BENNY
As one would expect on a Saturday in Santa Rosa, Costco is straight up insane.
Harried mothers, sports dads, and older couples swarm the aisles, each person looking out for themselves and the asterisks implying an item is on its way out for good.
Bree is obviously anxious, standing too close to me like my proximity will protect her from hordes of crazed fans.
Which I will, obviously, if the need arises.
The longer we roam the aisles, adding things to the big orange flatbed cart—I’m shopping for three households—the more she seems to relax.
No one is paying attention to us. They’re all scanning the aisles or corralling children or fighting their way to the front of the sample lines.
No one has time to look at the woman in a pink tank and jean cutoffs that look a little loose on her.
We pile essentials onto the cart and stop for samples when we can.
Bree selects more cereal than one person could ever eat in a month, reminding me how much she loves sugary Captain Crunch and Fruit Loops.
That girl would eat cereal for dinner when we were kids, when her parents let her—which they did often, because they were pretty absent, especially when she traveled.
I raise an eyebrow. “Should we swing through the produce aisle again?”
“I have bananas,” she reminds me. “And apples.”
“What about greens?”
She grins, her brown eyes sparkling beneath layers and layers of makeup. “Are you worried about me, Benny?”
I gesture to the jumbo boxes of cereal. “Should I be?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She’s an adult. I don’t have to force feed her iron or vitamin A. I don’t have to worry about her health at all. She’s a blip in my life, and I need to remember that.
But Bree Belacourt can’t really be a blip, can she? Our history aside, this woman is everywhere—TV commercials, advertisements, perfume billboards, the radio, my head. To say nothing of the songs I’m constantly composing for her. I haven’t been given the chance to forget her in the last decade.
Not that I want to.
Do I?
“Besides, my neighbor makes killer green smoothies. Should we get more spin—ooo, fruit snacks!” she squeals, dangerously cutting in front of another cart to get to the Welch’s. She picks up a box and lifts her eyebrows. “Want a box?”
I chuckle, unable to help it. “I’m good.
” I pass her and lift a few cases of protein drinks.
When we make it to the register, it’s apparent that we should have gotten a second cart.
Bree has enough food to feed an entire kindergarten classroom and half of their parents for a week.
We check out, and I steer her away from the food court.
“I have something else in mind for dinner.”
“Better than a giant hot dog?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
I point at her, pausing as I load up the groceries in the trunk. “Don’t knock it. They’re the best hot dogs around. But I have something better.”
We pull into a small sandwich shop across from the local junior college, painted blue and full of college-aged kids.
I help her order, and we cross the street to eat on the grass in front of the school.
Tall oak trees offer us shade from the late afternoon sun, but the dappled light shifts with the wind, making the grass sparkle.
I lay out a blanket I keep in my truck, and we sit facing each other, our legs spread out around unwrapped sandwiches on large squares of waxy paper.
“It’s saucy,” she says, eyeing her messy sandwich.
“Trust me.” I take a bite of heaven and close my eyes to enjoy it.
Bree copies me, and the moan she emits is loud. “Okay, I’m a believer.” She shifts uncomfortably, adjusting her waistband, then takes another bite. “These aren’t my shorts. They fit kind of funny,” she explains, fiddling with the waistband again.
My mouth stops mid bite. I finish, then keep my gaze on her face. “Did you, uh, find those in the closet, too?”
“What? No!” Bree laughs, the sound ringing out around us.
“You make me sound like such a creeper. I only opened the closet so I could hang up my stuff. These came with me. I raided my sister-in-law’s drawers before I left Florida.
I couldn’t really expect to slide under the radar wearing my own clothes. ”
“She was cool with that?”
Bree takes another bite, chews, and swallows it. “Cat doesn’t know. Well…she probably does now.”
“Bree.”
She drops her head back and groans. “I know! Okay? I’m the worst. Noah’s probably already ordered her a whole new wardrobe. I couldn’t risk going shopping, and everything I have—I just needed to blend in better. Her clothes are so perfectly ordinary.”
“You really thought out this whole escape thing.” It was a premeditated activity. A question dangles between us, but I don’t say it out loud. I’m thinking it hard enough I hope she can read it through my forehead. What are you hiding from?
Bree keeps eating. I wish it wasn’t so bright out here so she wouldn’t have to wear the sunglasses. They’re a good disguise too, but I want to see her eyes.
“I needed to get away,” she finally says.
“You didn’t want to go sit on a warm beach somewhere with Olive and Zoey?”
Bree’s brow wrinkles. “My sisters have a lot going on. Don’t get me wrong, they would be here if I needed them.
But…my family isn’t…I don’t know how to explain.
I was already hiding out in my brother’s house.
He would have let me stay as long as I needed to, but I’ve been so wrapped up in the Belacourt brand for so long, I think I needed a break from all of it.
” She rubs her temple. “That sounds awful.”
“It sounds human, Bree. Is your mom still your manager?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate, but that one word is loaded, especially mixed with her frown. I get the sense that things aren’t easy there, either.
“You don’t need to say any more.”
“There isn’t really much more to say. I just wonder sometimes if I’d have normal family relationships if we weren’t so tied up in business together.”
My heart breaks for her. She wants a mother.
I know her dad is dating some young model.
No, he’s engaged now? I can’t remember. And her sisters are off living their high-powered lives—Olive’s dating Dash Malone, only the biggest movie star of our age, and Zoey is super involved with Manhattan’s social scene as the girlfriend to some dog food prince.
Noah Belacourt settled down with a wife and baby, but Bree said she needed a break from her family.
She wants a separation between work and family, is what it sounds like.
I know how she feels, far better than she might realize.
Bree sighs. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a normal day like this. Since high school, maybe? Even then, our show was gaining popularity, and I wouldn’t have been able to go to the store without being stopped.”
“Because cameras would follow you around.”
She laughs. “You know what I mean. Come on, Benny. I was dating you. That threw me into the spotlight a lot.”
“And you never left it.” More like she widened the light and centered herself in it.
Her smile slips. “But you did.”
There’s a weird tension between us now, and I really wish I could reach forward and take off her shades.
Bree lowers her sandwich to the crinkly paper spread out beside her. “Do you miss it?”
“No.” I can tell my answer startles her. Or maybe it’s how quickly I spit it out.
“None of it? Not the private planes or exclusive dinners or going to parties with A-listers?”
“The private planes were nice, but I never really wanted the rest of it. I only wanted to play my music.” I think about her question, really consider it, and dip my head. “Okay, so maybe I miss one thing.”
“Me?” she says playfully, then seems to regret it immediately, because she picks up her sandwich and takes a huge bite.
“Yeah, I miss some of the people,” I concede, but that list is super small.
Like mega small. Like, it has one person on it and she’s sitting right here.
I clear my throat. “I miss that feeling of being on stage and having a crowd sing my songs with me. The energy, the vibe, all of that. It was exhilarating. There’s no other way to get that. ”
Wow. Have I ever voiced that out loud before? Did I even realize I missed it until now?
“Why don’t you do it, then?”
Bless her, but she’s serious. “I left it all behind, Bree.”
“Right, and you don’t have to become a huge star again, but you could play small shows. You could join that concert your crew is doing for their Beach Beautification thingy.”
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it. The stage is mid-sized, the whole thing will be outdoors, festival-style. It’s just the sort of thing I would like to do if I ever—but, no.
“I can’t,” is all I say. One show would lead to more. People would film it. They film everything these days. It would end up on TikTok or X, my songs would get a resurgence, and I wouldn’t be able to go to Costco without being asked for selfies nonstop.
My anonymity is nice. I love it. I’ve worked for years to reach this level of distance from fame. I don’t want it to change.
And Bree? She basks in it. She’s made for the spotlight.
This woman has an ethereal voice and a fun personality.
She was made to be a good role model for young girls.
She sings powerful songs about self-worth and spreads kind messages.
She’s built a platform on it, shouting about reaching for potential and taking control of your own future. Bree is a good force in the world.
Except she’s here, not being a force for anything right now.
“Maybe we could play together sometime?” she hedges, and I can tell she’s being careful, like she’s worried it’s the actual music I ran from. Like she wants to take my hand and gently lead me back into the shallow end of enjoying music again.
She has no idea I never left that world behind.
For the first time since she showed up in my living room and literally dropped back into my life mere days ago, it occurs to me she might have a terrible reason for hiding away here.
The lengths she’s gone to to escape unnoticed were extreme.
Stealing her sister-in-law’s clothes? Ditching her dog?
While I initially assumed People had it right, and she was hiding while recovering from heartache, she wouldn’t need to silence her family for that, would she?
She’d be with her family, eating takeout and watching old movies.
If she’d run from heartache, it probably would have been an emotionally charged escape, not a plotted disappearance. That leaves an uneasy feeling in my gut.
“If you don’t play anymore, though…” she says, letting her sentence trail off.
“I’d like to play with you sometime.” I put down the sandwich. “I don’t want it ending up on the internet.”
Bree pulls a face. “You think I’d post anything right now? I’m in hiding. I haven’t really looked at my phone since I’ve gotten here.”
A kid skates by us on the sidewalk, but it doesn’t seem like he heard her. “Staying out here in my bubble is important to me.”
She nods. “I get it. You’ve got a life here. I promise I won’t disrupt it.”
Little does she know, she already has.
Grandma is home when we pull into her driveway.
The sun is setting, so we’re in full twilight mode, and I can see the blue light of her TV flashing through the window.
Bree hops out of the truck without being asked and meets me at the back.
It takes a minute to segment Grandma’s groceries from the rest of Bree’s junk food.
“You should probably wait in the car.”
Her head tilts to the side curiously, her long blonde waves falling over her shoulder. “Why?”
I glance at the TV lights glowing through the window. “My grandma is kind of a fan. If anyone’s going to see through your disguise, it’ll be her. Put your shades back on, maybe?”
The front door closes with a loud snap. There’s Grandma, standing on her cement front step in a flannel nightgown and a frown. She’s looking between us, and it’s a gamble whether she heard what I just said.
“What disguise?” she asks.
Okay, no gamble. She knows.
Bree looks at me for direction. Her eyes are pleading, but they’re quickly covered as she slides her sunglasses in place.
The problem is, I don’t know if Grandma can be trusted with this. She’s kept my secrets in an ironclad box for years, yes…but she isn’t just a fan of The Belacourts. She’s a Bree Superfan.
Like, if her health would let her, she’d go to a concert. The woman would probably sell her furniture to get a VIP pass and an opportunity to gush in person.
Gush to the woman walking up her stone pathway with her hand out right now to shake. “Hi, I’m Benny’s friend.”
So, that answers that.
Grandma shakes her hand, then eyes her up and down. Is she putting together that this is the person who was in my car when she called? “Friend?” she questions.
“We’ve known each other for a while,” I say dismissively. “Want to open your garage, Grandma? I’ll put your toilet paper in there.”
She eyes me a little longer. “Come inside, honey. I have fresh banana bread.”
They disappear, and I’m left standing outside with thirty rolls of toilet paper and rapidly disappearing sunlight.