Chapter 44
TOLD YOU SO
Aubrey
My friends don’t ask. They don’t have to. The second Dev and Ledger head off the ice to go and get changed, Trina grabs one arm. Ivy grabs the other.
“I have one question. Was I right?” Trina wiggles a naughty brow.
There’s no point denying it. “Yes.” I don’t grumble the admission.
I lift my chin and own my choice, right there in the ice rink.
“And you were right not only about that but also…” I fan my face.
“Holy shit, so fucking good.” I smack her arm playfully.
“Like, why did you keep it a secret from me for so long?” I ask, mock annoyed.
Ivy tosses her head back and laughs. “Right. We kept it sooo secret.”
Trina gives me the biggest told you so look. “You were banging them when we texted on Monday.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, picturing that moment when Ledger bent me over the bench in the woods.
Trina points. “Look at you. You’re blushing.”
“Well they fucked me alfresco.”
“Are you a pasta dish?” Ivy inquires.
“I felt pretty—what is the opposite of al dente?”
“Scotta. Overcooked,” Ivy says.
“Yes. That. I felt like a noodle. A spaghetti noodle. Is that normal?” I whisper. I mean, I don’t want the kids skating around the ice to hear us comparing notes on the effects of double dicking.
Trina bobs a shoulder. “Yes, but normal good. And then your new normal. And then you’re like…mama, my new normal rocks.”
“This week has been one huge new normal, then,” I say, already wistful for the new normal even before it ends.
“Or two huge new normals,” Trina whispers.
I smile and Ivy rolls her eyes, then quickly shifts, asking, “But what does this mean?”
I can’t stand thinking about Saturday. I know that’s what she’s asking, so I dodge the question. “It means I need to stretch tomorrow night. If you know what I mean.”
She doesn’t take the bait. “No. What does it mean for after?”
I sigh, feeling a little lonely as I think about after. “It means I wish this weren’t the honeymoon I was supposed to take with another guy.”
* * *
“What do I even say to her?” I ask Dev as we enter the venue before the Amelia Stone concert, making our way to the VIP door. Because the tickets are freaking VIP tickets.
Nerves jump around inside me. “What do people say to you after a game?” I hang back with Dev as our friends walk ahead, following a tour assistant. “What if I sound stupid? How many times a day does she hear people gush, I love your music?”
“Babe,” he says, gently. “Just tell her you like her music.”
“Is that what people say to you?”
“Yes, I make sweet music in the net,” he says, straight-faced.
“Seriously. What do you say when fans are all I love you,” I ask, feeling a little desperate. “Isn’t it boring?”
He stops, tugs me around a corner, gives me a serious look, full of understanding and vulnerability. “It’s not boring when someone tells you they love you.”
My heart sweeps up like an amusement park ride. I know he’s not saying those words to me, but still, I feel a little floaty. “It’s not?”
“I like meeting fans. It doesn’t get old,” he assures me.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. And if she’s a dick, fuck her. Tell her you like her music because it’s what you want to say.” He taps my sternum as if transferring some of his courage to me. “Want to practice with me?”
I take a deep breath. “I love your music.”
His eyes sparkle with pride and maybe something else.
Something that scares me and thrills me.
Something that feels all right and all wrong at the same time. Possibility.
“Good.” He runs his hand down my cheek and adds, “Have fun, babe.”
“Am I babe now?” I ask.
“It felt right,” he says, like he doesn’t need any further justification for the nickname.
And really, he doesn’t.
I grab his hand, holding it tight for a second. “Thank you.”
We catch up to our friends, and I feel a little less jittery. Ledger shoots Dev an inquisitive look, but Dev just gives him a reassuring smile. Ledger nods in return. A wordless exchange, and yet they have their own language about me.
I’ve grown to understand them in just a few days too.
So much of this week has been out of sync with my regular life in San Francisco, which involves waking up for blowouts and balayage, for yoga and smoothie dates, for book club and volunteering at Little Friends.
For lazy Saturdays when I don’t get out of my sweats or my hoodies, when I binge books and TV shows. When I see my mom, or my brother or sister. When I fritter away the day.
That’s my regular life.
This is my temporary, supercharged, high-voltage one. But I’m going to enjoy it because I fucking deserve it.
* * *
The VIP experience doesn’t stop with the tickets and special seating.
Amelia Stone’s stage manager shows us around backstage, including where the pop star does one of her whizz-bang costume changes.
“That’s where she goes from the red sparkles to the jean shorts and cowboy boots, right?
” I ask excitedly when the woman gestures to an area just offstage.
I’ve watched countless videos from her tour this summer.
“Someone knows her Amelia Stone.” The stage manager sounds impressed. I think I’m glowing.
Dev and Ledger weren’t kidding when they said they like to spoil a woman. From the penthouse suite to the concert tickets to the private jet, these guys are serious about their indulgence.
It’s almost too much. I’ve felt a little guilty from the beginning, letting them lavish me with experiences and luxuries and knowing I couldn’t return it in kind.
Then I understood—really understood—that repayment is not what they want from me.
Now my guilt has a different flavor. Are they imagining what it’d be like to do things like this in San Francisco?
The look in Dev’s eyes when we arrived at the rink earlier today was magic. I wish I could be the one to put that look in his eyes again and again, to plot little surprises for him with Ledger and vice versa. I want to make them happy.
But I can’t bear the thought of failing at that. I can’t stand the idea that I might hurt them.
My heart is full and heavy at the same time.
As we tour backstage, I remind myself to savor every second of the peek behind the scenes, the pre-show sound check, and most of all, the photo op with the pop star.
When Amelia strides into the wings after the sound check, bubbles flow through my veins. She smiles as she heads our way, but one of the wind machines comes on unexpectedly, blasting her bright red hair in all directions.
The stagehand rushes to turn it off, apologizing, “My bad, my bad.” But the damage is done.
The hair has blown loose from the vintage silver barrette holding the pop star’s hair to one side.
With a laugh, she tries to brush the hair from her face and say hello at the same time.
“Hi. I’m Amelia Stone and I’m having a bad hair moment.
” She seems to have no problem poking fun at herself.
“Oh, you can just do this,” I say, demonstrating how to tuck the strands back in a quick fix.
The star grimaces, trying to untangle the clip, then says to me, “Can you do it?”
I’m sure she has a hair person. In fact, I see a man with a makeup bag scurrying across the stage. But when your favorite rock star asks you to fix her hair, you snap up the chance.
Quickly, I tuck the loose strands back into place. “There you go. I’m a hairstylist, actually,” I say.
She smiles warmly. “Then maybe it’s kismet you were here today.”
Perhaps it was. But not because of the hair. Because I know what to say to her after all. “What if you fail?” I blurt out.
She furrows her brow, processing the question. “Like when I get onstage?”
“Yes. Exactly. What if you get it all wrong?”
She’s quiet for a spell. “Then, you pick yourself up and you try again the next time.”
* * *
During the concert, my girls and I dance and shout and cheer in the front row, singing as loud as we can to songs we know by heart.
Here like this, with the music flowing through me, I do feel like I am picking myself up.
But the next part? Trying again? I’m not so sure.
Especially when the music slows, cross-fades to something deep and soulful. It’s a number that makes me want to grind against one guy, then another. That has me picturing nights at music clubs in San Francisco, dancing with my men, one behind me, one in front, arms all over me, and around me.
I want it so badly my chest aches.
But that’s not part of this deal. I know, too, that photos could be easily posted. By anyone.
As my friends dance with their partners, I dance alone. I steal a glance at Dev on one side of me. Arms are crossed, he looks at the stage, but every few seconds, his gaze cheats to me.
Ledger is on my other side. His hands are in his jeans pockets. His expression is stoic, but every now and then he checks me out.
Like he did at the calendar event in the park?
Maybe.
What if we’d all been available that day—not just single, but truly free?
What if we hadn’t been hurt? Hadn’t made bad choices in the past? Hadn’t hemmed ourselves in to others’ expectations?
What if we’d gone to a concert that night and I’d danced for them like this?
Arms in the air. Hair trailing down my back. Hips swaying.
Dev and Ledger have eyes only for me, like it’s impossible for them to look anywhere else.
Like they have to fight off the devil himself not to touch me.
Dev looks like he wants to pounce on me, Ledger like he wants to throw me over his shoulder and haul me away.
In the middle of thousands upon thousands of people, I dance, letting the music turn the three of us on. It’s some of the best foreplay I’ve ever had, and we’re not even touching.
But I also can’t wait to leave.