Chapter 64
Theo
You’ve reached Ford Records,” I say into the phone, then swivel in my chair to the calendar tacked on my wall.
“Oh, hey, Jude. Yeah, the tenth of December should work. Ripper’s on vacation starting the twentieth, and Kenny will be out on paternity leave in January.
Mazel, exactly—thank you. I’ll pass it on to him and Birdie.
Yeah, first kid and first new album, we’re all excited. Okay, great, talk soon.”
I hang up and circle the tenth of December, jotting down “Front-men recording at Paramount” in the small space.
December’s looking crowded, but so are all the other months.
I knew starting my own record label would be all-consuming, but I never could’ve predicted that Hannah’s shout-out at the Grammys would act as the world’s best advertisement, sending a flurry of musicians my way looking for “the Fixer” treatment—no longer code for ending careers, but for giving new life to struggling bands.
It doesn’t hurt that Kenny and Ripper, the first clients to sign with me, are constantly telling their friends there’s no label they’d rather work with.
I’ve just signed Dr. G and am set to begin recording with him next year, a prospect that excites and terrifies me in equal measure.
I will do my best to hold on to my eyebrows.
The only musician I’ve refused to work with is Sasha Thee Pop Princess, a spurn that was actually picked up by the media, causing a small article to pop up on a gossip site titled “Was Sasha Thee Pop Princess Rejected by This New Record Exec?”
Damn straight she was.
I turn from my wall calendar back to my laptop and enter the studio appointment digitally.
While many things have changed in the last year and a half, one thing never will, and that’s my type A instincts to double-record all my clients’ appointments.
I think back to one of Roger’s lessons—Success isn’t just about talent, kid—and smile to myself.
Outside my window, seagulls call to one another, and I pause to watch them swoop. It’s been an extra-sunny day here in Long Beach. Completely cloudless, rays of light streaming through my windows so aggressively it’s as if the sun has been trying to reach out and tell me something.
Relocating to California and renting this little house on the beach has been one of the best, albeit most expensive, decisions I’ve made since starting my company.
The studio pulls double duty as both my office and my home, which means I’m here on the beach to catch most sunsets and sunrises.
In this lovely liminal place where the water meets the land, where I can step out of my front door and look at the horizon in the distance, I feel small in the best way possible.
It reminds me of Hannah. Every beach does, which is the real reason I’m here.
I turn back to my laptop and pull up the brand-new website Ripper and Kenny made for their two-man band, the Frontmen.
I’ve been looking at it off and on all day.
Even though they were my first clients and we’ve been working on new songs nonstop—it turns out Ripper was right that he can carry a band—there’s something about seeing their new logo that drives home the fact that the Saints no longer exist.
On a whim, I pick up the phone and call my mom.
“Hey, hon.” She sounds breathless. “How are you?”
“Busy. I think I might need to hire an assistant.” I stand and stretch next to the window. The sun is finally starting to sink over the water. “You just finish your workout?”
She laughs. “Can you tell from the heavy breathing? At least step aerobics is keeping me young. Bruce says my tush is looking firmer every day.”
“Gross. And good. I’m going to need you to live until at least a hundred and five.”
“Will do. What’s on your mind?”
I glance up at the corkboard on the wall next to my calendar.
In the farthest corner, I’ve tacked the slip of paper the private investigator gave me years ago: Theodore Ford, Sr. 216-535-4879.
I’ve filed it away in a mental folder titled One Day, Maybe.
It’s strange, but I think I prefer the possibility of contacting my dad more than the reality.
Maybe one day that will change, and I’ll take the paper off the wall.
But for now, my mom is the parent I want to talk to.
“Just feeling wistful,” I admit. “Wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
“Ah. You’re thinking about Hannah.”
I swallow a sigh and place my palm flat against the window, right where the sun, now a brilliant rose gold, has created a path of light from the horizon to the shore. “Pretty predictable, I guess.”
“Trust me, hon, I’m thrilled you call me when you’re missing her. Still no word?”
The waves crest, then fizz out on the sand.
“None. She hasn’t made contact with Rip or Kenny either.
We figured she was going to stay away for a while, but .
. . ” Not this long. “Or maybe she’s out, and trying to rebuild her new life before calling us.
” Or maybe, whispers my voice of doubt, she’s decided you belong to a painful past she wants to forget.
My mom’s voice gentles. “I’m proud of the man you are, Theo. Do you know that?”
“I do. Thanks, Mom.”
Far off down the beach, movement catches my eye.
“Bryan and Gemma are still coming after Christmas, right? Bruce and I are terribly excited to have guests.”
“Of course. Warning, though: Gemma bought us all matching workout clothes. She’s thrilled you’re into aerobics and wants to shoot videos for her Instagram. Prepare to be an influencer.”
A figure walks down the beach. It looks like they’re walking straight out of the horizon. The blazing light shimmers so intensely that they blink in and out of sight, like a mirage. And maybe they are one, because none of the people sitting on the beach seem to take notice.
I have the strangest feeling in my gut.
“Hey, Mom, I’ve got to let you go.”
“Okay, hon.” Her voice is cheery, like it usually is these days. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” She ends the call.
I stare out the windowpane, hope blooming in my chest. I can’t help it.
I’m only human. And it’s miraculous how long love can survive, even against all odds.
In my lifetime, I’ve met so many people whose love persisted against all obstacles.
A woman who refused to let go of the sister she loved, who managed to conjure her out of thin air just for one last conversation.
People who gave their friends endless second chances, even when it hurt.
A mother who spent years waiting for her son to stop chasing the dream of an old family and come home to her.
I myself have fallen on my sword, reinvented my career, and sat day after day on a California seashore like a fisherman’s widow, waiting for a day that may never come, all because of love.
Hannah told me she loved me the last time we spoke, and I didn’t say it back. I’ve been trying to show her with every day that I’m here.
I want the chance to tell her I finally understand what she’d already figured out, that being human is absurd, whether you’re talking to ghosts or keeping a solitary seaside vigil.
From the moment we’re born, the clock starts ticking, until one day we end up losing everyone we love.
We’re doomed from the start. I want to tell her that even though I know where it’s all heading, I want to do it anyway.
For her, I would allow grief to shatter me, because even the smallest amount of time would be worth the agony of loss.
I know it won’t be easy, that she and I aren’t perfect, that we’re complicated people who will stagger to the finish line full of scars.
But I want to do it with her. I want to show her that I’ll wait for her as long as it takes—restless and pacing, maybe, but full of hope.
It’s the hope that always gets me.
The figure on the beach walks closer, ringed in light.
I take a deep breath and step outside to look.