by Holly Hall
“So you are moping,” he points out, plucking the last of my croissant off my plate. Bastard. “Now, which is the reason?”
“It looks like you owe me money, then, because it’s neither. So sorry to disappoint.”
Though he’s incognito in dark glasses and a fedora, I see a hint of his gaze while he scrutinizes me. “What’s going on with you, spitfire?”
I stew wordlessly. After months of correcting them, I haven’t been able to shake the nicknames. When Kingston throws his arms in the air, drawing attention, I give it up. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because you’re Dare and Fall—you’re not a cautious person. You’re act first, think later. Reckless with your feelings. You’re traveling with a world-renowned band and you won’t even namedrop in the slightest to reap the benefits. You’ve turned down every one of Bryant’s attempts to sleep with you, for no apparent reason. You’ve never left the country before, yet every city we visit fails to impress you.
“So because I’m not selfish and opportunistic, there’s something wrong with me? And I wasn’t aware you knew me so well.”
“You’ve closed the shutters on your soul, and I’m not the dick you think I am.”
“Closed the shutters on my soul? You band kids are all the same. So dramatic.”
“I doubt that. Now tell me about your experiences with band kids. Is it Jenson you’re so torn up over?”
Just like that, my chest tightens. Fucking Bryant. “What do you know about Jenson?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he teases, mouthing his lip ring. I have flashbacks once again to my conversation with Bryant, and that basically confirms they’ve been talking about me.
“I’m not in the mood to play games with you.”
“Now that’s something I don’t hear often.” At my poisonous glare, he juts his pouty lower lip. “How do you think we found out about you? Jenson passed along your portfolio to our PR team when he heard we were looking for a videographer. It was good enough that they decided we needed you. And there’s no chance that a pretty girl like you would come highly recommended by someone like Jenson King for no reason.”
At the mention of his name, my heart sinks and the lump in my throat grows, choking me. Could it be true that Jenson disrespected my wishes not to interfere with my career? That he’s the sole reason I got this job? In a moment of panic, I thrust my chair backward so abruptly it screeches over the stone sidewalk and go to grab my messenger bag. But Kingston plants a foot on the strap and all my pulling won’t jerk it lose.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?”
“Give me my bag,” I grit.
At the sight of my anger-stricken face, Kingston catches my wrist. “Was it something I said?”
“Just that my work wasn’t worth a second glance—I had to sleep with a famous musician to be noticed,” I snap, shaking him off and ignoring all the concerned glances from the other patrons.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Oh really? I guess a ‘pretty girl’ like me might misconstrue the words that literally just came out of your mouth, huh?”
“That’s not. . . Goddammit, that’s not what I meant. Please sit down.”
I almost topple over when my bag suddenly comes loose, then I’m pulling out of his grasp and heading more or less in the direction of our hotel. All this time, I’ve been immeasurably thankful and proud that the sweat, tears, and time I put into my trade has paid off. I made something of myself. I’m doing things most people only dream of. But it wasn’t me who got myself here. It was never me. My eyes sting, and I silently curse the throng of tourists I have to slow down to wind through.
“I honestly didn’t mean that,” Kingston says, appearing beside me. Damn his long legs. “I don’t have much tact, okay? I didn’t think it would come out like that.”
“You have some sort of bet about him too?”
“No.” At a cross street, Kingston drags me to a halt, pulling me aside at the mouth of a narrow alley. “Look, I’m sorry that we’re assholes. Life on the road can be surprisingly boring, and things just come up. Gossip, speculation, and what have you. We’re not used to having a girl that’s not Natalia with us, and I forget how sensitive you all can be.”
At my look of exasperation, he slaps his palm against the wall of a restaurant. “Fuck! See? For a drop-dead gorgeous charmer, I’m surprisingly terrible with words.”
I roll my eyes, but even through my anger and hurt, I can see he’s contrite. And that’s the only thing keeping me from kicking him in the balls and making a swift escape.
“Hear me out for five seconds, because I’ll undoubtedly fuck up again while I try to explain this,” he says sincerely, and when I don’t immediately protest, he continues. “The pretty girl comment was a dick move, I get that. What I meant was that anyone with any sort of influence gets approached by all kinds of people asking for endorsements, recommendations, etcetera just to get their name or their product’s name out there. It becomes so redundant that we just ignore them all, unless the proposal goes through our team first. Being as decent-looking as you are,” he says, eyes glimmering with humor, “I’m sure you caught his attention.”
“Wow. Thank you for the shining compliment,” I drawl, but the fight in me is rapidly subsiding.
“You’re welcome. Anyway, you wouldn’t have been hired to do the job based on that, or if your work was only decent. They created a position for you because your shit is edgy and raw and exactly the message we want to portray to our fans. We’re not so well-liked, but you’re giving us an outlet to redeem ourselves. That’s huge. So whatever you think went down between Jenson and our guys, forget it. He simply drew your name out of all the others and made us take a second look. We were left to judge whether you were worthy or not. And you are. If my gratitude isn’t enough, just look at the evidence—you’ve seen the response we’ve been getting.”
I slump against the wall, at a loss for words. For all my protesting against Jenson doing anything to help me out, I’m overwhelmed by the gratitude I feel that he did. Not only gratitude, but shame—I haven’t even thanked him. I never got the chance to. He did this all behind my back, despite my abrupt exit from his life, without asking for an ounce of recognition.
“What are you thinking?” Kingston asks, bending his head so his willowy frame is almost on my level.
What am I not thinking? I looked for reasoning behind everything, not realizing that some things in life just are what they are. But if I had to come up with a reason for why I feel the way I do about Jenson, it’d have to be his sacrifice, his selflessness. It’s not always easily noticeable, but it’s there when it matters.
Everything Jenson’s ever loved, he was willing to let go—or try to—for others; his marriage, alcohol, his career, me. He did what I wasn’t willing to. His unselfish heart reached out for mine and, when he found it wrapped in thorns, he simply bled. And I stood by and let it happen. He sees his soul as something dirty, tainted, but I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone so pure-hearted. How long has he been allowed to believe he’s worthless? I wanted to reassure him he wasn’t, but I didn’t think I was enough for the job.
“He told me he loved me, and I left him. Then he gave me this—the opportunity of a lifetime. How cruel can I be?”
“That’s love,” Kingston says, nodding confidently.
“How would you know?”
He smirks. “For all my fucking around, I know what love is. More importantly, I know what it isn’t. You’re a wild heart and he set you free. What greater gift could he have given you, forsaking whatever feelings he had for you so you’d find happiness?”
His every question digs the shard of regret deeper into my chest. It’s a gory image, picturing Jenson severing the ties that bound his heart to mine and sending me away, to the opposite side of the world. But then I’m struck by the thought that it’s such a Jenson thing to do, and also not. This wasn’t something he would’ve done a year ago. He alwa
ys said the old version of him was selfish, fighting his ex-wife for their relationship when there was nothing left to save. In the months that I’ve known him, he was learning to abandon his greed for the one thing he can’t get enough of, the one thing he craves more than any drink—love.
I don’t know how I can ever redeem myself in his eyes, or if it’s even possible. But I do know that I am his. Nothing from our ten-year age gap, to the differences in our upbringings, to the fact that he’s been married before and I’ve hardly had a long-term boyfriend can defile that revelation. And I owe it to him to tell him. Lay my heart on the table, as he has with me, and allow him to examine every glorious and narcissistic angle.
Kingston watches the realization cross my face like it’s a scene on a movie screen, and the corners of his mouth curl up.
“I have to do something,” I say, stricken by the insurmountable task ahead. It is not an easy thing to save something you’ve mangled with your own hands.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I quirk my eyebrow at him in question, and he lets out a low chuckle.
“The Belfast show is in two weeks, then we’ll get to go home. You want to go back with a bang?”
“I don’t think my idea of going back with a bang is even remotely the same as yours. But I’ve been gone for months—I have to think of something that will prove to him I’m serious. That he’s worth it.”
“Sentimental,” he says teasingly.
“What did you expect?”
“To cheer you up.” When at last I smile at him, he gives me a salacious look that wipes the grin off my face.
“Kingston! You were trying to get into my pants.”
“For the sake of your happiness! An unselfish act, coming from me, really.”
I cross my arms, shaking my head incredulously, but I feel it as color filters back into my world. Like Kingston’s shameless flirting has reminded me how it feels to be relentlessly pursued, and not just by a stranger in a bar. But by Jenson, creator of unimaginative nicknames and quite often the biggest source of annoyance in my life.
I push off the wall and gesture for him to join me, albeit with less urgency than before. “Continuing the theme of unselfishness, you could give me some advice. If you were spurned by a woman, how could she earn your forgiveness?”
“On her knees,” he says seriously. I elbow him, and he winks. “What, I’m easy to please.”
“Thanks for nothing. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction when he said the L word. How do I show him, after months of being on the other side of the world, that I actually feel the same way?”
“You’re making this harder than it is. He got it through your hard head, didn’t he? How did he show you?”
It didn’t dawn on me before he said the words, but after that night of Christmas trees and music, the little things along the way began to stack up. Singing to me at the cabin just because I asked him to; writing with me even though he was used to working alone; dancing with me on a rooftop and beside the Christmas tree we decorated; giving me his soul-baring lyrics when he had nothing left to give. He let me in and allowed me to see him for everything he was. And he let me capture the way he bled for his art and share it with the world when all he wanted to do was shut it out.
“With music,” I say, because everything Jenson did was like his music. Unfiltered, painfully real, mostly unassuming. He was falling in love with me, and instead of demanding my reciprocation, he let me discover it on my own by exploring my own passion, my own potential. So it’s with my passion that I have to show him.
“Ahh,” I say, linking arms with Kingston.
“Have you had a breakthrough?”
“Yes and no. I have no idea what’ll happen, but I know what I have to do.”
“Great. Does that mean I’ll be getting some compensation?” He beams at me.
“Absolutely not.”
Chapter 30
Jenson
The black envelope with sharp, silver lettering leers at me from the stack of mail in my arms. The expensive weight of it tells me it can’t contain anything good. Probably another wedding invitation. No, thank you. Luckily, I have a roster of excuses to get out of those. Namely my budding career as an indie artist. I dropped the label and the bullshit, and now it’s just my guitar and me. Nobody needs to know I’m more in control of my own career and don’t have to ask anyone but myself for a night off.
“Jenson, hi! It’s been a while.”
I look up as I’m digging in my pocket for my keys, noting Sandra, my single neighbor, is conveniently leaving her place at the same time I’m arriving at mine. Third time this week, only I usually get inside faster than she can step out. She must be catching on. Unfortunately, she was one of the victims of a badly executed rebound scheme. I’m not proud of it, but old habits die hard. It was a weak moment after I’d recently given up drinking, and I hadn’t yet found something constructive to fill my idle time. Sandra was an innocent bystander, which is the only reason I bother to answer her instead of ducking into my apartment.
“Hey. How are you?” I say once I’ve found my keys and taken the mail out of my mouth.
“Good. Busy, you know. Work, life. . .” The way she plays it off so casually says she wants me to believe she’s doing more than just watching Sex and the City on the weekends. I guess she doesn’t realize the price we pay to live here doesn’t include thicker walls.
“Don’t I know it,” I say, giving her a little wave. “Anyway, I’ve got some things to do. Good to see you.”
She opens her mouth to say more, but the shutting of my door effectively cuts her off. Narrow miss. I head directly into the kitchen and to the coffee maker. I guess you could say I haven’t completely traded in my vices. Caffeine is one habit I can’t totally kick, and I still have the occasional cigarette. Lindsey left, but my affinity for coffee stuck around.
I forgo the creamer and drink it black, settling at the bar to go through my mail. My days are significantly less chaotic, but I’m learning to find the beauty in that. Like the peaceful act of drinking coffee at the breakfast bar while opening mail with my pocket knife.
Bill, bill, credit card application, bill. I leave the black envelope for last. It’s more foreboding than any piece of correspondence should be.
The return address is blank, so I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. I slide my blade beneath the flap and pull the heavy card stock out to get whatever this is over with. It’s an invitation, but not to a wedding. It’s for a special presentation in three weeks’ time at a place called Forever Life. Why does that name sound so familiar? Skimming the rest of the details, my eyes land on the address. Denver, Colorado. There’s only one person living in Denver who comes to mind, but there’s no reason Landon Farrar would invite me anywhere, much less his home state.
A Google search leads me to the website and contact information of Forever Life, Landon’s photography studio and gallery. I select the phone number and wait as I’m connected.
“Forever Life, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end is pleasant, female, and sounds like a smile.
“Hi, I’m. . .” What am I doing, really? I have no clue. “I’m looking for Landon Farrar. Is he around by chance?”
“He’s not, I’m sorry. I believe he’s on location at a shoot right now, but I can pass along a message if you’d like.”
I should’ve known it was a long shot, calling a well-known photographer and philanthropist and expecting to catch him at the gallery. “Understandable. I just had a few questions about the event coming up on May twenty-sixth.”
“Oh yes, the gallery showing. I can help answer those for you, if that’s all right.”
Gallery showing. I’ve never stepped foot in a gallery, but something tells me I wasn’t invited by accident. “I’d appreciate it. Do you know what kind of showing it will be? Who will be there?”
“The emphasis won’t be on the artists, per se, but about passion. The work
is a collection from many local artists including photographers, painters, and sculptors. It’s all about capturing passion and displaying it as art. The contributing artists themselves will all remain anonymous until the work is purchased. It’s all about buying what speaks to you. It’s . . . fascinating. I can promise you it will be incredible, and all the proceeds will go to local charities.”
“That is fascinating,” I agree. Her explanation doesn’t fully satisfy my curiosity, but it is an interesting concept. “Thank you for your time, Miss. . .”
“Lola. Just Lola. And you’re welcome.”
I hang up and stare at the blank phone screen for a while. My reflection stares back. What could my attendance at an art show possibly do to help Landon? I’ve got a familiar name, sure, but the attendees wouldn’t be going because of me. Maybe I’ll send a monetary donation. That’s what I’ll do. It is for charity.
Scrolling through the website for a donation link, I accidentally select the address, which redirects my phone to my maps app. The GPS tells me next to nothing—I’ve only been to Denver for a few shows and didn’t have time to learn its streets—except that it’s located in the RiNo district and it’ll take a whopping sixteen hours to get there if I were to drive.
Then I’m searching for this RiNo district, because I have no idea what the hell that means. The results yield photo upon photo of color—crazy little shops, bright street art, nineteenth-century brick buildings, and rugged restaurants. I’m not going to lie, the place looks like a great time. I guess I don’t have a reason not to go, except to save a couple hundred dollars on a plane ticket. But I’m driving the same vehicle I drove in high school, and aside from rent and music equipment, I don’t spend money on much.
Ten minutes later and I’ve booked a round-trip flight to Denver. I guess this thing is happening—I’ll even make a vacation out of it. What can a little adventure hurt?
It doesn’t take long for me to be reminded why I’ve always preferred driving. Turbulence is a nightmare, and clouds above the city make it so I can’t even see the mountains from the air, except through drizzle when the plane descends low enough. They are just hulking, shadowy suggestions in the distance.