“Of course you can, sweetie.” She fluffed up a pillow on the lush sofa. “You can go wherever you want.”
“Except where Dad is.”
“Aw, don’t be bummed out about that, kiddo.” She faked a melodramatic yawn. “I was getting so tired of that boring, old tour. Weren’t you?”
Miles said nothing, but smiled weakly. Ryan knew what he needed: just one person to comfort him and act like he didn’t have the Plague. She asked him if he wanted anything––food, water, a quick shoulder massage. But all he wanted was to curl up on the far end of the couch.
“You can get a little closer,” she told him.
He didn’t budge. “Charlotte said I’m going to get everybody sick.”
“Not everybody. Not me. Didn’t your dad tell you? I don’t get sick. Ever. That’s why he hired me, because I never, ever do.”
“I thought he hired you because you’re pretty.”
She thought he might be teasing her, but that kind of humor was too sophisticated for him. “Nope. That was just his good luck. He hired me because I have literally never once gotten a cold or the flu. Or, now that I think about it, any sickness at all.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Nuh uh. You’re just saying that.”
“It’s true. You can’t hurt me.” She held up her bicep so he could see that she wasn’t actually Ryan Evans. She was Superwoman. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Yeah, I do.” He sounded almost angry, and looked straight ahead at the TV. “Because if you get sick, you won’t be able to take care of us. And then, who will?”
She nodded and passed Miles the remote.
At 6 p.m., Ryan woke up to the sound of voices on the television. Entertainment Tonight was on, and the picture of her backstage with Marcus was on the screen, with the caption: “In Love With the Nanny.” She gasped so loudly that she woke up Miles. She knew that she’d become fodder for thousands of gossip mongers around the world, but gossip blogs and national television were two different animals, and it was shocking to think that she was being featured on a program that her mother, back in Kalispell, watched five days a week.
“Is that you?” Miles asked. He was barely awake, and the idea his nanny was on television didn’t seem to impress him.
“It is.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t last long. That’s what Dad always says.”
Maybe Miles was used to having his picture and his reputation examined by millions of people he’d never met. But Ryan wasn’t. She tried to imagine what it would actually be like to be Marcus Troy’s—although she felt presumptuous even thinking the word—girlfriend. On the one hand, he was so kind, so gentle and caring. If he weren’t famous, he’d be the ultimate catch. But he was a rock star, and his rock-star lifestyle looked to Ryan like an absolute nightmare. Sure, he enjoyed the special privileges of stardom, and he got paid to do what he loved. But what would it mean to be his partner? Guys like Benjamin and the Mustache Man would be following her around 24/7. And that lifestyle didn’t appeal to Ryan at all.
She had charged her phone, which sat on the other side of the room, while she was tending to Miles hours earlier. She picked it up now, and saw thirteen (she tried to ignore the unlucky number) missed calls: four from Nick, two from Em, and seven––count ’em, seven!––from her mother.
Nick had also texted her: WTF?!? Ryan, call me! This is so amazing! You work for…Marcus Troy?!? Incredible! Congrats!
And then again, three minutes later: Backstage passes, anyone? Jack and I checking tour dates right now. Hook us up!
Ryan typed her response: Are you frickin’ serious, Nick? Your ex-girlfriend is linked to a rock star and all you can think of is backstage passes?
She was so stung. For all Nick knew, there really was something going on between Marcus and her. Apparently, their relationship had meant so little to him that he wasn’t even jealous. Didn’t Nick realize that because she had cared about him, it was tremendously painful just to hear his voice? That communicating with her, even over something as trivial as celebrity gossip, especially over something so banal and idiotic, was just cruel? Men suck, she thought. And so do relationships.
As Ryan’s thumb hovered over the send button, the phone rang again. It was probably for the best—she would ignore Nick altogether from now on, and maybe he would get the message and stop harassing her.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, even-toned and relaxed as she could manage. She knew her mom wasn’t going to do it, so she’d have to stay calm, cool, and collected for both of them.
“Honey, what is going on out there? Are you all right? Your father is worried sick about you.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
“We’re both worried about you. Kathy Schrader says celebrities do this all the time. They hire a nanny, but they want a concubine. Are you even caring for the children?”
“Yes, of course, Mom. In fact, I’m with one of them right now. Miles. He’s a very sick little boy, I’m sorry to say. But it’s not a head cold, so his hearing is just fine.”
“Okay, you can’t talk. I get it.”
Ryan, sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiled ruefully at Miles. The boy, having switched channels to Nickelodeon, showed no interest whatsoever in her conversation. She marveled at his ability to mind his own business, and wished adults could do the same. Why can’t anybody older than twelve be as blissfully ignorant as the kid on this couch? Ryan thought. Still, she couldn’t have a fully candid chat with her mom in front of Marcus’s son.
Ryan asked her mother to hold on a moment and called out to Miles, “Sweetie, would you be okay here for five minutes while I talk with my mom just outside the door?”
“You have a mom?” he asked, as if she had just stated that she had a pair of wings on her back. Then, “Sure.”
“No more than five minutes, promise. If your tummy starts to bother you, just call me.”
“I’m okay.” Staring straight ahead at the television, he put his thumb in his mouth.
Outside the room, Ryan explained the entire misunderstanding to her mother. She told her that Charlotte had forced her to join the Troy family onstage, that she’d only been there a moment, and that Marcus had merely comforted her for an instant, like any gentleman would have. There was nothing going on between her and her employer, nothing at all.
“It sure didn’t look that way on the video, Ryan,” her mom said. “The way that man looked at you…”
“On what video?” There hadn’t been any video on ET, just stills.
“Of you two at the concert.”
“Of course.” It wasn’t surprising that a cell-phone video would emerge eventually, Ryan supposed. Ten thousand amateur videographers had attended the concert. There would be no shortage of evidence that she and Marcus Troy had––scandal of scandals!––touched her elbow.
It was incredible to Ryan that her mother in rural Montana had seen footage of the concert before she had. But of course, the Internet had become the great equalizer when it came to the rapid dissemination of absolutely meaningless information. You could be in New York City, Tokyo, the Great Plains, or Ant-frickin-arctica, and learn about Kim Kardashian’s struggle to lose her baby weight in exhaustive detail at precisely the same moment.
“Anyway, Ryan, I do hope you’re not going to get involved with that man. That’s not like you.”
“We’re not involved, Mom. I promise.”
“His eyes are glued to you, sweetie. Any fool could see there are feelings there.”
“I can’t help what his eyes do––” Ryan saw a woman emerge from the elevator. She heard the click-clacking of high-heeled shoes, but paid the person no mind.
“Well, sweetie, he wouldn’t look at you that way if you hadn’t been encouraging him, now, would he?” Her mother giggled.
“Are you enjoying this, Mom?” She couldn’t help laughing a little, too. “Your daughter becoming fodder for Internet gossip?”
The woman was walking directly
toward her. Tall and slim, she wore sheer cream-colored pants, a light-blue top, and a floppy sun hat. But it didn’t occur to Ryan, with the rest of the crew long gone, that this stylish lady might want something from her.
Ryan’s mom cleared her throat and assumed a more serious, maternal tone. “You’ve always been shy, and private. Ever since you were tiny. I just…don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”
“That makes two of us, Mom, believe me.”
“Do you have feelings for Mr. Troy, sweetie? You can tell me.”
“No, Mom.” Ryan had started this conversation in a state of imperturbable Zen-like calm, but now, though she was still succeeding in keeping her voice down, her mother was starting to get to her.
The glamorous woman had stopped five feet away from the room, but Ryan was now too distracted by the fact that her mother thought she knew more than Ryan did about the state of her emotions to pay attention.
“I’m not falling for anyone.”
“Do not fall for a rock star, Ryan. It will not end well. You’re from such different––”
Ryan lost what was left of her cool. “I’m not falling for a rock star, Mom!”
She looked up. The woman was now directly in front of her, her arms folded in a bossy, imperious way that made it obvious she wanted Ryan’s immediate attention. “Mom, I need to go. There’s somebody here.” She hung up right away. Her mom wouldn’t be happy––that wasn’t the way the Evans family did things––but she could explain herself later. “Can I help you?”
“Is that room 2110?” The lady wore a smug smile.
“It is. But we weren’t expecting visitors.” The woman was beautiful: flawless porcelain skin, catlike, chestnut eyes, full, languorous lips. She was the kind of person Ryan thought would be perfectly comfortable strolling on the beaches of St. Tropez, wherever that was.
“Are you Rachel?” She pulled out a piece of paper and crinkled her nose at it. “Sorry. Ryan? Ryan Evans?”
“I am. Who are you?” She clutched the room key with her hand, so tightly that it hurt. She imagined wrestling the woman for control of the key, engaging in a battle to the death while Miles, a potential kidnappee, cluelessly watched Nickelodeon only a few feet away.
“Bianca,” the woman said. “Bianca Troy. I’d like to see my son.”
Chapter Fifteen
Symptoms
Marcus didn’t have a lot of good memories of Los Angeles. He’d gotten married in LA, but he’d been divorced here, too. He’d loved their first three years in the city, living in a ramshackle three-bedroom house with an infinity pool overlooking the gritty, then-Hispanic neighborhood of Echo Park. But the last four, in the cloistered Hollywood mansion he’d bought only to pacify Bianca, had been hellish. His ex-wife had pushed him so hard that when she’d finally left him for another man––this was before she’d gotten the best lawyer in LA County and eviscerated him in the custody battle, before he’d hired Cynthia––he’d felt something close to gratitude.
Marcus recognized the irony of complaining, even silently, while living his childhood dream of playing three consecutive sold-out nights at the Hollywood Bowl, his favorite venue. Microphone in hand, singing his lungs out to yet another capacity crowd, he tried not to think about the possibility of losing the kids a second time. Nobody, not his friends in the crew, not even Smitty, wanted to hear about a wealthy rock star’s problems. Marcus knew the deal: because he was rich and and famous, he wasn’t allowed to complain. To the world, it was inconceivable that he would have any real problems, so it was best not to share any worries or misgivings, even with his closest friends.
Then it hit him like a shot: keeping his feelings to himself, bottling everything up—that was the old Marcus. The new Marcus, the one who actually wanted to open up and share the intimate details of his life, pleasant and painful, had recently been awakened. Was it Ryan? Was she the one he wanted to share his real feelings with? He thought it just might be.
It angered Marcus that he couldn’t explore this new possibility in his life without a bunch of dicks on Twitter weighing in on whether he had the right to feel what he felt. Even at this concert, where presumably everyone without press credentials had spent a good chunk of their hard-earned money on a ticket, a few people up front were heckling him between songs. “Where’s the nanny, Troy?” shouted one. “If she’s not with you anymore, I’m single!” yelled another. “Great tits!” a third Neanderthal roared. He’d have an easy time ignoring these trolls if they didn’t have such a big impact on his life. But they processed the gossip about him, tittered over manipulated images and text that portrayed him in an untrue light, and spat back the information until it came to resemble the truth, a new, restrictive, and damning truth that caused him tremendous hurt and pain.
Marcus felt faint and hot and uncomfortable. His guitar seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He needed food, or water, or something, but it would have to wait until the end of this song. He realized that, these last few days, he’d been missing Ryan almost as much as Miles. He knew it was stupid to pursue her, to obsess over her like this. She wasn’t just his employee; she was the employee he needed to rely on the most. If there was even a possibility that his relationship with Ryan distracted her from being the best nanny she could, he was cheating his own kids and sabotaging all the groundwork he’d laid for the summer. Worst of all, he was proving Bianca right: even though they’d done nothing but hold hands a couple of times, and the images on the web told a wild, exaggerated tale, Bianca was right.
But the heart felt what the heart felt, and Marcus had long ago stopped trying to control his emotions. Despite himself, he had already begun to think about the possibilities that might open up after the tour ended. Ryan had only agreed to work for him for the summer. She would be going to school somewhere––he couldn’t even remember where, maybe in the Midwest or the South?––to get her Master’s, right after the tour ended. Marcus wished she were planning to stay near Bigfork instead. Sure, it might have been cheesy, but he would have loved to take her out on a proper date when all of this was over. He’d pick her up in the El Dorado and drive down to that new gourmet pizza spot by the ski resort. Or better yet, before it got too cold, he could take her out for a canoe ride down the Swan River, pack a picnic and drink a glass of wine as the sun set…
These fantasies came to him, of course, during “Love of My Life,” the song that had gotten them into so much trouble in the first place. So when he started to feel faint and giddy, he figured it was his emotions getting the best of him. But after the third verse, his stomach lurched, and he knew he wasn’t flying high on his dreams for a future with Ryan. He was hovering dangerously close to getting sick, right here onstage, right in front of his 20,000 fans. He finished the verse and staggered behind the drumkit.
Smitty, vamping while the keyboardist filled in with a flashy solo, sauntered over to him, and said, “You doin’ okay, there, boss? You don’t look so hot.”
Marcus couldn’t answer. The nausea was coming on him tsumani-style, and, realizing he wasn’t even going to make it all the way backstage, he vomited as discreetly as possible behind Smitty’s treasured blackface Fender Twin amplifier. Employee or not, Smitty would kick his ass if he damaged that amp; it was his baby. But it couldn’t be helped.
A roadie, seeing what had happened, rushed to Marcus with a damp towel and that bottle of water he’d been pining after. Smitty, knowing he needed to kill some time, began a long, wild solo while Marcus wiped his face with the towel. Then, he gargled a mouthful of water, spat it out, and returned to the stage. He finished the song, a bit weakened, but the crowd was none the wiser. The show had to go on. And it did.
…
Ryan couldn’t take the quiet anymore. Not a minute after she’d gotten into the back of the limo with Bianca and Miles, the boy had fallen asleep, his head in his mother’s lap, knees jabbing Ryan in the ribs, and silence had descended over the vehicle. They hit brutal traffic on the 101; Ryan swore she could
hear the limo driver’s slow, even breathing. She couldn’t believe she was going to be sitting next to Marcus’s ex, the mother of the children she’d been hired to look after, for God knew how long. What did Bianca know about Marcus and her? Or, more importantly, what did Bianca think she knew?
Had she been alone, Ryan probably would have welcomed a bit of quiet after the commotion that had erupted when Bianca had introduced herself an hour earlier. What a mistake it had been to leave Miles alone, even if she was just on the other side of the door. And what bad luck for his mother to arrive just as he was about to be sick again. They opened the door to find Miles barfing right on the coffee table, the horrible mess, and Miles’s misery, making one hell of a first impression of Ryan as a caregiver.
Horrified, she’d run into the bathroom to dampen some towels and clean up the atrocity. On her hands and knees, she let Bianca do the comforting. Miles, happy enough as he’d curled next to her a few minutes earlier, looked exhausted. A single tear rolled down his cheek, though he didn’t make a sound. He had probably drifted to sleep until the nausea had given him a rude awakening. She knew she shouldn’t have given him those damned Saltines.
In the limo, Bianca finally spoke. “This is so typical of Marcus. He’s always been irresponsible, but this time he’s really done it.” She petted her son’s hair over and over in what Ryan thought looked like an obsessive-compulsive pattern (she had been taking too many psychology courses…two years ago she would have just said Bianca seemed like a nut). She also wondered whether or not it was appropriate for Bianca to discuss Marcus’s faults in Miles’s presence. “He says he wants the kids on tour, but when one of them gets sick––and believe me, this one is always getting sick––he goes right on and packs up for the next town, and leaves him with the nanny? No offense, Rachel, but that’s just cruel. Especially when I’m less than two hours away. He could have dropped both kids at my house. Wouldn’t that have made more sense?”
Ryan said nothing––she even let Bianca call her Rachel––but of course, she hadn’t even known Bianca lived in the area, and even if she had, the decision wasn’t hers to make.
Love Songs for the Road Page 11