Della couldn’t stand it another second. She shot out of her chair, unable to let him face such utter rejection.
But before she could lift her hands, applause cracked the silence.
It kept going as slowly, one by one, the audience got to its feet and gave him a thunderous response. People shouted out, some whistled.
At the table next to her, she heard, “Holy shit, who is this guy?”
“I recorded it. It’s going viral, for sure.”
“What’s his name? He’s going to be huge.”
Bex lowered his head, and she couldn’t miss the exhale of relief. He stood up. “Thanks.” Lifting his guitar, he shook it and then exited the stage.
Della was on the move, making her way across the room, but before she could reach him, she heard the obnoxious man bellow, “Finally. Let’s get some real music in here. No more of that sappy shit.”
The moment Bex stepped off the last stair, she was in his arms. “You were amazing. You blew them away.” The applause hadn’t died down. “They love you, Bex. They love you.”
“Hey.” A man in a white linen short-sleeved shirt and pressed jeans approached them. “Great show.”
“Thank you.” Bex shook his hand.
“I’m Mike Tupper, talent agent. You’ve got some pipes.”
She reached for Bex’s hand and gave it a squeeze, barely able to hold back her laughter. But when she felt the tremble in his body, all her good humor subsided.
Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of performing. She hoped the drunk man hadn’t shaken him.
“Do you have representation?” Mike asked.
“I’m not really there yet.” Bex gave him a nod to end the conversation.
But Mike reached for him. “Well, hang on. You’re not as far off as you think. You’ve got something. We can work on your stage presence, get you some voice lessons.”
What the hell’s he talking about? Bex’s performance was flawless.
The man pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed Bex a card. “I’d like to work with you, get you the resources you need.” He gestured behind him. “I’m based in London, but I’ve got acts all over the world.”
“Tonight was just about having fun with my girlfriend, but thank you.”
Tipping his head to the stage, Mike indulged him with a patronizing smile. “You going to give them one more song?”
Feet stomped, and the audience chanted, “Encore, encore, encore.” And over it all, the obnoxious man shouted, “Ah, hell no. Let him go back to the commune and make daisy chains.”
“I know you’re just acoustic tonight, but do you have any livelier songs?” Mike asked. “Something to get the crowd pumped?”
“Nope. That’s it.” Bex let go of her hand. “We’re heading out.” He lifted the card. “But thanks.” He wasn’t taking payment, and he’d only brought a guitar, so they had no reason to hang around.
They slipped out the back door, breathing in the cool evening air, and headed for the main boulevard.
“Oh, my God, you were amazing. Did you hear their response?”
“I did.” He was focused on texting the driver.
“Forget the drunk guy. He’s an asshole. And the talent agent…I’m sure that’s his opening line with everyone.”
Bex looked up from texting. “Della, I’ve been doing this for years. None of it’s new.”
Well, sure, it’s new. Since you’re usually hiding behind Van. He wanted to come off as nonchalant, totally chill, but she knew him. And his tone was flat. “Okay, well, I’m really proud of you, and you blew everyone else away.” She was still riding on the beauty of his melodies, the achingly poignant lyrics. “I want the whole world to hear your songs.”
“Well, with some vocal work, I might get there one day.” He made it sound like a joke, but she caught the bitter undertone.
“Oh, come on. We can look him up and see which ‘artists’ he represents. Trust me on this, he’s got no one at your level.”
The vacant look in his eyes scared her. “The car’s on its way.”
She didn’t want him hurtling back in time, all the way back to high school when he’d had to ignore the kids throwing coins at him and breaking into song when he entered the cafeteria, so she reached for his hand, as if she could keep him tethered to this moment with her. She needed to remind him of his one-of-a-kind talent. “I’m serious, Bex. In that one set, you made me cry, you made me laugh, and you made me swoon. Your songs are brilliant. I was watching everyone in the room, and I’m telling you, no one could take their eyes off you.”
“Stop.” He gave her a hard look. “I don’t need to be coddled. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
Della had slept so soundly she hadn’t even heard Bex get up.
The sound of water spattering over the tile had her rolling onto her back. What’s he doing? He’d showered before bed last night.
We’re on vacation. She’d expected lazy mornings.
Fear yanked the thread of tension running through her body, jerking her upright. The whole way back to the hotel, he’d been quiet. She’d tried to talk to him, but he’d sworn he was fine. That he’d learned years ago to tune out the audience.
He’d given her the right words. Art’s subjective and People view it through the lens of their experience. Delivered like a customer service rep who’d memorized his lines.
Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he was hurting, and she needed to make him feel better. She’d just gotten out of bed, ready to hug the disappointment right out of him, when she saw his phone vibrating on the nightstand.
She could see the first few sentences of a text.
Martin: Reid’s in. We’re good to go. Let me know if we’re keeping Della or if you want someone new.
A low-level thrum of anxiety kicked up her pulse.
Martin didn’t know they’d gotten together, so of course he’d only see her as a temporary assistant. Someone easily replaceable. That’s okay. It’s not like Bex had written it.
It was just…keeping Della? It sounded so impersonal.
Worse, it was obviously a response to something Bex had sent. Something that had prompted Martin to wonder whether Della was moving forward with them.
Right. Probably because we’re lovers now, and I can’t work for him anymore. Of course, he needs someone new.
Wait, if he’s retiring, why does he need an assistant?
The water shut off, and she was a little too anxious to go talk to him, so as she waited for him to come into the bedroom, she reread the message one more time, trying to figure out its meaning.
Stop making things up. Wait until you talk to him.
He came out with a white towel wrapped around his hips, and her heart twisted. This man…he was the missing piece of her soul. The restless longing that had driven her to write poems disappeared when they connected. She could feel him deep down. He connected with her very essence.
He’s mine.
Whatever he’s going through right now, we’ll get through it.
With a second towel, he dried his hair. Watching her carefully, he lowered his arms. “What’s wrong?”
She wasn’t going to play games. “Martin texted.”
His features tightened, and he made a grab for the phone. With narrowed eyes, he read the message. When he finished, the lines of tension on his face relaxed, and he tossed the phone onto the bed.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m going back into the studio.”
She brightened. “Oh, God. I’m such an idiot. He said Reid’s in, so I thought…never mind. This is fantastic. You’re going to make an album of ballads? This is so great.” Maybe his brother would support him this time around.
“What? No.” Distracted, he pulled open a drawer and tossed all the shirts into the open suitcase.
“Wait, what’s going on right now?”
“We owe the studio one more record, and Reid’s down to do it.”
“I don’t understand. Neither of you wants to keep going. You both said you were done.”
“It doesn’t work like that. You don’t just decide to shut down an entire operation. We have obligations, contracts.” He scooped the boxer briefs out of the top drawer and threw them into the case.
“Can you stop packing for a second? What happened between last night and this morning that I missed?”
He sat on the edge of the mattress. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She moved closer to him, setting a hand on his back. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I had a lot to work out.”
Well, that kicked her anxiety up to a whole other level. He didn’t want to work it out with her? “Okay. Help me understand your thought process because one of the first things you said to me is that you were so tired of ‘lying and hiding.’ And I was there when Reid said he’d only do it if you made him. Can’t you buy your way out of this contract?”
“Probably, but it’s not easy to do. They can take us to court, and it could get ugly. We’ve always honored our obligations, and it doesn’t sit right with me that we’d bail on the label.”
“I understand that, but when you weigh it out, you’re talking about your reputation versus Reid’s well-being.” And yours. She lifted both hands to mimic a scale. One palm sank far lower than the other.
“He’s fine with it because he wants to transition into the next phase of his life. Martin will slow down the tour schedule, so Reid will have time to wander around cities with his camera or whatever he decides to do.”
What is he talking about? “Van Claybourne can’t wander anywhere. He’d be recognized on the Yukon trail. But more importantly, he said it was impossible for him to be creative when he’s touring three hundred days a year.”
“You haven’t even known us a week, Della. You have no idea what’s involved in the Van Claybourne production. You don’t just decide one day to shut it all down. We’re talking about the livelihood of hundreds of people, licensing agreements…there are a thousand moving parts.” He strode into the bathroom and threw things into his toiletry bag.
Okay, he was running on fear. He’d exposed himself last night, and he’d gotten heckled. He’ll calm down. He’ll come back to me. She followed him into the bathroom and set a hand on his shoulder, ready to comfort him. He flinched.
Well, hell. It was like he’d flipped a switch, reverted to the man she’d met that first morning on the bus. “And what about us?”
He caught her gaze in the mirror. “What about us?”
He’d lived in the shadows for so long, he thought nobody noticed his tells. He was wrong. “I know you, and I know I’m not talking to Bexley Sinclair right now. I’m talking to the guy who hides on the bus while his brother performs his songs.”
Anger wrenched his features. He zipped the toiletry bag and spun around, moving out of the bathroom in a cloud of expensive soap and herbal shampoo. “You have no idea how hard it was to build Van Claybourne into what it is today. The last fucking thing I want to do is rebuild a career. I don’t want to sing ballads, okay? Now, look, I’m sorry to cut our trip short, but I’ve got to get to New York to talk about the next album and tour.”
He was being perfectly reasonable, so it was hard to remember the truth about what he truly needed versus what was expected of him. She followed him to the closet, talking to his back. “I asked you a question. What about us?”
Slowly, he turned to her. “Are you saying you don’t want to be with me if I don’t quit the band right now?”
“Of course not. But you’ve made all these plans without me. You’re showered, you’re packing…and I just woke up. Forgive me for thinking it looks like I’m being left behind.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” When her eyes flared, he said, “Or come with me to New York. It’s up to you.”
“Yes, I’m aware of my agency in all this. It just would help if I understood what the choices were.”
At her bitchy tone, he turned back to yank his shirts off the hangers. “After negotiations, I’ll go on a retreat so I can write the songs. Then—”
“Can you do that in Wild Wolff Village?” Because she could go with him there. She’d get to be with Micky. Maybe she’d start her event planning business in Calamity or Jackson.
“I don’t know where it’ll be. It’s usually somewhere unfamiliar, so there are no distractions, no routines. No interruptions.”
It hit so hard she went dizzy. He doesn’t want me with him. “Given that I have needs of my own—like chatting and sex and basic companionship, it sure sounds like I’d be an interruption.” He couldn’t have made himself clearer.
He didn’t even fold the shirts. Just dumped them in the suitcase. “I’ve never taken anyone with me before.”
God, why had Mary put up with this all these years? “And what happens after this solo retreat?”
“We go into the studio.” He dug beneath the mound of clothing and pulled out a T-shirt, found a pair of boxer briefs and jeans.
“And where will that be?”
Whipping off the towel, he got dressed. “Depends on the producer. Could be anywhere.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll tour.”
“Okay. So, let’s say I choose to stick with you through all of this, what do you imagine I’ll be doing while you’re in the studio and touring?”
“I guess you’ll be starting your event planning business.” He sounded exasperated.
She’d never been punched in the stomach, but it had to feel like this. That doubling-over kind of pain, the sickening sensation spreading through her body. “Oh, okay. Got it. I’m going back to Arizona.” Fuck him. Now, it was her turn to pack. Like hell she’d lounge around the pool in paradise, sleeping in the same bed where they’d made love, using the same shower where they’d fucked.
She grabbed an armful of clothes off hangers, but when she turned around, he was blocking the closet doorway.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” He cracked a bitter grin. “No, actually, I know exactly what you want. You want me to be the guy on the bus, the guy you spent three days with. Well, guess what, Della? You’re not the only one who wants me to be something. Martin wants me to be the man who keeps this machine running smoothly three-hundred-sixty-five days a year. My label wants me to churn out hits and keep Van Claybourne on the charts. My family wants me to be the provider, the one who keeps us all together. And now you want me to be the next Bryan Adams.”
“Why are you angry with me?”
“Because I thought you were the only one who wanted me to just be me.”
“This isn’t you. This is the old you. I’m the only one who wants you to be happy. If you loved your life, I wouldn’t say a word. But you don’t. You told me you don’t. Reid told me he doesn’t.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “End of a tour. It’s always like that.”
“Oh, my God, you’re just rolling out all the lines, aren’t you? Okay, well, I can’t get through to you, so…” She pushed past him and set her dresses in the carry-on.
“Get through to me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m the woman you fell in love with. Because I see you and listen to you and root for you to live for yourself for the first time in your life.”
“Except for that little agenda you’ve got where I fit into your idea of me. You have this image in your head of us hanging out all day, writing poems and lyrics, having deep conversations. That’s not life. That’s a three-day break from life. Jesus, Della, I can’t have one more person telling me who they need me to be.”
For the first time, she understood the expression shaking like a leaf. Because that’s what she was doing. She was a fragile wisp of a thing trembling in a brisk wind. “I need to hear you say it. Just say the words. Are you ending it with me? Are we done?”
Fear sliced through his anger. It was just a flash, but it was real. “I didn’t say that. But if we try to make a go of this, you have to understand what my life will be like for the next eighteen months.”
“Yes, I understand.”
He relaxed, even gave her a relieved smile.
“I understand you want me to be Mary. You want me to be satisfied with the occasional phone call where we catch each other up on our business issues.”
“I know you’re not Mary, but this is the reality of my life—”
“Stop it. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t bullshit me. Because I know the real man. And I know why you went back into hiding. I’ve never performed, but it had to suck to be heckled when you were wearing your heart on your sleeve. But you’re not sixteen, this isn’t high school, and I won’t hide out on the bus with you anymore. Dammit, Bex. You’re so much better than this.”
“You mean the idea you had of me is so much better than who I turned out to be. And I can’t help you with that. This is who I am. And if that’s not good enough for you, then, I guess there’s nothing more to talk about.”