns around and reveals her smiling face. “Maybe we could find them another Overlord Hybrids movie to watch.”
My heart surges. Not only does she find it amusing, but she also seems on the verge of saying yes.
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
She screws up the lips that, in another life, I kissed countless times. “I did get all excited when I was arranging everything.” She looks up at me, the whites of her eyes gleaming around their blue hearts. “And it’ll probably be the last time I get to do anything like that for ages.”
“When you get to LA, I bet you’ll be out doing stuff all the time.” With all the guys who’ll flock to her like hungry moths to the most dazzling flame.
“When I’m in LA, I’ll be busy with other things.” She looks away, vanishing to another world for a moment.
“When was the last time you saw live music?”
She thinks for a second. “About three years ago. But it was a string quartet at a wedding.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Totally does,” she says, pointing at me and stopping just short before poking me in the chest—something she always used to do when she was having an I-told-you-so moment. “Because they were playing Nickelback.”
“Now that I would have paid to see.”
“Don’t ever do that. It was terrible.”
“So, is this a yes? You’ll come to Portsmouth with me on Saturday?”
Her eyes scan my face. From my chin to my mouth to my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, and, finally, my eyes. She nods slowly. “I’d really like to go.”
“Excellent.” I’m not giving her a moment to change her mind. “I’ll book us a driver.”
“Hell, no. I’ll do it. I’d like to end up in the right city on the right day.”