“To be fair, I didn’t say that about your music in particular.”
“I bet you thought it.”
I shrugged. If I denied it, he wouldn’t believe me anyway. “I don’t know how my brain decides a specific song sounds good. Genre doesn’t matter. There’s just a thread that gets stuck in my head in that moment.”
Ryan nodded, assessing me from the corner of his eye. “I could explain it to you, if you’d like?”
“Nah. I kind of like the mystery, but thanks.”
We stopped at the edge of the traffic lights opposite Bute Park. Cars flew past, their speed at odds with the steady presence of the castle down the street.
“I’ll share a taxi with you, make sure Jared leaves without causing too much damage,” Ryan said, placing his hand on my lower back. That small action made my heart race.
For a moment, transfixed by his easy smile, I could understand why people gave in to the pressure to find their one love. Even with the high odds of failure, that tiny thrill was intoxicating.
“It’s such a nice day, we could walk back across the parks?” I suggested.
“Sounds great, if you’re happy to put up with me for that long.”
I eyed him. “How about we take it slow?”
The lights changed and we crossed the road, cutting down the side of the bridge and into the park. A bike path ran into the greenspace, cutting along the riverbank. Winter sun filtered through the bare branches of ancient trees on either side of us.
“As long as I don’t end up in that river when you’ve had enough, I’ll take it as slow as you like.”
My eyebrows rose and Ryan laughed. Neither of us believed that statement. He didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“So why don’t you want to go home?” Ryan asked, proving me right without even trying.
“Who says I don’t want to go home?”
“You haven’t packed.”
“It’s a last-minute trip.” I crossed my arms. Ryan’s gaze dropped to the defensive gesture, and I promptly let them fall back to my sides.
“Okay. I’ll pretend I believe you.” Ryan stepped close as a loud group of teenagers rushed past us. “What about your job? They’re okay with you taking off last minute?”
“I’m freelance and between contracts. I’m currently looking at nearly three months off unless something comes up before Christmas.”
“Does that happen often?” he asked, mild surprise colouring his tone.
“Which part? The time off or the surprise job offers?”
“Both, I guess.”
I shrugged. “It’s pretty normal in TV, but especially for production coordinators. There aren’t many of us in Cardiff.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. It’s always high stress and long hours, but there are some fun moments in the chaos. Most days are completely different to the last.” My eyes probably shone like an adrenaline junkie talking about their next stunt.
“That’s what music is like sometimes.”
I was grinning when I met his gaze. “The thought of doing anything else seems wrong, right?”
“Like asking me to breathe underwater.”
Warmth filled my chest. He got it. My father struggled, and it had taken Emily years to understand why I kept going back for more. All she saw was the stress, the early starts and the late nights. She didn’t get the pride I felt or the thrill of watching a film or TV show and being privy to all the silly moments that came out of making it.
Ryan held out his hand, and I wove my fingers with his. That simple action felt far too natural. His callused thumb rubbed circles around my knuckles, raising goose bumps along my arm.
Ryan used his hold on my hand to pull me off balance. I fell into him and he wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me tight to his body.
Bikes whizzed past, birds chirped in the trees above my head without a hope of out-singing the gulls over the river. The sounds of chatter and laughter echoed back to us from the market.
A finger slipped beneath my chin, lifting my face upwards. “I didn’t think it would be this hard to pretend,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Before I could think of some kind of reply, he kissed me. I gasped at the initial contact, entirely unprepared to feel the soft press of his lips against mine. Embracing the moment, I leaned into the kiss. The pressure increased, but Ryan kissed me like we had all the time in the world. We were both breathing hard by the time he lifted his head.
Resting his forehead against mine, he stared into my eyes with an intensity that made me want to both run for the hills and crawl with him under the covers. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my throat as I drew in air.
“Get a room,” some kid on a bike shouted, startling us both as he zoomed past.
“That was better than I imagined,” Ryan whispered.
It was a sweet moment, really, but staring into his eyes, I could feel my resolve slipping further. It would be so easy to go along with his version of reality, to lean into this new fascination. But would tempting fate really be wise? Until I could say with certainty that I was willing to risk my heart, I wouldn’t let myself fall for him.
“We should get back to the flat,” I said, stepping out of his grasp and leading the way down the path again.
Maybe the trip home was coming at the perfect time. I needed distance, time to process ambush-free.
Chapter Fourteen
At eight o’clock the next morning, I was showered, dressed and packed. I’d been ready to hit the road for at least an hour but hadn’t convinced myself to leave yet. I kept finding things to do rather than get in the car – the dishwasher needed emptying, my laundry was wrinkled, the bin was overflowing, the bathtub looked a little dirty… on and on it went. I’d nearly straightened the entire flat when the old bell chimed in the hall.
Frowning, I clattered down the stairs. I hadn’t ordered anything, it was a bit early for the postman, and Emily had already left for work.
A nervous-looking teenager stood on the other side of the door. A bike balanced on the railings outside our little garden. By garden, I mean slabbed space no wider than six feet with an old red-brick wall separating us from the road and the house next door. It wasn’t much more than a holding place for the bins and a hiding place for parcels from rogue delivery drivers.
“Alys Morgan?” the boy asked, voice shaking.
I nodded, and he held out a small brown padded envelope. The moment it touched my hands, he took off, mounting his bike at an impressive speed.
The bike couriers must have been getting desperate for manpower. The kid couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and I’d vote him most likely to get hit by a taxi given the wobbly way he turned the corner onto Cathedral Road.
Shutting the door, I frowned at the package. It was unlabelled but sealed. Something heavy and rectangular sat at the bottom of it. Without much thought, I slid my finger under the flap and tore it open.
A slick touch-screen MP3 player fell into my palm.
I had my own, but it was definitely outdated and buried somewhere in my childhood bedroom. I’d condensed my devices some time ago. Still, this one was rather pretty and shiny.
A strip of white fluttered to the tiled entryway. It must’ve escaped the parcel and now lay settled at my feet in a patch of weak sunlight. Black scribbles caught my eye, and I scooped it off the floor before running back up the stairs. The note was brief:
It’s a long drive. How about a music education Ryan-style on the way? I promise you’ll like them all. If not, dinner on me. –Ryan
Surprised, I powered up the device and skimmed the list of songs. Thirty-six tracks sat in a playlist imaginatively tilted “The Ryan Experience”. Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” sat at the very top, followed by hits from Thunder, Whitesnake, Van Halen, Tom Petty and many, many more. I recognised a couple songs from my days of doing homework in the kitchen while my dad worked through his records from the 1970s and 1980s. The rest I’d never he
ard of, but the track covers seemed a little too modern to be classics.
The playlist ended with five Rhiannon tracks. I didn’t know if they were from the new album or old, but I looked forward to hearing them.
Then, in the back of my mind, a little voice sounded: If I valued my sanity, I’d put the device in a drawer and forget about it. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen even before I picked up my suitcase. Curiosity was far stronger than common sense, and it was the prompt I’d needed to get myself out the door.
The drive to St Osian could be a boring one. At the height of summer or the first sign of a clear weekend, people flocked to West Wales from other parts of the country. The roads clogged up fast, and my two-hour-and-a-bit journey turned into four hours and a bit. Then I’d arrive in my tiny village and find myself trapped by tourists.
Thankfully, holidaymakers were a fickle lot. Pembrokeshire’s pretty coasts slipped from their minds in the dead of winter, when the days grew short, the rain pounded the fields and the wind threatened to drive unsuspecting walkers off a cliff.
Not a lot would change until I hit St Clears – just miles and miles of boring motorways and lorry drivers hogging the outside lane while they struggled to overtake a faster-moving lorry. Sixty miles in, just before Carmarthen, the blue signs of the motorway turned green, signalling the start of the dual carriageway. The scenery outside my window would transition to tree-lined single carriageways, and fields and fields of cows and sheep. The stench of their manure would filter into the car, polluting my airways.
But today, the miles passed quickly thanks to Ryan’s playlist. Finally, I could understand why Stevie Nicks’s voice had captured and inspired him. She painted stories with her words and made myths come alive.
For the first hour of the journey, I unabashedly sang along with Van Halen, Cinderella and John Mellencamp. I’m sure people looked at me strangely as they passed me, but I couldn’t care less. It was the perfect distraction. I wasn’t on my way to see my father, who I hadn’t visited in nearly a year. I was just going for a long drive, enjoying some great music.
It wasn’t until I hit Foreigner’s “Waiting for a Girl Like You” that I realised what he was doing. Ryan was trying to woo me with music. Why I was surprised, I couldn’t say. Now that it had happened to me, it was the most obvious thing for a musician to do. Sneaky, even.
I was smiling when Simple Minds’ “Don’t You” flooded the speakers. Forgetting about Ryan was one thing I was sure I’d never be able to do now. He’d be gone by the time I returned to Cardiff, and I couldn’t stop the regret from creeping in. I could always text him.
And then a Yellowcard track started to play and threw my certainty out the window. What did California and childhood love have to do with us?
“What the hell does that mean?” I muttered to the battered four-wheel drive doing fifty in the outside lane.
Maybe it had nothing to do with us and it was just a song he liked. It could be a comment on the expansion of his music influences. Whatever the cause, the style had definitely shifted, and the lyrics taunted me. Either he was promising this wasn’t over despite him leaving or I was looking for meaning where there was none. I was inclined to believe the latter.
By the time I pulled up at my childhood home, I was thoroughly confused. The playlist had taken another weird turn in the middle that made me think this was it, the end of us. Then he pulled it back with some seriously explicit songs that made me question the playlist all over again – All Time Low’s “If These Sheets Were States”, a song about a long-distance relationship; Lacey’s “Contender”, about being yourself for another and hoping they believed their eyes; The Maine’s “One Sunset”, the melancholy of a musician separated from his love by his other love, music.
The gates to the property creaked open, their hinges rusting and the motor in need of an update after twenty years of use. For once, the winter rain held off and the sky beamed a clear blue, freezing but beautiful.
I edged up the gravel drive towards the house and my waiting father with no clue what to do about Ryan or why I was even still thinking about him. Whatever was there was done, over with. He would leave and I would never see him again. Agonising over what-ifs wouldn’t make my choice any clearer, and if it did, well, it was too late, and I needed to quit torturing myself.
There wasn’t a world in which a freelance production coordinator and an up-and-coming rock star could make a relationship work. I was barely home when I was on a job and he would have to split his time between the road and recording studios. It was just a fantasy, one that would only end with me a wounded mess.
The car rolled to a stop outside the old manor house. My silver-haired father had the boot open before I could turn the engine off.
“Was the drive alright, love? You made good time,” he shouted the question through the open space.
I dropped my phone and the MP3 player into my handbag and flung the car door open.
“It was miraculously clear.” I climbed out of the car and caught onto the door for support. My legs felt like jelly and my ankle ached from changing up and down the gears for the last thirty miles of country road.
I hadn’t driven that far nonstop since my last visit. I didn’t even do it for work, and I had to travel outside of Cardiff regularly for filming. Whenever we set up for a block of location shoots, I had runners do all the driving. I was sorely out of practice and my body now enjoyed telling me so.
“The one benefit of British weather, gives us all some much-needed peace.” My dad chuckled, slamming the boot closed. With my tiny suitcase in hand, he started up the steps to the front door. “I hope you’re hungry. I made lunch.”
“Lunch?” I squeaked, chasing after him. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.”
“I see your point.” He placed my suitcase at the foot of the wooden stairs and continued down the hall. “We’ll have tea at least. I made you some vegan scones.”
I pressed the lock on my car and shut the door, eying my father’s retreating back with suspicion. “What’s the occasion?” I called.
I followed him into the old kitchen. The cabinets were solid wood and despite their age, they looked good. The blue-tiled floor, on the other hand, had seen better days. It was a little scuffed and a crack ran through a tile or two.
“My only daughter has finally returned. Do I need another occasion?”
A pang of guilt hit me in the stomach. I forced a bigger smile to my lips to cover it. “I guess not.”
He filled the kettle and turned on the gas burner. Then he started pulling out plates and cups, whistling cheerfully while I stood like a lemon in the middle of the large space.
“Can I do anything?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. “Definitely not. Go take a seat and tell me about your last job.” He turned to me with mischief shining in his eyes. “I read that Shaun Martin was a real handful. Got any stories?”
I laughed and did as I was told. My dad was an old gossip – minus the old part. He’d only just turned fifty, but the man loved the scandalous looks he got at the local pub when he could share some tidbit behind the latest hit film or TV show. I couldn’t tell him the juiciest of stuff because I wanted to keep my career, but little things didn’t hurt.
I hung my handbag from the back of a kitchen table set I’d grown up with and took a seat. The table was scratched and defaced with bright ink that my mother had never been able to get out after she’d mistakenly handed me a case of permanent markers instead of crayons. The memory drew a smile to my lips as I traced the accidental marks. She’d been equal parts furious and amused by the permanent bunny etched into her table. Money hadn’t exactly been an issue for two bestselling authors, but she’d never talked about changing it.
“Not a lot, really. He was the out-of-control millionaire at first, but then he met the love of his life on set.”
Dad placed a plate of scones and strawberry jam in front of me. “She set him straight, did she?”
&nb
sp; Mona’s scowling face popped into my head as she defended a runner from Shaun Martin on set. He was a difficult person for the entire crew to manage. Prickly. He’d blow over the smallest things – incorrectly made coffee being the one that set him off that day. It was only Mona’s first week as his assistant, but she shut him down without hesitation in front of everyone. It was amazing.
“You have no idea. He didn’t know what hit him the first time she laid him out.” I picked up a scone and slathered it with jam. “I missed most of it, but the whispers made their way back to the production office and we had a great laugh over it.”
He placed a tray of cups and a teapot on the table and sat down. “From that smile, I’m going to assume you enjoyed this one.”
“I enjoy them all in the end, but yeah, it was fun despite us losing production staff before we were even halfway through.”
For the first time in a very long time, I looked forward to seeing the final show. I’d stopped watching the shows I made two years in. I got enjoyment from the process, the people and the problems rather than the final piece.
“I’m glad.” His smile fell as he considered me over his steaming cup. “You work such long hours, I can’t help but worry about you.”
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”
A “yes” sprang to the tip of my tongue and I forced myself to pause. Would I tell him? The truth was no, but I couldn’t say that. It would make it worse, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do.
“Absolutely.”
His brows rose, but he didn’t call me on the lie. We moved on to more innocent subjects, like one of the primary school teachers getting locked out of his classroom by a band of unruly kids, or the local mechanic breaking his leg while testing his latest entry for a village soapbox race. It was a small village that had bored me as a kid, but now I could appreciate the lack of dull moments.
We’d emptied the teapot when my phone started ringing. The fact it was ringing was impressive enough. Mobile signal in this part of the country notoriously sucked.
Chasing Alys Page 10