by Susan Ward
We’re on hiatus. I’m praying it doesn’t last forever. But even missing Willow, this time with Ethan has been good for me.
We’re both on a big learning curve with the reno work, though Ethan’s better at doing shit with his hands than me because he’s been into restoring classic cars since we were kids. E’s faster to figure out how it’s supposed to be done from YouTube videos and the emails from our brother-in-law Jake.
My days as EJ the street musician are in the past. Instinct tells me being there center stage in front of Mel’s door every morning isn’t the smart move, especially since I’m on radio silence with Willow.
I’m giving her space.
Letting her think things through.
It’s a tough call, but I think it’s what I’ve gotta do.
Every time Avery hangs with us while we work on the apartment, the thought turns in my head that I wish Willow was here. How much she’d fit in with my brother and his wife. What a perfect fit she is for my life.
By Saturday morning, thanks to working through the night, we’re done with our project. Everything except Willow’s bedroom. It didn’t seem right to go in there and disturb her personal things. Other than taking a fast peek inside to determine all it needed was to be cleaned out and fresh paint, I made the call to leave it alone.
Shortly before noon, I’m in the kitchen with Ethan and we’re trying to level the stove/oven combination we just installed. My brother’s such a fucking perfectionist we’ve been adjusting, measuring, and adjusting again for longer than it seems reasonable.
I step back and eyeball it as Ethan stands. “What do you think?”
He expertly lays the level across the top, lowers to check it, then runs his fingers through his hair. “I think we’re good.”
“She’s going to love what you guys have done,” Avery announces in her perky way. “Hell, Eric, I’d love it and live here. The place looks amazing.”
I loop my arm around Avery and drop a kiss on her red curls. “Thanks to those high-end touches you added, I think Willow’s going to be impressed.”
“She better be. It’s an incredible I’m-sorry gift.” She makes a face. “How many women can say they had two famous rock stars remodel their place?”
“I’m not famous anymore. I’m a has-been.” I give her an affectionate bump with my shoulder.
She pushes right back. “You’re a has-been only until the press figures out where you’ve been. Then it’s back in the fishbowl for Eric. You’ll be bigger than ever inside a year.”
“God, I hope not.” I shudder in horror. “The being famous part of music I don’t miss. Not at all.”
“Can’t be helped. Your new material’s too epic not to let the world hear it or make you hotter than ever,” she says.
At night after returning to the hotel, I’ve been playing the songs for her. “Do you think so?”
She nods spiritedly. “You really should take Ethan up on that offer of going into the studio together with Linc and Taz to finish recording it. If it turns out half as good as your home improvement project, we’re talking platinum records, EJ.”
I’m considering it—hell, it’d be nice to play again with the guys I started with, even if Hugh hasn’t unbent enough to agree to a comeback release for Black Dawn as the guys have thanks to Ethan’s reaching out to them.
“I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe a solo release this time like baby brother here. Doing my own thing, my career my own way, sounds more my speed these days.”
She tilts her head, lifting her brows. “Who says you can’t do both? But I, for one—your biggest fan—would love it if you recorded with E again.”
“After that how can I refuse?” I laugh.
She plants a kiss on my cheek and hurries to the living room to grab baby Noah from the floor where he’s been having tummy time while we worked.
Ethan ambles across the kitchen with the packed-up toolbox in his hand. “I think we’re done here,” he announces.
My chin moves slightly forward as I nod. “Yeah. Another epic Manzone creation.”
“What now?” Ethan asks.
“Everything’s done. Nothing left to do.” I’m a little let down by that because I’m confident keeping busy is the only reason why I’m making it through these minutes waiting for Willow to make her next move.
“I’m hungry,” Avery calls from the living room. “Why don’t we go grab some lunch?”
“Sounds good to me,” I answer.
Ethan runs his bandana across the back of his neck. “I think I want to check that fan in the bathroom again. Something about how it sounds when we turn it on still bugs me. You two go on a food run and we can eat here when you get back.”
“You ready to go?” Avery asks. She’s got Noah in the front carrier and her tote hanging from her shoulder.
“Let’s hit it.” I point at E. “Any preference to what we bring you?”
“Anything but chicken,” he teases, since I’ve made more than a few grub runs to Frank’s during our night shifts here.
“Fine, burgers it is.”
Avery and I go down the steps instead of the elevator.
“So now what, Eric?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re done with the apartment, your amends. What comes next?”
I try not to think about that because the most important what next isn’t decided. I shrug. “A few more weeks here then home. I can’t bail yet. I’ve got to stay and see where things go with Willow. If she needs time I’ve gotta give it.”
Her smart eyes search my face and her mouth slowly curls downward like a frown. “She’ll come around, Eric. It takes women longer to sort through things than men.”
“It takes longer when a man’s been an asshat, you mean.”
“No. It takes longer when we love the asshat.” She pokes me in the ribs. “The longer she doesn’t talk to you, the better it is for you.”
“Really? How’d you come up with that one?”
Her red brows jerk upward. “Duh, I’m a woman. We know these things.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yep,” she says with absolute certainty, only I wish I could be as confident as Avery.
Inside the bar, my gaze wanders to the counter and doesn’t spot Willow. Not that I expected her to be here. She hasn’t come into work since the night I texted with her, and I hate that she’s avoiding Mel’s because of me. I wonder if she’s trying to wait me out until I give up and leave by staying MIA. Not going to work. No way am I leaving Seattle with unfinished business with her.
Outside, the sidewalks are near empty. It’s not a workday and it’s gray. I look up at the giant fluffy clouds so common in Seattle. It’s not going to rain even if it looks like it is. I’m in tune with the weather in Capitol Hill now, in sync with the vibe of Willow’s hood. It feels like home to me, but I remind myself that it isn’t.
Home is Southern California, my family, and Hana.
“What ya thinking about, mister?” Avery prods.
I laugh at her little colloquialism, though I’m not sure where she acquired it. Mister isn’t something girls say in Southern California, and Avery grew up in Newport Beach. “You haven’t called me mister in a long time.”
“I haven’t seen you in a long time.” She crinkles her nose and looks down the street. “Which way are we going? I hope where we’re walking isn’t far.”
I jut out my chin. “Nah. Just the Burger Habit there on the corner.”
I’m about to start walking and she stops me.
“Is this where you used to play?” she asks, pointing at the concrete in front of the bus stop.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Seeing as Ethan and I are heading home next week, I want to get some pictures.”
“No way,” I protest sharply. “I love your blog, but it doesn’t mean I want to show up as the lead story on the Roaming Redhead.”
She plants her hands on her hips and gives me an exasperated look. “Do you think I’d do that to you, Eric? The pictures are for me and the family. I promised your mom and sisters I’d send some.”
“Oh,” I mumble, calming my racing pulse.
She points. “Just lean up against the stop and let me snap a few.”
I don’t really want to do this. What is it with chicks and their phones? But I run a hand through my tousled hair and do as ordered.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Avery checks her photo gallery. “Those are fantastic. Now stand in front of Mel’s and let me get a few. And this time try to smile, Eric.”
“Smile?” I grumble. “I thought I was.”
“No. Not very.”
She starts photographing again. “There. That’s more like it.”
I make a face at her.
Flash.
She angles up next to me for a selfie. Snap. A double to make sure. She checks it. “We look good. I even got Noah into the shot. Chrissie will love that. Wait a sec while I send it to her.”
Her fingers fly across the screen like lightning. I hear whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, then she stares at it like she’s waiting.
Minutes pass.
She frowns.
“What’s wrong?”
Her brows lower. “Chrissie didn’t text me back. She hasn’t called or texted all week. Totally unlike her. And now she’s not answering back after I sent pictures.” She runs her fingers through her hair like she’s thinking. “Have you talked to your mother this week?”
Giving it thought, I’m surprised to realize I haven’t. “No. I talk to Hana every day, but I haven’t heard from Mom for a while. But I’m sure they’re OK. They’re in Santa Barbara with Grandpa Jack. If something was wrong, I’d have found out from Hana. They’re just probably busy, that’s all.”
Avery’s face grows more concerned. “It feels odd.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Probably nothing.”
As we walk toward Burger Habit, I slip my hand into hers. “You’re a good fit for this family.”
“Me?” She looks up at me, startled and happy.
“Yeah, you, Avery. You always find time for everyone and are totally alert and present when you’re with them. The way you care about people, it’s not bullshit.”
She smiles. “Alert and present. I like that.”
“How you are with those you care about, it’s real. Like the night you were with me before Graham Carson tricked me into rehab. You were there for me at my worst. I haven’t forgotten that, Avery. And I love you.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. “I love you, too, Eric. I always have. You’re a terrific guy.”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
She laughs.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. I know you spend a lot of time with my mom. Khloe tells me everything. It’s been hard for Mom—the girls caught up in their own lives, me away, and Ethan trying to figure out being married and a father. Mom’s not used to not having us kids always there with her. I’m glad you’re there for her.”
“I love Chrissie. She’s a special lady.”
I lay my cheek on her head. “And so are you, Avery.”
“Stop! You’re going to make me tear up again.”
“Tear up. I don’t care. It’s the truth. I’m glad Ethan married you.”
Her eyes are sparkly when they lift to mine. “I bet Willow’s a special lady, too. I wish E and I could have met her while we were here.”
I beam. “Very special. If I can get her to stop hating me, you’ll be the best of friends someday.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Avery groans.
“Fine. She’s angry.”
Avery makes a brisk nod. “Keep the faith.”
“Keep the faith,” I repeat.
“It’s going to work out. I can feel it. You’re seeing her tonight. That’s good, right?”
From Avery’s point of view, I’m sure it is. But then, I didn’t give her the full details of what Jade roped me into.
Smiling, I pull back the door to the burger joint, go to the order counter, and change the subject by asking Avery what she wants.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Willow
I LOOK UP FROM my computer and stare into my living room, which I pretty much haven’t left, not since that night.
I like my house, I silently note with a lift of my nose. That’s the only reason why I’ve had Griff and Ivy manage the bar for me the past four days and stayed blissfully at home doing nothing. It’s stupid to work so hard for it and spend hardly any time enjoying it.
I work hard for this house.
It’s the first thing in my life I’ve ever had exactly the way I want it. No hand-me-downs, no make-do leftovers from Jade; only colors, shapes, and textures that reflect me, that are me, and no one else.
Dean didn’t care where we lived, though he had more than his fair share of what to say during remodeling, but his input was incorporated as minimally as the dollars he put toward them.
A suggestion here or there that I ignored. He thought the rooms would look homier painted Wise Owl, a sort of drab beige tone, and I wanted this light gray with a tint of blue it in. It reminds me of Seattle, how the city streets look, and the buildings in Capitol Hill. He wanted to put carpet over the floors because of how cold they can get, and I kept the original dark wood. He selected sleek-lined—and grossly uncomfortable—mid-century retro-style furnishings and I wanted everything plush and cozy.
I scan the tables with their precise arrangements of photos and knicknacks. He called it clutter, useless clutter. Making the surfaces not practical for any other usage than to look at them. That is their usage for me. Something to look at and warm my home in this house that had nothing in it to warm me when Dean lived here.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I state aloud. “And everything is exactly the way I want it…”
Silence answers me and my mood spirals downward.
Fuck, I’ve never felt alone here, not until…
I shut that off with the quickness of a panther fighting for its life. Maybe I am. Or rather fighting for my emotional balance again.
I gnaw on the tip of my pencil. I look at the gash marks on it. Why did I grab a pencil when I started this? It’s stupid. I’m not writing down anything. I’m not in school taking notes. What I discover isn’t going to vanish; it’s on the fucking internet. It will always be there should I need a refresher as to why we’re a never going to happen thing. I’m answering my questions then I’ll log out and forget him.
Tap, tap, tap.
My new search comes up and I scroll through the links. A picture catches my eye on the side column. I lean in to study it closer. Fuck, one thing I finally know for sure, as scant in details as Eric was during his grand honesty-and-amends routine, he is really Eric Manzone. That wasn’t a lie.
I feel myself start to hyperventilate, a completely lame reaction to my fact-finding project. Things like fame or money have never mattered to me—those check the suitable-guy box for Jade—but everything I’ve read about Eric’s family is so beyond comprehension: the scale of their wealth and their fame, their place in culture, their contributions to music, their legacy.
I fell in love with a billionaire’s son…and didn’t know it. I fell in love with a rock star…and didn’t know it. I had my heart broken—twice—by a billionaire rock star. That I do know, and that I shouldn’t forget.
I squint, then throw in the towel and enlarge the picture. My mouth goes dry. Fuck, who has a father that looks like Alan Manzone?
My dad is British and my mum American…yes, back then you told me the truth, Eric, but it’s convenient truth when you don’t tell me who they are.
Hmm…why am I trying to find parts he didn’t lie about? Stupid, Willow. Liars tell partial truths so they don’t forget their stories. Don’t forget he didn�
�t tell you he had a wife when he asked you to go to LA with him.
Ugh, how did he think that would work? Put me in one place and keep her in another. Yep, that’s probably it. That’s what jerks with money do. Buy cover for their untruths.
Don’t think of him. And don’t you dare try to weed out tidbits of things he didn’t lie about here and there to feel better about him. You are not forgiving him. It’s not an option. And it certainly isn’t after seeing all this.
I need to stay focused and on point. Finish this so there’s no unresolved junk in my head. Cyberstalk him until I’m ready to let go, then let go of Eric.
I click through on the name Alan Manzone highlighted in the photo caption, and scan his page and more photos of him. No, that man isn’t seventy years old. That’s got to be a mistake. I scroll down. Nope, it isn’t.
Wowzah. My dad died at fifty-two and looked nowhere near as…preserved?...as Eric’s dad. It’s almost as intimidating as his mother. Christian Parkers is…not a cougar…or a panther…or a MILF…or a GILF—the eleven grandchildren threw me for a loop—no, I’m pretty sure the slang to accurately describe Chrissie hasn’t been invented yet.
They don’t even look like real people. Maybe that’s why they raised a son who’s so changeable, why he was able to be so convincingly whatever he wanted to be with me. There’s a picture of his parents on stage looking like superstars, then go to another site and it’s like an all-American family reality show.
Only it isn’t.
It’s Eric’s family.
That’s his family.
My fingers slip into my hair, which hasn’t been brushed for days, and I claw tightly until the strands hurt. That man, with all those special privileges and gifts, claims he’s in love with me. That should be proof enough he’s an incurable liar. He has a fairy-tale life. Why would he want me?
I hear something and rush to grab my phone. The screen’s black. Fuck, now I’m hearing things. Eric hasn’t texted me since I messaged him I’m not ready to see you yet.
Three and half days; nothing. Since I haven’t been to Mel’s, I don’t even know if he’s still in Seattle. He probably took off. Back to his oh-so-wonderful life fully appointed with everything.