Slower

by Deana Birch

  Attorney at Law

  Junior Partner

  Davis and Partners

  * * *

  I checked the schedule on my computer. We had gigs this weekend and were back in L.A. for six days next week before flying out again on Friday. My heart dropped into my stomach. If Shane was the rat, I might only play two more times with the band. It would be the end of my success, the probable end of my career. I’d clawed my way through bad bands and small gigs. Been a broke musician more than a rich one. Quitting The Spades might mean quitting music.

  But I would give it all up just to hold her again.

  24

  LOUANA

  * * *

  I lugged my bags up Stella’s winding wooden staircase, dumped them on the floor of my room, grabbed a pillow, and inhaled all the memories. After a quick message to my mom, I took five minutes to relax before I unpacked.

  When I went down later with my e-reader, a French tabloid lay on the massive farm table. To my horror, in a corner of the cover was a boxed picture of Dimitri and me at Cannes. The small headline read: TriTri’s return to Marseille comes with his secret weapon.

  I picked up the magazine and flipped to the story about us. Not only were there pictures from Cannes, but the next day at lunch in Saint-Raphaël had also been documented. And not with a random fan’s blurry phone picture. With a high-definition photo that had obviously been taken from across the street as we laughed and ate. The French were really starved for news, and I bet they would be crushed when I didn’t show up at the beginning of the season for his games. Let alone the Euro Cup he’d been selected for.

  I dropped the glossy rag back on the table and went to find Stella. I found her on the phone in the garden, the late-afternoon sun glimmering around her. Amongst the blooming lavender and shading olive trees, she smiled warmly and continued her conversation. In a tone that made me want to buy a drink for whomever was on the other end, she explained that she didn’t do that sort of thing, hadn’t sung in public for years—and anyway the timing was bad since her granddaughter had just arrived from abroad. I gave her a curious look, and she told the person she would call them back.

  “What was that about?” I cocked an eyebrow and marked my page for later.

  “An old friend’s grandson is getting married, and the soloist is ill. He asked me to sing ‘Ave Maria’ at the wedding on Saturday.” She rolled her eyes and twisted the large diamond ring from her last husband around her finger.

  I gave her my best puppy dog eyes from my childhood—they actually had a history of working on her—and eagerly clapped my hands.

  “S’il te plaît!” I begged her. A performance—even if it was in a church—would be a dream.

  Her ice cracked just a little through her pursed lips. “I do love that one.”

  “Say yes, say yes. As long as I can come and watch! I never get to hear you.” I didn’t recognize the whine in my voice, and it was certainly out of place for a grown woman, but I would use anything in my power to see her sing again.

  “Let’s go inside and see if my voice can even sing it anymore.”

  Bingo!

  I put the kettle on and made tea with honey as she searched her music library for the instrumental version of the song. We met back at the piano, sheet music and tea ready to go. I sat at the bench, and Stella stood to my right, her shoulders poised. After she took a sip of the tea, my toes twitched with excitement as I waited for her to complete her vocal warm-ups. It reminded me of a dancer stretching, or Jake banging on things before he went onstage. That intimate moment sacredly witnessed and rarely shared by performers.

  She listened through a couple of times, humming with her eyes closed. But listening was the wrong word. The music seeped into her skin, awoke her being, and radiated back out.

  On the third go-through, I knew she would sing. With her first breath, the hair on my arms stood at attention. Her voice eased into the song, and I sat up straighter knowing I was witnessing greatness. Even in her living room, she was mesmerizing. By the end of the three minutes, and when she hit the highest note, tears were staining my face. Such power, such force, and so much beautiful talent. There was not one false note.

  “There’s no question your voice remembers.” I smiled. “Please do it … for me.”

  She put the back of her hand to her mouth and nose and stared out the window. “If you weren’t here, I would have said no.” She spun her ring again and twisted her mouth.

  “Lucky bride and groom, then.” I clapped my hands quickly but without sound.

  The performance, even though at a wedding and only one song, took up the rest of our week.

  Two days after agreeing to sing, she had the run through with the musicians at the cathedral, and I had a free day. Dimitri picked me up in the morning, and we drove down to the pier where his father’s sailboat was docked. We loaded in our picnic of tapenades and tapas. The cooler was filled with rosé and sparkling water. I stored the bag of towels below decks as Dimitri started the motor. After untying the boat, we navigated out of the harbor and onto the choppy open waters. The rituals and the path were so familiar. So, so familiar.

  Our conversation orbited around the necessities of sailing as we blew through the sea on our way to our favorite cove. When we got there, he dropped the anchor, and I pulled off my sweater and pants to reveal my little floral bikini.

  It was the middle of the week, and the beginning of the season; there wasn’t another soul in sight. I grabbed two towels and laid them out in our habitual spots on the bow of the boat. When Dimitri had changed into his swim trunks, he joined me.

  “No need for this.” I pulled off my top and tossed it over my shoulder with a grin.

  “No need for any of it.” His eyebrows waggled.

  “You’re right.” I tucked my thumbs into my bottoms but stopped. “Unless you’ve called the press and they show up with cameras to document the moment.”

  Dimitri’s sun-kissed face crinkled up. “You saw the article?”

  “I did. I mean, I’m not super excited about being in the public eye again, but it’s kinda hilarious.”

  “What do you mean?” He sat back.

  “I won’t even be here while you play. You should let them know.”

  “You could be.”

  “Sorry if you were expecting me to be the same person I was when I was eighteen. I’m not.” I flipped over. “Will you do my back?” I handed him the lotion.

  His hands moved methodically over me; there was no teasing or playfulness. He was literally just putting lotion on my back and ass. I had hoped for maybe a little finger slip between my cheeks, anything to show rubbing me made him excited. But, nope. Just a simple kiss on the top of my head once he’d completed his task.

  He lay down on his back next to me, let out a little sigh, and turned his head to look at me. “I keep wondering ’ow to make this work between us. Why did you move so far away from your ’ome?” He frowned.

  I bet that pout worked on his mom. It had probably worked on me in the past without me even realizing. I glanced to the sea and back to him. “I’m trying to have my own experiences, my own life.”

  “But why? You are better by my side.”

  I looked back out to the sea. The waves splashed against the boat in a rhythmic calm. His answer was lopsided. In fact, it was the opposite of the truth. He was better with me by his side. That was what he really meant. And I couldn’t help but wonder how much of all the lucky charm crap was concocted and how much of it he actually believed. All of his actions had proven he didn’t want me; he wanted my presence.

  I sat up. “Do you really believe you play better with me in the stadium?”

  “Beh … oui. The stats don’t lie, Minette.”

  I thought back to when he’d come to Los Angeles. “Did you tell Vincent to get me fired in hopes of me breaking up with Jake and flying back into your arms?”

  He sighed. “I was injured. I needed everything I could ’ave in my corner to re
cover. I love Marseille, but it’s not like playing for Paris. I’ve taken a step back. Everyone can see it.”

  “You must be joking.”

  He shrugged. “Vincent asked ’ow ’e could help. I needed you. I need you ’ere.”

  His confession poked at something deeper—the lack of love. Utter nonexistence of respect. A level of selfishness I’d never thought he was capable of.

  “You don’t get to play with my life because you can’t score a fucking goal anymore.”

  His face dropped. It was easily the meanest thing I’d ever said to him.

  “You ’ad your fun, it’s made you bold and brash. But enough is enough. Why would you be ’ere now if you didn’t want me back?” Dimitri spread his arms out, and his hazel eyes bulged.

  “Oh, my God.” I reached for my top and put it back on. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Take me home.”

  “Minette…” He dropped his head.

  No fucking way that would work with me. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

  His eyes shot to mine. I stared back. The man in front of me had never understood anything about me. Never supported my drive. Dimitri wanted his version of me, not my own. Something Jake had once said to me played in my head: He didn’t want to change any part of me, only the chance to witness the things he’d loved about me. This was none of that.

  We sailed back to Marseille in silence. When we pulled into Stella’s driveway and he reached out for my arm, I wiggled it away.

  “This is over and don’t you fucking dare mess with my life again.” I hoped the searing look I shot him burned a hole in his selfish soul.

  With my hand on the doorknob, I took a long breath. Inside the villa, Stella was still dressed and reading in her living room.

  “He didn’t want to come in?” She laid her book in her lap and slid off her glasses.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  The details of her day made me grin in horror for those poor wedding musicians. Her inner diva and perfectionist would not be tamed, even for one song at a wedding. I kissed her goodnight and went up to my room to check my phone for messages.

  There was an adorable video from Gina of Archie and Boom Boom chasing each other around the pool in the courtyard. Fern’s familiar cackle in the background brought a smile to my face. I also had a short message from Mario who wasn’t sure of his cell service for the next couple of days, and a few emails from clients that I replied to before returning to my book.

  The day before the wedding, Stella was on self-imposed vocal rest and would only write me questions in a notebook, then beg me to keep talking to pass the time. This also meant she did more listening than usual, and it somehow gave her the boldness to ask things she’d been holding back in her arsenal.

  We were at dinner, at home just the two of us, seated face-to-face at her huge farm table in the kitchen. I had made a roasted chicken, sweet potato home fries, and sautéed greens. I had purposely avoided cream; she didn’t want to clog her lungs before the next day. On the pad of paper next to her, she wrote:

  What happened with Jake?

  I poured myself more red wine and twitched my lips. Her gentle expression told me she was waiting and expected nothing but the truth.

  “I loved him.”

  Her head tilted, and she cut a small bite of chicken.

  My palms covered my eyes and rubbed up and down my face.

  “A part of me still loves him, even with how messed up everything got. But it would never work.”

  She chewed slowly and raised her eyebrows.

  “For starters, you would hate him.” I dropped my cutlery to count on my fingers. “He’s American, he’s a rock musician, he didn’t go to private school, and he can only speak English.”

  She reached for the pen and wrote:

  Did he love you?

  “Yes.”

  More than D?

  “Yes.”

  I would like him.

  Wait. What?

  “But you hated my father, and it ruined your relationship with my mom. I would never risk that.”

  I would never repeat that mistake.

  I read the words again. They were a mighty confession from the social pillar that led our trio of a family. Surely my mother wasn’t aware of the regret.

  “You don’t care if I end up with Dimitri?”

  She gave me a confused look and lifted a shoulder, then shook her head no.

  I want you happy. I see D doesn’t do that.

  Her age and wisdom seized my foolish youth and its assumptions and tossed them out the window. Jake and I were both guilty of letting assumptions ruin our relationship. I should have been honest with Stella sooner. Next time.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s too late. We broke up, and he’s on tour with his band.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she gently laid down her utensils.

  If it’s not too late for me to sing, it’s not too late for you and Jake.

  I stared at her words for a long time. Not just the part about it not being too late, but—more importantly—how she saw what was happening with Dimitri. How she wanted me happy. That was love. Selfless, pure love. And exactly what Dimitri had never given me. But she did. She put me first.

  “Merci, grand-maman. Je t’aime.”

  25

  JAKE

  * * *

  On my shitty little bunk on the bus, somewhere in Pennsylvania, I pulled off my headphones and looked across to Shane. He curled into his wall wearing a giant cream-colored onesie. A big baby.

  The last week had been fruitless in my search for proof of him somehow telling Louana about the actress. Had I even fucked her? I remembered her asking, begging me to. She had been topless when I’d left. That meant I’d done something. Probably. Fucking drugs. Fucking vodka. Did it even matter? I had kissed her. That had been confirmed by many teasing sessions from John fueled by the jealousy that he’d been trying to get in her pants for months.

  But Shane hadn’t been in the hotel room when I’d woken up, so how did Louana know?

  Fuck me, my shitty memory, and my stupidity.

  Regardless of the consequences, I still needed to find out if it was Shane who’d fucked me over. No matter what, I was going to do everything in my physical power to get Louana back. I sent a text to Gina asking her when Louana would be home and went up to the front of the bus to start my musical pity ritual.

  Shane joined me later and leaned over the fridge. “Want a beer?”

  I’d been pretty stand-offish since I’d started thinking he’d fucked me over. If that beer was some kind of olive branch, he could shove it up his fucked-up ass. But I still didn’t have any proof, so I said a casual, “nah… not yet.”

  He closed the door, and his face twisted. “You’re probably right. I’m getting a fucking beer belly, and I’m only twenty-eight years old.”

  Sam came from the back of the bus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and slid onto the bench next to me.

  “How’s the apartment sitting going with Gina?” I secured my headphones around my neck and let the cord dangle in my half-open shirt.

  “Good. She says the old lady is a handful but she’s in love with the dog. His girlfriend still doesn’t have a home, either. I have a feeling she’ll be in my bed when I get back.” Sam unscrewed his water bottle and took a long drink.

  “Boom Boom?” Ah, that sweet girl. Archie loved her.

  “Yeah. But I’m having trouble getting over her name. Sounds more like a dog for you.”

  Shane scoffed, and I shot him a curious look. What? I couldn’t talk about fucking dogs now? I turned back to Sam. “You should get her. Anyway, my dog would be Bang Bang.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. She said that computer dude is moving out.” Sam finished his water and rubbed his shiny head.

  I barely realized I had picked up my phone and dialed Fern’s number. She answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  She let out a small laugh that wa
rmed my heart. “Hello, handsome. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m in Philly but coming back tomorrow. You guys around next week? I miss my swimming partner and drinking buddy.”

  “Where the hell else would we go? You know I’m always here.”

  “I’ll come by Tuesday for lunch.”

  “Bring wine.”

  As if I would forget.

  “You got it, mama. Oh, and Fern—don’t you dare rent that vacant apartment to anyone but me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I hung up feeling pretty proud of my plan, but the glare on Shane’s face was less than encouraging.

  “Jesus Christ, man. When are you gonna let go of her?”

  “Never.” I stared, challenging him. Daring him.

  “Look, seriously. I gotta be honest with you. She’s not going to take you back. You cheated on her.” His arms crossed, and he leaned back.

  “I only hooked up with that chick because I thought it was already over.”

  “We’ve been through this countless times, dude. It doesn’t fucking matter.” Shane rolled up his sleeves and set his jaw.

  “Why do you even give a shit?” Sam asked. It was unlike him to challenge Shane, but months on a tour bus with three jackass alphas had made him bold.

  “So fucking typical.” Shane rolled his green eyes. “You two on the same side. But I’ll tell you why I care. I care because you are fucking boring, Riley. When I brought you into this band, it was to have a little fucking fun. You just made a lunch date with an old lady and are talking about rescuing dogs. Jesus Christ.” His chin tucked, and he rattled his head. “Stop being such a depressing pussy and be a rock star for a minute.”

  The raised voices and hope of conflict had brought John from his bunk, and he stood with his arms folded in the little hallway, watching the scene. It would have been easy to scream at Shane. And even though my brain was telling him to fuck off, my mouth managed to calm the situation. But that didn’t mean I didn’t still have a snide rebuttal. “I’m sorry. I’m not like you. I happen to think there’s more to life than fucking everything around me.”