by Zoe Lee
For the next several hours while they traveled from Chicago to Maybelle, Seth felt like he was in a delirium. All of the things he had sworn for years and years he didn’t want, as far as his music were, were being held out to him. All he had to do was say Yes, reach out and accept them, and then work damn hard to prove he was worth the offers.
By the time the minivan Kayla had rented at the Roanoke airport pulled into his driveway, he was in desperate need of some peace and fucking quiet. With promises to see them tomorrow to get to work, he went inside his house, sighing and stretching his back.
He was home, back where he belonged. It wasn’t a big life, but he was safe and happy.
Yeah.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Astrid
Astrid was about ready to go buy a mouthguard—she was grinding her teeth so badly that her jaw ached, her molars ached, and the tendons that ran down her throat ached.
“Oh my god, my mom’s famous!” Kerri had screeched jokingly yesterday, after some birthday party guest’s amateur paparazzo snapshots of Astrid and Barley had hit the internet and proliferated like dandelions in a windy field.
Whereas usually that sort of sarcastic humor made Astrid snort with amusement, Kerri’s comment had made her belly clench unpleasantly. She had already accepted that the world seemed to have trouble understanding how she and Barley could remain friends and not be back together or at least sleeping together again. It wasn’t salacious—but even if it were, Astrid was long past giving a shit. Not only was she too old for that, but she’d lived in the spotlight; she knew it could warm her like moonlight or incinerate her like a solar flare.
But the comments and insinuations were incessant. Even her editor Kevin had gotten a tired word in about it while they were having a status update call earlier today. She felt the insidious creep of cynicism and vague rage at people who were too wrapped up in the perceived lives of utter strangers just because one or the other was a public figure.
Oddly, Barley himself was the only person who could ever cheer her up about this.
“Astrid, my one and only love!” he cried theatrically when she accepted his call.
“I could kill you,” she moaned.
“Yeah, okay, but I’ll bet you’re not obsessing so much about your miscalculation with Downbeat,” he said with that eternal cheerfulness that he’d passed on to Kerri, except his was ridiculous given how many things had gone wrong in his life. “I gotta know, is it Undercut or Man Bun? I know it’s not Married Guy, that was never your type.”
“Shut up,” she laughed.
“Wait, that was too carefree,” Barley said suspiciously.
Astrid winced and let her head tip back. In so many ways, it was a gift beyond measure to have someone who knew her so well. But in so many other ways, it was bad, especially given that Barley wasn’t a man to let the people he loved be anything less than the best that they could be. Even when they were at their worst for each other romantically, Barley had never stopped supporting her, trying to make her believe that she could do anything.
“It was not,” she tried to protest. “I’m just over it.”
“Ha,” he exclaimed. “Ha, I say!”
She was just about to misdirect him when someone called, “Astrid, hey! Hey, Astrid!”
“Oh shit, paparazzi,” Barley yelped, as if they could see him.
“Who are you talking to, Astrid? Is it Barley? Why are you traveling without him?”
“Those shit stains—” Barley growled.
But Astrid ignored them all, saying to Barley, “Call you back in a sec, hang on.”
Then she rushed to the TSA Pre-Check line, which was a lifesaver because there was no line and it took two minutes to get through security, away from the reporters. Once she was through security, she called Barley and kept her head down as she navigated the terminal.
“...could control the story,” Barley was still bitching as if they’d never disconnected.
“They’d go away if they couldn’t get paid anymore, and they can get paid because that kind of story sells,” she said, for about the millionth time. “And I don’t have a clue how to get people to stop caring about who you’re fucking.”
“I mean… I fuck pretty interesting people,” he couldn’t help but boast.
That made her snicker a little, but she was still tight with tension.
“You can always go back to work, escape Chicago,” Barley suggested. “Go hunt down Undercut or Man Bun—hang on, unless you’re into the Lady Downbeat?”
Her nerves coiled up and writhed around in her chest, but her voice was cool and informative when she replied, “Actually, I am getting out of Chicago. That’s one of the reasons I called. I’m back on the story with Downbeat, so I’m flying to where they’re working on some new material with a songwriter. I’ll be on the east coast for about a week.”
A few seconds later, he shouted out boastfully,“I got it! It’s the songwriter who was featured onstage at Pitchfork! Kerri told me all about it, like five times at least.”
“What?” she barked sharply, hoping her tone would deter him. She couldn’t try to bluster her way out of this with protest because he’d know she was lying through her teeth.
“Honey, he is a fox,” he shouted gleefully. “You got to fix this, right away!”
Fix this. That was what Kayla’s email at six-thirty this morning had read.
I don’t know the details of what happened on the one-on-one interview with Seth, but we’re willing to give you one more chance with Downbeat. We’re going out of town for a week to work on some new stuff with Seth. You’re going to come with us and fix this. The hotel address where we’ll be is below. All of us are warning you—if you fuck this up, then we won’t let you print anything about the band at all, even if it’s the most genuine praise ever written for anyone, you get us?
“I’m going to fix the article,” she snapped at Barley.
She had no idea what had prompted the email, but she had agreed immediately, scrambling to get the logistics sorted out, because she was determined to finish the story. Seth might have forgiven her for the way she’d mismanaged the interview, but it had been right after that amazing performance when he was riding high and feeling overly generous. Her professional pride demanded that she get this story right, and so did her personal morals because she’d hurt him and a short, though sincere, apology wasn’t enough for her.
Or perhaps she just needed to know that he truly forgave her so that her fluttery, silly hope that they could spend the next week tangled up as often as possible would come true.
“Astrid,” Barley groaned, “don’t be a tit.”
“Don’t use British slang on me,” she shot back. “I’m boarding soon, I have to go. I’ll text you and Kerri my flight details and the name and number of the hotel I’ll be staying in.”
About ten minutes after she’d hung up and texted them the information, a text from Barley popped up. Did you know that The Orchid Hotel is in Maybelle County, Virginia, and that one of its most popular restaurants is Wild Harts, which is owned by Aden, Leda, and Seth Riveau?
Astrid gasped, her understanding of the whole trip careening, its equilibrium lost.
They were in Seth’s hometown—she was going to Seth’s hometown—and somehow, that changed everything. They weren’t going to be on neutral ground. They were visiting Seth where he lived his non-rockstar life. Where he co-owned a restaurant with his siblings.
Would he feel receptive or defensive having her there, in his personal territory?
She contemplated if this should merit a modification in the approach she’d been planning to take and concluded that it shouldn’t. This was a professional job and she couldn’t have a softer or more personal approach just because of the new setting, whether or not she was hoping to have some more deeply spiritual, deeply satisfying sex with Seth.
Still, that didn’t stop her from doing a little reconnaissance on Maybelle County and Wild Harts. It took her les
s than five minutes to come across Seth’s sister Leda’s caustic, amazing Twitter account. It was an endless scroll of tweets about small-town drama and photos of everyone in her life, including Seth, although he wasn’t as heavily featured as Leda’s very handsome husband. Astrid found herself laughing at Leda’s creative hashtags, realizing that this must be the account that Kerri had found.
Astrid’s childhood in London, years in L.A., and current life in the suburbs of Chicago were nothing like living in a small town and she was a bit worried about that aspect. She wasn’t good at small talk unless it was for work where there was some measure of distance. She didn’t have warm rapport with strangers that let her strike up conversations wherever she went. So even though she was curious about Maybelle for many reasons, she was worried that she would feel uncomfortable and out of place. The band, Kayla, and Hank would have each other, so there was no consolation that they’d be out of place too.
By the time she’d landed in Roanoke, rented a car, and driven to The Orchid Hotel, she was a mess of nerves, only made worse by the response from Kayla to her text that she’d arrived. Okay. We’ll start tomorrow night for dinner. Amuse yourself until then or whatever.
Groaning, she showered off the trip and decided to walk around the center of town for a while, wandering in and out of stores and trying to make an effort to interact with people. In the pleasant heat of the afternoon in the adorable town, she could admit that this effort had nothing whatsoever to do with journalism and everything to do with Seth. She wanted insight into the setting where he’d been born and raised, where he’d returned.
But it didn’t work at all, and she wondered if it was so obvious that she didn’t get small towns, so people kept her at a distance, perpetuating a vicious cycle. Or was it that her cool English rose vibe clashed with their warm southern charm? Because she was unsure, she felt stiffer than usual, clamming up when she knew that she needed to open up.
Too soon, she gave up for now and returned to the lovely hotel, deciding to eat in the restaurant that was on its top floor. When she stepped inside, she was charmed by its faux European décor and, since it was surprisingly busy, decided to just eat at the bar. There was a mirror behind it, mostly covered up by a multitude of colorful bottles of alcohol, but there were enough gaps that she was able to observe some of what was happening behind her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” someone asked.
Looking up, she saw a man in his mid-twenties in worn denim and a worn out red tee shirt with Houston Architecture & Construction Co. stamped over his chest in a blocky font.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
For a split second Astrid thought it was a come-on, but a quick sweep up and down the bar showed that the seat next to her was actually the only available one. “No, it’s not.”
He settled onto the stool and started reading on his phone until a bartender came up on the other side and leaned over to hug him. “Hey, darlin’,” he said to her, “I’m feeling like a glass of that Chilean red wine, truffle fries, and the steak special.”
“Comin’ right up,” she promised with a flirty smile, sashaying away.
Astrid hid a smile behind a bite of her ravioli with chicken and alfredo sauce and continued eating until the man’s drink and fries arrived. He looked over at her, dark eyes glinting. “It’s no trouble if you want to eat in silence,” he said amiably, “but I think it’s a shame to eat in silence when I could have some companionship. I’m Tristan.”
“Astrid,” she murmured, cocking one eyebrow when he stretched out an unexpectedly graceful hand for her to shake across their plates.
“What brings you to Maybelle?” he asked.
There was something comforting in even the casual similarity between his drawl and Seth’s. Perhaps it made her soften a bit, because she found herself replying, shifting on her stool so that it was easier to talk to him, “I’m doing some research in the area.”
“Oh, you’re visiting the Institute,” he said. “Great bunch of folks up there.”
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that,” she replied after swallowing her bite. “No, I’m doing a piece for a magazine and this… seemed like a good next stop to make for it.”
“Here you go, Tristan,” the bartender said, setting his steak down with a big smile. “Law ordered it but then had to run, so I just took it for you so you can eat sooner.”
“Thank you,” he said with a gleam of amusement, almost hidden as he put a truly gargantuan bite of steak into his mouth neatly, taking his time chewing like Seth did. Astrid had to wonder if it was a southern thing or if Tristan just reminded her of Seth. Or if she just… had Seth on the brain and it made her see similarities everywhere, desperately.
“So, what’s this Institute, then?” she asked, hoping to distract herself.
“There’s a think tank on the north end of the county,” he told her, instead of asking her the obvious follow up question of what it was that she was researching. “They’ve got a bunch of folks with, in my opinion, far too many advanced degrees working on all sorts of projects. It brings people in now and then from all sorts of exotic places.” His thin mouth angled up in a roguish kind of smile before he added, “Not that London’s that exotic.”
“Lucky guess I’m from London,” Astrid said with a little bite to it.
“Not a guess, lucky or otherwise,” Tristan disagreed mildly. “My dad lived in London for a long time. I’ve spent more than enough time there to recognize a posh Londoner.”
That surprised a genuine laugh out of Astrid. “I wouldn’t say posh. But I haven’t lived there in over twenty years, so I suppose my accent might have become a bit of a parody of itself. Perils of living in America,” she returned archly. “Did you like London? It’s quite different from here, from what I’ve seen so far.”
“Now, ma’am,” he drawled, cutting his steak as if he were a lumberjack with one of those giant tree saws, “don’t go painting us all with some redneck brush. That ain’t fair.”
She found herself smiling and challenging, “Prove me wrong.”
“I graduated top of my class from MIT,” he lobbed back immediately.
For a long moment, she weighed the odds of him completely bullshitting her, but she decided, a little hot with embarrassment, that she wouldn’t make any headway on really learning about Seth or where he’d grown up if she had such a low opinion of his town.
“Then I concede,” she replied. “It appears that I’ve got some biases.”
“Definitely don’t lump us in with whoever you’re biased against,” Tristan chuckled.
“The people I’ve met from here so far,” she began, carefully constructing her thought to try to lure something from him, or edge closer to fishing about Seth, “show that the population of Maybelle is far above average, as far as being well-traveled and unexpected.”
“Sure are,” he agreed.
As a music journalist, so far, she’d always interviewed artists who were used to the attention, whether they were comfortable with it or not, whether they were shy or attention whores. She’d never tried to learn about a person by immersing herself in their hometown before and if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. Usually leading questions brought her more than two words, but it appeared that Tristan was cut from the same cloth as Seth and wasn’t going to share any more than that.
So they lapsed into silence and Astrid focused on finishing her dinner.
Some portion of her rather glum thoughts must have bled through to her expression because Tristan broke into them by asking, “Are you all right? You look worried.”
“Just,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping a bit, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Tristan was young, somewhere in his early to mid twenties, but he emanated a serenity as he nodded slowly and chewed his mouthful. It wasn’t the same as Seth’s calm, but it was closer to it than anyone else Astrid knew, and it only
made her wish futilely that it was Seth who was with her. She missed the way his calm enveloped her, touched her contentedness in some organic way, made her feel safe and exhilarated and… like a woman all at once.
Which was patently ridiculous.
But—
“If Seth doesn’t know you’re here already,” Tristan murmured, finally putting down his fork and pausing his meal, “he will any moment, Ms. Sinclair. If I were you, I would figure out how to explain why you didn’t knock on his door the second you got here.”
Astrid’s mouth fell open in shock.
“If you’re really here chasing a story about Seth instead of just on Downbeat,” he went on, “I’m going to ask you kindly to pack up and get the hell out of Maybelle, ma’am. No one’s going to give up anything unless Seth asks us to, and we both know he’d never do that.” With that, Tristan slid off the stool, laid down some bills beside his plate, dipped his chin at her, and meandered off after one last “Ma’am” before Astrid could gather a single thought.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Seth
Being in the office at Wild Harts, theoretically working on payroll, while the band and Astrid were within Maybelle County limits was surreal.
He’d bought a day with Kayla, saying he had some responsibilities here he couldn’t in good conscience shove at his siblings when he’d just been out of town for a week.
But dinner was on the books for eight tonight, right here in his family’s restaurant.
As the clock ticked towards it, he felt stranger and stranger. It was the first time since those early months when he had been home again after leaving Downbeat that he felt strange in his own skin here, felt strange being in Wild Harts. He was distracted and restless, and he kept taking down random notes on new songs, the ideas feeling not tainted by Downbeat’s presence precisely, but as if he were trying to work something out.